Page 20 of Werewolves and Witches AU

My jaw falls open, and the croissant falls to the floor.

I want to ask what happened, if he’s okay, where he is, if anyone’s with him, and if he needs anything. But my words are stuck in my throat, somewhere under a half-chewed lump of sweet pastry. A fine tremble threads through all my muscles, and I grip the phone tighter.

“I’m okay, Milo. I promise. A bit dinged up and I’ve got a splitting headache, but otherwise fine. There were casualties, though. I was here talking to the Coven Leader about you, and so I’m a witness now and can’t leave until the Witches Council clear me to go home.”

His words trickle through my mind like the grape molasses I was reading about last night—slow and thick, coating all my thoughts in something heavy and sticky.

An explosion? Casualties? The Witches Council?

“Look, I’ve got to go. Probably shouldn’t have called you, but I didn’t want you to worry if you found out from someone else. I’ll call you later.”

The phone still in my hand, I stare out the window at the bright morning sky. How can such a beautiful day exist when this just happened? Casualties, Ray said… Doesn’t seem right.

It had been a beautiful sunny day when Great Aunt Anabelle had died too.

Shaking my head, hoping to reset that train of thought onto a better track, I think about Ray. He’s not far from here, looking up at the same sky… because he said there’d been an explosion, so probably he won’t be in the building…

Maybe it’s okay that it’s nice weather, then. Maybe that little bit of comfort is okay, if it helps make today just a bit less shit for him. But maybe if he had a friend right now, that would be best of all.

Nodding to myself, I scan for my boots, and when I find them poking out from under yesterday’s jeans, I stride over, yanking the charging cable from the phone when I do. Stepping into my boots, I zip up the side. The laces are just for show, because who really wants to be dealing with that every time you take a pair of boots on and off?

Swiping my jacket from off the little table where I must have dumped it when I got home yesterday, I manage to get one arm through the sleeve before there’s a loud knock on my room door. I freeze.

No one ever knocks on my room door—not even Ray, and I just spoke with him. None of the neighbours in this building are like that either, it’s just not that kind of place. There’s a buzzer on the main door, but I don’t even think it works.

Another knock, louder this time. Aggressive.

Trying to be quiet, I tiptoe closer to use the little spy hole, but before I can take a second step, the door is kicked inward.

The handle gouges out a chunk of drywall, and the door bounces back into the frame before being held open.

Reflexively, I move backward and take in the stranger standing in my doorway.

9

Time Guy

Milo

For a fleeting second the man looks surprised to see me, then he calmly closes my broken door… sort of… somewhat… kind of… back into place. The hinges are clearly broken, and it now hangs all wonky.

We stare at each other in silence for a long moment.

He’s shorter than me, but that’s not unusual—most people are—and he’s at least three times heavier. A prominent chin juts out over a patterned neck scarf, yet despite that striking combination, he lacks any jaw definition and his cheeks seem to just slip into his neck. Maybe that’s the reason he’s wearing the odd garment.

His furrowed brow is low on his face, and its shadow obscures the colour of his eyes, but the fire in them is unmistakable.

Reddish-brown hair curls to frame a cherubic-looking face—except that he’s really angry. Are cherubs allowed to be angry? Regardless, this one is.

I take another step back.

His arms twitch by his sides, and that’s when I notice his coat… cloak… thing. It reminds me of those Home & Country style magazines in the waiting room at the dentist, the ones with horse-riding people who look really posh on the covers. Except this cloak is in a shade of purple that clashes horribly with his skin tone. Someone should tell him.

I open my mouth, and the man sneers. Instead of words, a strangled squeak escapes past my tongue that stubbornly refuses to move from the back of my throat.

In a strong Italian accent, he says, “You have trespassed in magic that belongs to the Office of Time, Warlock.”

As if that statement warrants him further access, his eyes leave me in favour of spreading his disgust and judgement over every nook and cranny of my home. I can tell when he spots the grimoires, and something about the fact that he just looked at my entire Family Line with that level of undisguised repulsion heats my blood.