Page 37 of Sapphire Flame
Grant levitated down to the path. He was three yards away from Neil, uncertain if the warlock intended to try more of his spell-tricks.
“Well, shit.” Neil glanced up at the sky then back at Grant.
“What’s bugging you now?” Grant asked, irritated by his attitude.
“It seems you found my house with no trouble at all.”
Grant also looked up then finally understood. “You’ve got a disguising spell over your house.”
“And you saw my property as though the spell didn’t exist.”
“Guess I did.”
Neil narrowed his gaze. “You’re experiencing a power surge, am I right?”
“You could say that.” Grant took in Neil’s garb. He wore an odd, gray artist’s smock over leathers. He was pasty white with blue forming shadows beneath his eyes. Even so, he radiated power like the air currents of an electrical storm. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m for shit right now, no question. You’d better come in.” He seemed to weave on his feet as he turned and entered his house. He left the door wide which was the only welcome Grant was going to get.
The interior of Neil’s home was like his landscaping, lots of stone everywhere even covering the entire face of the entrance wall. To the right was the living room and a massive stone fireplace.
The floor was also made of dark gray stone tiles.
A dining space and a kitchen opened up to the left beyond. It was a great-room with tall glass windows on the north and south walls overlooking both the front and back gravel-and-rock yards, as well as the moat.
Wood tables eased back some of the hard, granite feel to the space. But the furniture was in black leather. The theme shouted its message. Beyond the moat was a park-like green belt with dozens of trees. But Grant had the sense this was more for protection than beauty.
Grant knew that most wizards had an affinity with an earth element. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Neil was fully aligned with stone.
He was forming the words to begin making amends for his drunken behavior during their brawl, when Neil said, “I want to apologize for what happened at the White Flame Club. I did use a spell. It was a chump move. My only excuse is that I was drunk out of my mind.”
Neil looking contrite shifted everything for Grant. He could even smile. “At least you didn’t spend the day in a drunk tank. I smelled like puke for a week afterward.”
Neil tried to chuckle, but it turned into a groan and a wince. “You’ll have to excuse me.” He moved to a large leather chair next to the fireplace but didn’t sit down on the seat. Instead, he eased himself onto the broad, padded arm of the chair. His smock draped over the sides.
A haunted, pained expression clung to Neil’s gray eyes.
He was a striking man with narrow features, not unlike Ryan. His black hair hung in waves to his shoulders. He’d heard some of the female wolves say he was the best-looking warlock of them all.
Right now, he looked like he’d been beat up.
“You okay?”
Neil gritted his teeth. “I’m going through the crucible of become a wizard. I’d heard it was bad and it is, almost as painful as going through thealtertransformation.” He gestured to the assorted furniture in the space. “Please. Sit down.”
Grant settled himself on the couch adjacent to Neil’s chair. He noticed a large cast-iron pot on the hearth. His brows rose.
“I know,” Neil said, glancing at the fireplace as well. “A bit on-the-nose, but it speaks to me.” He sighed heavily then shifted his gaze to Grant. “Can I offer you a Scotch or a brandy? I’ll be having the latter.” He rose slowly. Grant now wished he’d followed Ryan’s advice and brought him a bottle of cognac.
“Scotch is fine.”
Neil walked slowly to an antique sideboard to the left of the fireplace. “I’ve needed an excuse and you’ll do.” He poured the drinks but drank his own down quickly then poured himself a second.
As he brought the tumbler of Scotch back to Grant, he explained “We’re supposed to keep the alcohol to a minimum during this process. But I’ve been craving a fifth of anything for the last two hours.”
Grant took the tumbler. “To cut the pain?”
Neil returned to his chair-arm seat. “Exactly. My nerve-endings feel like they’ve been blow-torched.”
