“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I say to Smith. Killing the conversation right when the group has finally started relaxing seems unwarranted. Besides, his friends don’t have centuries of study about strategy or diplomacy. It would be pointless to win such an argument.

“If you don’t, I will,” Smith murmurs. “And I’ll say I came up with it.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He shrugs and turns away from me, leaning over the table to share with his rapt audience. The bastard’s actually going to claim my victory.

I throw out an arm to stop him and use it to push him back into his chair. He starts laughing and tries again. The ley line nuzzles against my glamour, but I ignore it and press my palm to his chest. To my surprise, he stops fighting and waves a hand toward everyone else. “Go ahead.”

Hoping it comes across as casual, I blurt out my winning strategy. “Army formations don’t matter if dragons are going to eat everyone anyway.”

Silence. They stare at me, moment turning from slightly awkward to painfully awkward when no one speaks. Under my palm, Smith’s chest rises and falls steadily, although it still shakes with silent laughter.

Clearly, I misread the situation. I shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have pointed out such an effective, albeit brutal, strategy, and ruined their conversation. I’m about to excuse myself from the table when Herman slaps a hand to his forehead and groans.

“The dragons. I forgot the fucking dragons.”

And the arguments begin again, with a new level of fevered intensity. A wave of relief washes over me. I didn’t kill the mood. If the words flying rapidly around us are any indication, I might have given them another pitcher’s worth of discussion.

“Roark?”

The ley line burns against my palm and when I glance back over my shoulder, Smith hasn’t moved. The sight of him pinned by my hand, a dull red spreading up the back of his neck to his ears, and his cheeks delicately flushed, robs me of all thought. He’s breathing faster, or maybe I am. He reaches up to clasp his hand around my wrist, but he doesn’t pull me off him like I deserve. He holds me there. Whispers, “It’s okay,” even though we both know it isn’t, and I’m willing to believe him.

All my need and confusion tangle together. Tonight may be my l

ast escape before returning to my life’s unalterable course and, in this moment, I only know one thing: I don’t want this to end.

He stands without warning, brushing aside my arm, and reaching for the empty pitcher on the table. The ley line coils on itself, barely contained. He avoids looking at me.

“I’ll grab us some more beer,” he announces. He doesn’t wait for his friends’ distracted thanks to lope a hasty retreat toward the bar.

I get up and follow him.

Phineas

Back in high school, before I came out, Sarah, one of my kind-of girlfriends, liked when I put my hand on her leg. I think it’s because she enjoyed the jealous looks from the other girls. She also probably hoped it would coax me into finally trying to reach second base with her.

She always wore denim cutoffs in the summer and her legs were smooth and soft and smelled like her peach lotion. It was nice to sit there with her, hand resting on her skin, feeling connected to someone else, even if it never went farther than that.

Our connection was a weak imitation of what Roark and I try to ignore now. His hand was a brand and its absence remains etched on my skin. I meant it when I told him it was okay, but his expression made me panic. Shock. Only shock. I didn’t want to watch him leave again, so I walked away first.

I stand at the bar and wait for our next round, listening half-heartedly to the conversations swirling around me and urging myself to remain calm. It’s going to be fine. Roark and I are masters of avoidance. By the time I get back to the table, he’ll pretend nothing happened. We’ll train together and I’ll lament Roark’s pursuit of perfection and its cost to my body. But when we graduate and I can stand up to the full force of my magick without buckling, we’ll agree it was all worth it and part ways.

By the time the bartender brings over the refilled pitcher and a round of shots I figure we could all use, I almost believe myself. The pleasant buzz finally catching up with me probably helps with that, too. I pay him and have partially gathered the shot glasses when one of the faeries sitting nearby notices me.

“Hey,” he says, and I make the mistake of looking over. He’s tall, with white-gold hair and a face that could easily grace magazine covers. Probably Seelie.

I look back at the bar. His buddy rises, cuts me off, and puts a hand on my shoulder. He leans in and growls, “Wait, weren’t you sitting with Prince Lyne? You like those bastards from the Winter Court?”

Definitely Seelie.

“I’m just trying to get back to my friends,” I say with what I hope is an unthreatening smile. Maybe it’s better to abandon the shots. “Have a good night.”

“I know him,” a third says, slowly rising from his stool. “That’s the human who likes to pretend he can do magick.”

“Seems unnecessarily harsh,” I grumble, but they don’t seem to care.

Instead, they’re busy moving closer toward me at the same time the crowd drifts farther away. Something unhealthy glows in their eyes, something their glamour can’t cover. I grew up in a small town. I saw Friday night football games devolve, and I know how to throw a first punch. I really don’t want to do that here, especially after the whole wraith thing, but if that’s what it’s going to take to avoid getting Seelie-slapped, so be it.

Tags: M.A. Grant Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net