Page 7 of Bound and Tide

The Sleepy Salmon was awful. Xander punched his lumpy excuse for a pillow then dropped down onto the itchy mattress with a huff that could have probably knocked the whole bloody building down if he dared breathe a little harder. He was warm, clean and dry too, but none of these facts consoled him, not with the rhythmic thumping coming from the room next door. And to make matters worse, there wasn’t even anyone around to whom he could complain!

Well, the griffin had ears under all those feathers, but there was barely room enough for a blood mage in the tiny rented chamber, let alone that monstrous bird-lion. If it stretched a wing, it probably would have taken out the one, measly window that wouldn’t open. Not that it should be opened, it was so bloody cold outside, but what if he wanted it open? Then what?

Noxscura would do it. But then that too might take the whole damn building down, him along with it. Currently, his arcana was languidly filling up the chamber, frankly too lackadaisical for his intense vexation. Maybe he should be glad for that—it was better than attacking things it ought not or creating some babbling brook it erroneously thought useful.

But it still wasn’t behaving.

“Get back here,” he growled and opened his hands ceiling-ward. The noxscura stopped its lazy swirling, considered its options, and then slowly made its way back to be reabsorbed. “Please, do take your time! We’ve got an infinite amount of it, apparently.”

It picked up the pace a little, and when it was finally back where it belonged, he rolled over and grabbed up his spring-loaded dagger. When he again flicked out the black blade, there was a rusty sheen laid into it, and he collected the dock urchin’s blood on the tip of his finger.

“Oh, the things I am reduced to.”

Noxscura enveloped the droplet, lifting it overhead from his reclined spot. The discomfort of the bed was forgotten as he watched, letting the dark arcana carry out the spell he had crafted long ago to peek into the private moments of others.

He saw through the girl’s eyes as she fled down the dock, hearing his own voice call after her—did he really sound like that? Well, what else was to be expected when he’d been doused with freezing river water?

The image dissolved, and then there was the flash of another, a street he recognized from his journey to the docks, but that vision wobbled and was quickly made grimy and unfamiliar. Another street, a darker one, and then an alley. Usually the spell didn’t pick up smells, but this time there was the heavy scent of rotten fish and something else, something fungal and earthy, and Xander waved a hand through the air to knock it away. The vision of the girl slowed at a cramped passage behind taller buildings, a whole horde of cats racing by and a body sitting curled into a corner covered by a ratty cloak.

Xander’s stomach tightened at that, following along as the girl continued past. The form didn’t move, and he released his held breath. Another blur, and he saw mostly shadows, but there was a door with sea creatures carved into it, a surprisingly intricate detail for the rest of the dishevelment around.

Inside, there was a boy, and his face? Another painfully familiar one, but of-bloody-course there were two little bastards. Arms crossed tight over his chest, he was older than the girl, but his gauntness made his age hard to place.

“Maia.” He stopped pacing abruptly, voice tight. “Did you—”

Xander could see through the girl’s eyes that she was shaking her head.

“That’s fine, I caught a walleye this morning.” He swallowed and ran a hand through dark hair that fell to his shoulders. “I’ll be gone most of the night.”

She was still shaking her head. “No, stay here, Costa—we might have a problem.”

The image dissolved again, and then there was nothing, the blood drying up and disappearing.

Xander was left staring at the ceiling, and he could feel how furrowed his brow had gone. He was that problem, he reckoned, which, first of all, rude, but also, he didn’t intend to be their problem. Clearly Stavros wasn’t around parenting them—no one was—and he hadn’t been asking around the docks after two underfed whelps. What in the realm did they care?

He flopped over onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut. The mattress itched, his big toe kept catching on one of the blanket’s holes, the pillow was permanently sunken, and there was a whispering in the back of his head that wouldn’t shut up, the voice too familiarly disgusted and disappointed both. He wrapped a hand around his vial of blood, and the voice rose.

…rotten waste of time and flesh. Unless you want to be beaten within an inch of your life, you better find…

He released the vial and sat up with a start. The room was suddenly much darker, but not with his magic. Time had passed. Had that been a…a dream?

Xander fell backward and scrubbed a hand down his face. He was only overburdened with the work ahead, that was all. It wasn’t terribly odd for his own thoughts to snipe and degrade him anyway, though never so clearly in his mother’s voice. He shut his eyes again and resolved to quiet the voice the next day with amusement and distraction.

Finding amusement and distraction, however, proved quite a bit more difficult than Xander expected. He slept in despite the chamber’s discomfort and missed breakfast so had to threaten the innkeeper for a bowl of disappointing gruel. Then he traipsed around the city for a few hours, learning from the other longshoremen and the unpleasant patrons of The Wiley Otter that no one had seen hide nor hair of Stavros.

With perhaps an even shittier attitude than he’d begun the day enjoying, Xander found himself right back where he started: wandering the cobbled road of The Sleepy Salmon. There was a difference here, he supposed, the street itself a little brighter if just as cold as the rest of the city, and he felt…inclined to be there. Arcana? He shook his head—if there was magic worked into the buildings and the windows and the chimneys, it was latent and held no malice. It helped that the street was clean too and the people along it smiled despite the banality of their lives. It just felt sort of…sort of good, he supposed, though that made him sick to his stomach.

He stuffed hands into his pockets as he continued along, taking a harder look into the shop windows and breathing a bit deeper. When he caught the pungent scent of herbs through a closing door, he came to a stop.

Finally, in all this gods-forsaken, wretched, backward town, some ass. Now there—there was a good-looking human. Beautiful, he might even say, though never to her.

Through the glass of the shop’s front window, he could tell she would be the perfect answer to the hunger prowling inside him: long, slender limbs that moved with grace and precision, a pointed chin, upturned nose, cat-like eyes flanked with thick lashes, and a cascade of hair that blazed redder than blood, perfect for wrapping around his hand and commanding her from behind. Gods, it was just so much red.

The sign over the door was carved with a flourishing Key to read, Maisie’s Magical Accouterments. Just as disgustingly adorable as he’d hoped, a match to the kindly smile she was offering her customer. It seemed Xander had not yet reached his limit of cloyingly sweet and ferociously cute women.

In actuality, he had, but he would find that out soon enough.

Xander smoothed his coat, pulled a strategic strand free from his topknot, and plastered on his most charming grin before striding through the apothecary’s door.

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