Page 4 of The Mage on the Hill
Toby’s exit from the infirmary had been almost disappointing in its uneventfulness. He had gotten dressed, gathered the few belongings he had in the room in a pillowcase, and climbed out the first-floor window. Once he’d reached the main road, he called for an Uber and got a squint from the driver when he provided the address. The driver had been a little wary about dropping off some young punk with a pillowcase at a swanky gated home, but Toby assured him it was his uncle’s house. The guy must’ve figured since he had his money, it wasn’t his business. Toby waved to him cheerfully as he drove away.
Neither the fence across the driveway nor the wall fronting the property was more than six feet, no problem on a normal day. On a magical fit day? It’d nearly been impossible. When Toby had finally dropped over, his lungs had burned and his heart felt like every beat was trying to hammer a hole in his sternum.Onward, he’d told himself.Almost there. And other stupid cheery things. Then to top off a perfect day, he’d made a complete idiot of himself begging on his knees and fainting at Valstad’s feet.
He’d made it clear he didn’t want anything to do with Toby. So where the hell was this now?
Huddled over his knees to stop his shaking, he stilled his breathing to listen. A creak, a clunk, several thuds—yes, someone was upstairs. Unformed anxious thoughts niggled at the edges of his brain. He wasn’tscaredor anything. He just didn’t like the not knowing part.
The shambling figure that finally plodded down the stairs didn’t make him feel better, exactly. The stooped shoulders were still broad, the hunched frame still tall. Long lank hair that could have been any shade between blond and brown hung halfway down the apparition’s back and obscured one eye completely. He carried a folding table tray under one arm and a serving tray in the opposite hand. When he turned to face Toby, the visible eye glaring at him was clear sapphire blue.
Valstad. Shit, what’s happened to him?
The man—Valstad, because who else could it be?—set the tray down on the coffee table, set up the tray in front of Toby, and plunked a plate and glass on it. “Eat,” he whisper-growled as he transferred silverware from the tray as well. Then he pulled a phone out of a shirt pocket and plunked that next to the plate. “Parents.”
“Okay, um, hi. Nice to meet you. I can’t call my parents. They’ll want to put me in hospice. Which, sorry, I’m not ready to do.” Toby risked a glance up to find Valstad staring at him, expressionless. “Also, thank you. This smells great. But what if I was a vegetarian?”
That single blue eye narrowed. Without another word, Valstad turned away and shuffled back up the stairs.
“Oh, good going. Yeah, real smooth, being a smartass to the one guy you need on your side.”
Toby would have smacked himself if he’d had the energy. He cut off a tiny bit of pork chop, reasoning that if he started small, he could coax his stomach into eating more. While he was chewing that first, admittedly tasty bite, Valstad clomped back down the stairs.
He fixed Toby with a steady glare and dropped a container of hummus on the tray with more force than necessary. Then he switched his glare to the pork chop, his dark frown most likely commentary at Toby’s lack of progress, before he shuffled back up the stairs without a word.
“Please don’t be a psycho. Please,” Toby whispered to the shuffling footsteps overhead. Though, if this ruined mage was unhinged and killed him, was he worse off than before? Eh. Not really. Being murdered was just a different way to die if Valstad couldn’t or wouldn’t help him.
One thing at a time. Toby made his way methodically through the pork chop, which he had to admit was the best thing he’d eaten in weeks, gnawed the bone clean, and guzzled down the bottle of Gatorade his host had left him. He would’ve eaten the hummus, too, but he would’ve had to scoop it out with his fingers. That seemed a little barbaric even for a man cave meal.
Still thirsty and needing to piss something fierce, he levered himself off the couch and wobbled around the corner, where he found a convenient bathroom, complete with shower. It wasn’t exactly dirty, but the fixtures gave off the same air of neglect as the other room, a layer of dust over everything as if no one had set foot in there in years.
He could at least have soap out, even if he doesn’t come down here.
A quick search turned up bars of soap in the vanity along with hotel-sized bottles of everything from shampoo to mouthwash. Toby considered a shower until he realized there were no towels.That’s all right. Don’t think I can stand up long enough for a shower. Instead, he emptied his bladder, washed his hands and face, filled up his Gatorade bottle with water, and went back to his couch-bed. A good guest would’ve taken the dishes up, of course.In the morning, he told himself as he curled back up under the blankets. The leather couch managed to be more comfortable than the infirmary beds, and his exhaustion shoved him off into sleep before his brain could start doing anxiety spins.
DARIUS SLEPTlate. He often did these days, on nights when he slept at all. Most mornings, he had little reason to get up. Today, though, there was something…. He had promised the koi that he would trim back the weeping cherry. Something else….
He wasn’t alone in the house.
The sudden recollection had him out of bed before he’d formulated what he was going todoabout it. The boy. The young man. Thedyingyoung man. Dammit.
Jones refused to call relatives. That was the first thing. While Darius could have called Montchanin and explained the situation, perhaps called the parents himself, Jones had obviously left the guild because of the threat of hospice. They both knew what that meant for a wild mage—drugged nearly comatose to prevent explosions of magic, kept “comfortable” while denied food and water until death arrived.
The magical community considered it euthanasia. When he’d been younger, Darius had considered it execution. Jones gave every sign that he agreed.
Sudden pain in his hand had Darius glancing down to find his fists clenched to shaking. Hecouldn’thelp. He’d given his word never to teach again. Guild law forbade it. He’dkepthis word all those years.
But the thought of giving the boy up to the guild—to his executioners—filled Darius with a dark, acrimonious anger. No. He would watch. Protect the boy as he could. Protect the surrounding land. Death would come. Let it come on Jones’s terms,notthe fucking guild’s.
He fished through the clothes strewn on the floor for a relatively clean pair of jeans. They hung low on his hips these days. One day he might have to find a belt. A black T-shirt in the far corner was passable too. Cardigan. Slippers. He hesitated in the bedroom doorway. There were probably things he should do as a host.
Noises from the kitchen irritated him. He’d not given permission to use the appliances or raid supplies. Of course, the first thing Jones did was take advantage. That’s how the world worked. Darius was furious by the time he turned the corner and entered the room. What he saw stopped his angry snarl and his bitter thoughts in their tracks.
The counters gleamed. The dishes from the past week had been washed and set to dry in the rack. Jones was on his hands and knees, scrubbing at a stubborn stain in front of the stove.
“Oh, hey! Thanks for dinner last night. Came upstairs to bring my dishes in and thought I’d help out a little.” Jones shot him a dazzling smile as he used the counter to climb to his feet. He swayed a moment, letting out a slow breath.
“Dizzy?” Darius grated out.
“I’m okay. Got up too fast. So, it’s okay if I stay? Since you haven’t kicked me out?” Jones’s head snapped around when a flash of red zipped by the window. “Oh, pretty. Cardinals. You have birdfeeders. Cool. Look, I hope you don’t mind, but I found this old package of Oreos downstairs. Brought that up, too, since it wasn’t opened. I, ah, had a few.”
