Something Wicked by Robin Moray

Author:Robin Moray
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2014-11-24T17:00:00+00:00

* * *

Driving around Haversham in the dark without Kevin was, simply, unbearable. And pointless; Peter couldn't get a bloody read on any magic at all, besides the background pulse and flare of nodal points scattered seemingly at random around the town and its environs. Eventually, he just pulled over at one of them, got out of the car, and walked away to stretch his legs.

It turned out that this particular node was a moderately sized totem pole situated at one end of a largely deserted caravan park. Some dried flowers were stung about the base, along with an unopened can of Spam, for some bizarre reason. The pole was an ugly thing, brightly painted and set in a concrete base. It felt inauthentic, the magic in it new and frail. Peter was no expert, of course, could not pretend to know anything on the subject of indigenous culture, but he suspected this one had been carved mechanically, and that the belief buried in it was the mistaken belief of tourists and children.

Belief, though, was still belief, for whatever reason. It was still a node. Probably not one that would attract a witch, unless they were quite desperate.

The witch boy, though, might easily be that desperate. Peter had felt … it was strange, honestly, what he'd felt from the boy. His magic had stung, sharp and hot, fizzing like a sherbet lemon, but not … well, not precisely what Peter had expected. More like … seawater in the back of the throat, unpleasant and shocking, but not the foulness he expected from a witch.

The witch boy, then, might not have yet committed much in the way of evil. And this, he supposed, had been Kevin's point, when Kevin had argued so passionately against the universal evil of witchcraft.

Kevin … Peter stopped, unable to continue in this line of thought. He should not think too much about Kevin, because Kevin was a distraction, a wonderful, delicious diversion from what was laid out before him, from his duty. It was becoming difficult to keep from touching him constantly and, oh, to kiss him, how Peter wanted that with an urgency that was almost painful.

Yet. He was not a beast. He could control himself. He would not fall ravenous upon Kevin like some mindless monster, when he did not even know if Kevin would want to be kissed. Though, no, that was unfair, that was more than half the problem. Kevin seemed so … it was obvious, in the way he bent toward Peter, the way he leaned, the way his touch lingered when Peter's lingered on him, that Kevin was inclined toward him. Not that it gave Peter leave to kiss him; Kevin might have very good reason not to want it, however much he might also want it. And, how distant he had become today, toward the end, pulling away again however reluctantly. Perhaps—

You're a fool, Peter Sloane, he thought. Thirty-two years old and standing in the dark vacillating about a handsome young man who smiles at you.

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