Simon watches, strangely riveted. This isn’t a test, exactly, but Cody has passed it. He fills the space with form and control but not order. The overlapping squares are as much about texture as color, which changes slightly from stroke to stroke. The blue and green aren’t perfectly blended.
Cody doesn’t step outside his ability. No attempt at a figure, nor at matching Simon’s style. Just square after square, until Simon isn’t off-balance anymore.
“Three hundred years ago,” Simon begins quietly. “I was living with my brother, Francisco, and my sister, Tania.”
Cody pauses, long enough that paint drips from his frozen brush, then continues without speaking.
Annoying. Simon would have liked to scold him.
“We traveled to Spain, because Francisco wanted to visit his childhood home.” Simon doesn’t remember the year, exactly, or even the weather. He and Tania disagreed about it later. He remembers the catacombs they slept in when they couldn’t find safer lodging. “I told him it was foolish. Two hundred years after he was gifted, everything would be different, and he would be long forgotten. But Francisco was sweet, and we indulged him.”
Simon hesitates this time, sorting out his words. The events aren’t a secret, but he hasn’t told the story incenturies. Not since he told Dima, who comforted him. The first time Simon had seen Dima in years, and he’d been so desperately grateful for the affection.
“His hometown had changed,” Simon continues. “A pack of werewolves had moved in. They caught Francisco alone, and their alpha claimed him by force.”
Cody jerks around. “Claimed? You mean with a mating bite?”
“You’re dripping paint on the floor,” Simon points out, taking comfort in his own pettiness. “Yes, with a bite. Nearly tore his throat out—all for a sip of immortality.”
The crack of wood echoes. Cody shivers, like he’s about to sprout fur and fangs. Then he takes a deep, obvious breath, controlling himself. Drops the broken paintbrush on the palette.
Part of Simon tenses, wary of the furious werewolf. Another part of him is soothed by the anger. “Did your pack tell the old stories?”
Simon used to envy the werewolf mating bond, when he was young and foolish. Chosen magic, binding souls in strength and comfort. Werewolf mates always know where the other is, and they can speak telepathically when in wolf form. Mated werewolves are more stable, even without a larger pack. The bond is sealed with a bite that doesn’t heal like a vampire’s bite. It leaves a scar as visible proof.
If Simon had a bond like that, Dima never would have left him.
The trouble comes when werewolves look outside their own kin. If a werewolf mates to a regular human, that’s usually for love. But mating to a witch can grant the witch’s magic to the werewolf.
And mating to a vampire grants immortality—with none of the downsides. Power-hungry alphas see vampires as tempting targets.
That’s supposed to be over, now that the treaty forbids forced claims.
“I know the old stories,” Cody says, voice still rough. Tension tightens his eyes. “But claiming a mate by force isn’t right.”
“The shadow-gift is meant to be given, not taken.” Simon turns away from Cody’s furious sympathy, towards the controlled chaos of the painted squares. “Many things have changed over the years, but never that. When Dima made me, he offered his veins willingly. I drank just as willingly.”
Simon has never regretted that choice.
“What happened to Francisco?” Cody asks.
“He couldn’t stand being chained to a wolf all his nights, and he wanted revenge,” Simon says. The truth this time. “He killed himself by sunlight, thus dooming the werewolf as well. The werewolf was weak, and Tania slaughtered him easily.”
Cody’s face does something complicated. “I’m sorry,” he says, without recrimination for Simon’s previous lie.
The lie isn’t so far from the truth, anyway.
“It was long ago, before the treaty.” Simon slips from the armchair and walks towards Cody. “Give me your hand.”
Cody frowns but doesn’t hesitate this time. Simon doesn’t hesitate either, or his impulse will sprout too much meaning in the silence. This isn’t an apology for lashing out. This isn’t a sign that he cares.
Bending his head, he picks the splinters from Cody’srough palm.
Simon regrets telling the story. He had meant it as a dagger, but instead it’s an outstretched hand. Worst of all, Simon feels better. Having someone so angry on his behalf is nice.
Dima had been sympathetic. Comforting. He kissed Simon through the tears and murmured that everything would be okay. Three centuries later, Simon finally got the reassurance that thiswasn’tokay.
He slides another small splinter from Cody’s skin.
