I won the Innovation for Mages award in seventh grade, and I got to meet the wizard who inspired the character of Dumbledore for the Harry Potter books that normie wrote.
Alvin Brilliantus is the single most gifted spell caster in all of America.
It still annoys every mage in the United States that the normie who stole his identity set the whole thing in England. As if. Then, to make matters worse, she took his last name—Brilliantus—and turned it into a veiled insult. Dumb-ledore.
She completely missed the connection between mage surnames and light. We’re all descended from angels, lady. We all have last names that are in some way affiliated with light, the sun, brilliance, or divinity.
Back when I won the award, I was offered a choice. I could eat dinner with Alvin Brilliantus, or I could accept a huge scholarship for my future education. With a father who was a chief of police, I should definitely have taken the scholarship.
I chose to meet my hero instead.
And it was absolutely the right call.
I’ve wanted to be a Professor at the New York Institute of Magic ever since that day. The fact that the most gifted mage of our generation chose to teach has been a lifelong inspiration for me.
The prestige, the exciting atmosphere of magical partnership and innovation, and the status that being a professor affords are only occurring to me now. The benefits are good and the pay isn’t bad, even for an adjunct professor, and the colleagues I would surround myself with could help me develop the ideas that are always rocketing around in my brain. On top of everything else, the beautifully manicured grounds are a serene and peaceful place in the middle of New York’s chaos and entropy.
Or at least, they usually are.
A frisbee whizzes by my head, nearly clocking me on the temple, and a giddy werewolf bounds past and leaps straight up into the air two feet away, its teeth snapping down onto the plastic toy and cleaving it in two chunks.
“That was amazing, Nolan,” a brunette with bushy eyebrows says.
She’s clearly also a werewolf. If the eyebrows and the arm hair hadn’t clued me in, the sappy and disturbing way she’s staring at that dog, as if she wants to both eat and kiss him, would have. That’s a pretty clear sign that they’re mates.
Watching them makes me feel bad for Xander. The mating process with werewolves is a big deal. In fact, once they meet someone and start to develop feelings, it’s almost impossible to walk away. After they fall in love and the mating bond settles, that’s it. They’re locked down for life.
It sounds a little creepy to me, but it’s every wolf’s dream, and Xander’s probably never going to find that.
I wonder whether dragon shifters have anything similar, and then I check myself. The last thing I need to be doing is spending every waking moment thinking about Roxana. I did enough of that my first few years of college. In fact, it’s her fault I married a normie in the first place. I was sneaking out of the dorms to try and visit Roxana under the guise of seeing my sister Minerva when I met Carly.
I’m not delusional enough to truly blame Roxana, of course. Mages don’t have mates in the same way that werewolves do, and I’m the one who fell so hard for a normie. I won’t be caught again—from now on, I’m dating another mage or no one at all.
Lately, it’s been no one at all.
I wonder whether it’s a good sign that they’re bringing me on campus for a second interview. It can’t be a bad thing, right? I push past a few throngs of students evacuating the arcane arts building and force the heavy wooden doors open. Professor Jonas is waiting in the lobby when I arrive.
“Clark Lucent.” His smile is warm, his eyes bright.
“Nice to see you again,” I say.
We make small talk as we walk to the elevator and then as we wait to reach the eighth floor, where his office is located.
“It was your paper on the ethics of spell casting on humans that drew my eye,” he says. “We have plenty of powerful mages on staff, as I’m sure you know, but there aren’t enough of us thinking about the ramifications of what we do.”
I hate that my heart falls just a bit, hearing that it was my analytical and ethical studies that drew him to me. I suppose that’s better than nothing, but I was hoping he’d been impressed by my inventions or my new potions. “My interest is probably because of my failed marriage to a normie,” I admit, “but those things are important to consider. After all, the reason mages exist at all was so that we could keep the world safe from the threat of the daimoni.”
“So true,” Professor Jonas says. “The akero may not often be among us, but their guiding principles and rules must never be forgotten. We are servants, not masters, at the end of the day.”
Most mages don’t like to think about that at all. It makes me uneasy too, but if we all ignore everything that makes us uneasy, the world will be a terrible place. No one can grow without challenging their existing worldview. “I couldn’t agree more.” No matter how hard it is to stomach.
“You know, it wasn’t merely me who was impressed. I recorded your first interview and replayed it for the rest of the department. They all agreed with me—you’re our top pick.”
My hopes soar.
“The reason we invited you here was to discuss the details of what we’d have in mind. The class load, the pay, the benefits for an adjunct professor, and how you can make it work without interrupting your current job and lifestyle overmuch.”
I can barely believe what I’m hearing. “That’s, well, it’s amazing.”
We spend the next hour touring around the Ethics of Magic department, and then looking at the small room that will be my office. It’s hard for me to believe it’s happening.
“Do you see the possibility of this position growing?” I ask. “Obviously you won’t need more than one course on the ethics of magic use, but I’d be delighted to teach other things.”
“Actually, I’m pushing the dean to make this a requirement of graduation. Your reach could expand dramatically, and quite soon. But even if that doesn’t happen, I see plenty of opportunities as you meet more of our faculty for you to expand in other ways. And of course, the speed at which you’re able to publish will greatly impact the pace and magnitude of your success.”
The worst thing about academia is the absolute demand for publishing articles and books and research papers. I suppress my groan. “I really appreciate your support.”
He gestures for the door. “Now that you’ve seen your future office, shall we head to mine? I have some paperwork we’ll need to get filled out right away.” Once we reach his desk, he rummages around for what feels like forever before brandishing a stack of paper at me.
“I already filled out the application for employment online,” I say.
“These are the required releases and legal mumbo jumbo so that we can complete your background check.”
I freeze. “My. . .what?”
“As I’m sure you already know, our most generous donors are the dragona—the bulk of our endowment for this particular institution came from them. They’re always the most celebrated of our students who major in business, and alumnus from that department keep the lights on.” He shakes the papers at me.
I reluctantly take them from him, scanning the basic information listed. Right there on line eight is a request for me to list my friends and family. “But do they really suspect me of. . .what? Like, being friends with insurgents? Demon-spawn?” I can’t help thinking about Bevin. Would they take issue with her?
“Trust me, Clark. There’s nothing to worry about. Even if you have a few demon-spawn friends, or even some normie pals as a throwback from your marriage, it’s fine. None of that’s a crime.” He smiles reassuringly. “Just fill this out and you can go.”
But it’s not as simple as he makes it sound. “What happens when I do fill all this out?”
He shrugs. “They’ll arrange a time to interview your family, as well as their roommates and friends. Once they’ve done their due diligence, that’s it. My wife and friends said it took less than an hour of their time, so don’t feel too bad about it.”
We’d have to lie about and then hide Roxana. What if it goes wrong? What if she’s caught because of me? As much as I want this job, I can’t risk exposing her.
Right?
Mother feathers. It’s starting to feel like it was a huge mistake to hide her.
Until I think about the life she’d be living right now if we had turned her away. She’d be stuck on house arrest with a man who dominates everything about her. She’d have no say of her own. She’d be miserable.
Having to pass on a job opportunity for now and having to go by her place every morning to spell her doesn’t feel like such a big imposition, not when I think about what a difference it makes for her.
Freedom. A life.
“Actually,” I say, “I have a meeting at work that starts soon. Can I take these forms and fill them out and get them back to you tomorrow?” That gives me some time to tell him that something has come up, and I won’t be able to work here, without it being immediately apparent it has to do with the background check. Something like that, when they’re already on high alert over a missing dragona princess, might set them after us anyway.
“Of course,” Professor Jonas says. “Yes, yes. You do that. Just email it all to me later.”
As I walk off campus and hike back to my car, I start thinking of all the reasons it’s not a good time for me to pick up an extra job right now, anyway.
Not that I really believe any of them.
We really need to start working on an exit strategy for Roxana. Living her life in hiding isn’t much better than living under the thumb of that stupid Russian prince. How can we get her free from the dragona overlords so she can live her life as she chooses? Like, really live it as she chooses? In the open.
As if all the thinking I’ve been doing about her summoned her somehow, Roxana pings me. DOES YOUR APARTMENT HAVE A LAUNDRY ROOM?
Why’s she asking me about a laundry room? Then it hits me. Minerva said theirs was being refurbished. Roxana probably has a lot of dirty clothes.
I’VE NEVER DONE LAUNDRY, AND IT’S PILED UP PRETTY HIGH.
I hate how excited I am at the thought of spending time with her, but a little healthy self-loathing doesn’t slow my fingers down. They fly over the keys to text her back. NEED HELP?
THAT WOULD BE AMAZING!
MEET ME AT MY BUILDING IN 45 MINUTES. I’LL BRING THE DETERGENT.
Thanks to a delay on the subway, I’m barely reaching my apartment building 45 minutes later. I have no time to change clothes, let alone tidy up my place, and this is Roxana’s first time coming over.
She’s arriving just as I am—by cab. I can’t believe she called a taxi—to do her laundry. I can’t even blame her. As she unloads her clothing on the curb, I can see why. She has four big bags full of clothing.
“Wow, I think I’d have just called a laundry service,” I say.
She slaps her forehead. “That’s an option?” She groans. “Why doesn’t anyone tell me this stuff?”
I laugh. “Here, I’ll help.” I swing the two biggest bags over my shoulder and march toward the door.
Roxana just looks at the other two, making no effort to pick them up herself.
“Uh, are you coming?” I ask.
“Oh.” She sighs. “I guess you can’t carry them all?”
“Did you ask to use my building so I’d help you do laundry? Or so you’d have a free pack mule?” I lean over and grab one more bag, barely lifting all three. Surely she can bring one herself.
My doorman yanks the glass door open as we approach and waves us through. “Mr. Lucent.”
“Hey, Ralph.”
“You came at a good time. There’s hardly anyone doing laundry.” He beams at me. He may be demon-spawn, but like Bevin, he’s one of the great ones.
“Thanks.” I pause occasionally to make sure Roxana’s still following me, and she is, albeit slowly, dragging her single bag along the ground.
“Oh my word, how much farther is it?”
“Just through those doors.” I point. Once we’re through, I set her bags on the ground and point at the stairwell in the back. “I’m going to head upstairs really quick and grab my clothing and my detergent. Do you want a book or something?”
“A book?” She blinks. “Do you wash those too?”
I laugh. “Uh, no.”
She sighs. “You meant so that you have something to do while your clothes are washing, right?”
I smile. “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”
“Do you have any books that aren’t about spells? Because I won’t get anything out of those.”
“Of course I do.” But part of me wonders whether she’ll really like any of my books. They tend to focus on things like spell craft, potions, ethics of magic, and mage politics. Even the ones that don’t usually feature mage protagonists. “I’m sure I can find something.”
She looks even less sure than I sound, but she doesn’t argue. “Or maybe you could just, you know, talk to me.”
Talk to her? That sounds. . .nice. The more time I spend with her, the more I like her—I know she’s not using her charm on me, but sometimes it feels like she is. With her, it honestly might be more like an innate magic.
She literally can’t keep guys from falling in love with her.
It doesn’t hurt that she’s the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing mismatched sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt right now, and I bet if she posted a photo, she could sell them on eBay for a fortune. Her hair, in a messy bun on top of her head, looks like it was artfully and carefully placed the way it is. Her lips are full, her eyes luminous, and her cheeks dramatic.
Just as I reach the door to the stairwell, a tall vampire offers her laundry detergent. “Did you forget yours?” He grins, his bright white incisors flashing. “Please, take mine.”
Oh, heck no. “Actually,” I say, “I was just going up to get mine for her.”
“But mine’s already here.” His dark hair falls forward across his eyes. “Jacques Ferrar,” he says. “You must be new to the building.”
I practically race back to her side. “She doesn’t even live in this building.” I hate how my voice squeaks when I get agitated. I force myself to swallow. “She’s here with me—my girlfriend. I’ll go get some detergent and I’ll be right back.”
Roxana turns toward me slowly, her eyes widening. “Your—what?”
I sling an arm around her shoulders. “That’s right. We’re going steady.” Steady? What’s wrong with me? Am I the lead in a 1950s Grease-esque sitcom? Should I be slicking my hair back and rolling up my jeans?
“You’re going steady?” The vampire looks ready to rip my throat open.
“Um, sure. Yeah. This warlock is my boyfriend. I’m planning to just wait here dutifully for him to fetch me some detergent.” She’s one second away from flinging my arm off and reading me the riot act, I can tell.
I lean down and whisper in her ear. “The fewer people who get close to you, the fewer who can learn who you really are.”
She stiffens. “He’d better hurry, though. I’m losing my patience.”
At that, I nearly sprint upstairs. I grab my laundry basket without thinking and throw detergent and fabric softener on top. I dump a fistful of change into my pocket for the machine with a broken credit card swiper, and race back down.
I’m breathing heavily when I reach the laundry room, but I’m glad I sprinted. In the four and a half minutes I’ve been gone, she’s gained a witch, and a demon-spawn admirer, too.
“I can’t believe you can handle working at a pharmacy,” the witch is saying. She keeps touching Roxana’s arm and laughing, and I want to slap her. I’ve never wanted to slap a girl before, but here we are.
“Hey sweetheart,” I wheeze. “I’m back.”
“You really shouldn’t leave this one alone,” the demon-spawn man says. “I just might steal her.”
Roxana’s laughter is like bubbling silk. “Oh, stop.”
“Never,” he says. “I look forward to seeing you often, and I make no promises about behaving when I do.”
“My brother’s with the NYPAD.” The witch frowns. “If you can’t behave, I’ll be sure to invite him over to deal with it.”
“Alright,” Roxana says. “Let’s not have any of you snapping at one another. We’re all friends, right?”
Just a few words, and suddenly they’re all pretending to like one another. Definitely innate magic at work. I need to get her clothing washed and get her out of here before someone else figures out why they’re all obsessing over the same person.
For a short period of time, it’s probably fine. They’ll attribute it to her incomparable figure, her dazzling smile, or her silky hair. But if they have long enough to think about it, they may figure out why she’s so compelling.
Especially if that witch is usually straight.
Or if the wizard who just showed up and is offering her dryer sheets, who’s wearing a fabulous purple suit, is usually gay. Those are often the people who realize something is off the quickest.
“Hey, actually, I forgot to grab a book,” I say. “Let’s get your wash started, and we can hang out upstairs. I’m sure one of your new friends would be happy to keep an eye on your clothes for us.” I glance around. No one volunteers, as if they realize that doing so would be surrendering their time with her.
“Really?” Roxana clasps her hands together enthusiastically. “If you could, that would be amazing.”
“I’d be happy to,” the witch says.
“Of course I will,” the vampire offers.
“No one would dare cross me,” the demon-spawn says.
“Let me,” the wizard says. “I’ll even spell them beforehand to make sure the stains all come out.”
“You can do that?” Roxana asks.
“No need,” I say. “Her boyfriend’s a warlock, remember?” I whip out my wand. “Come over here.” I point at the back row of machines, all four of which are empty. I dump my clothes into one without watching.
“Uh.” Roxana clears her throat.
I glance down.
The witch is laughing. The wizard starts laughing a second later. The vampire stifles his laugh, which is at least polite.
A pair of my bright green underwear has fallen out and is lying on the floor. Which would probably be fine, except for two things. Number one, there are dinosaurs on it. That’s a little embarrassing. And number two?
Skidmarks.
I don’t think I’ve had skidmarks on my underwear since elementary school, but here we are. I whisk my wrist. “Ascende et vade in.” The undies fly up and into the washer.
Roxana turns away quickly, and picks up one of her bags. She’s not allowed to empty it into a washer herself, of course, and within moments, her four admirers have stepped up to place all her clothes carefully into empty washers. A few pairs of her underwear also fall out in the process, but seeing as they’re lacy pink bras and matching g-strings, no one laughs.
I suppose it’s as close to changing the topic from my epic embarrassment as we could get.
And it’s not like I care what any of these random people think about my underwear. Or what Roxana thinks. She’s not a witch, after all, and I’m not going to date anyone but a witch. It’s the one thing I’m absolutely sure of.
Of course, like everyone else, the more time I spend with Roxana, the harder it is to hold onto that resolve.