Page 119 of The Spellreader and the Phoenix

“By all means,” he said, voice excessively congenial. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” He carefully laid his snowy white cloth napkin beside his half-finished plate as he rose to his feet. “I find that I’ve had my fill today. Goodnight.”

The polite members of the group—Rory, Tom, and David—bid him goodnight, and the rest of them just stared at the man as he sauntered out of the room as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

It made it hard to feel like he’d been routed, and Peter’s glower said he had the same doubt. Now it felt like the man had left because he wanted to.

“Bloodsucking leech,” Peter muttered angrily.

Apparently, he was louder than he’d intended, because when they all turned to look at him, his cheeks and ears went faintly red.

He cleared his throat. “Sorry about that. But I daresay the meal will be more pleasant now that he’s gone.”

Not even Max was rude enough to point out that fifty percent of the bad behavior had been from Peter. The man had recently lost an employer who’d clearly been more than a job, and he’d been dealing with the lawyer longer than any of them. Max assumed he had a reason for acting this way.

There was a moment of silence, where no one seemed to know what to say, and then Rory piped up with, “What’s for dessert?”

There was a ripple of groans and laughter around the table, and they all relaxed again.

It wasn’t until the next morning that Max learned how messed up the whole situation was. After an evening D&D session and then a pleasant night cuddling with his mate, the two of them had convened early in the morning to meet with Peter and the lawyer. They were gathered in Mr. Jones’ study, rather than his library, although it, too, had several shelves lined with books. There was dark wood paneling and dark curtains, along with a massive unlit fireplace. The room didn’t feel as welcoming as the library, and Max wondered how much time Mr. Jones had actually spent there.

He also wondered if they were meeting there because Peter had taken the opportunity to sit behind the desk so that Trevelyan was forced to face him in one of the chairs opposite.

But none of that mattered when balanced against what the disgruntled lawyer relayed to Max.

“He did what?” Max hadn’t realized he could hit that pitch.

With cool poise, the lawyer repeated the news that Mr. Jones hadn’t just left Max the spellbooks, he’d left him the house, the grounds, and a trust to manage all of them.

Peter pointed out, “You wanted to make spells freely available to the public. You now have the space and funds to do that.”

Max couldn’t decide if that was true or ridiculous.

“How convenient that you convinced a dying old man to part with all his wealth and possessions to achieve your goals,” Trevelyan said silkily. “Why, it’s almost like someone in a position of trust took advantage of him.”

Peter burst out of his seat with a clatter of falling chair and the preternatural speed of a shifter, around the desk in an instant. The air crackled as Trevelyan raised his hands to cast… and Rory was suddenly there, between them.

Max sucked in a breath. He hadn’t even seen his mate move.

Rory’s hand was planted on Peter’s chest, but his gaze was directed at Trevelyan. Max had never seen that expression on his face before. There was no trace of playfulness or cheerfulness.

His voice was low and intense as he said, “You should not speak about things you do not understand. Mr. Jones was so very old. He was tired and ready to move on. He was hanging on by a thread, waiting for the right person who could carry on his legacy. He was waiting for a Spellreader with impeccable integrity, and he found it in Max.”

Trevelyan had gone pale, but he said with a credible semblance of calm, “He changed his will three weeks before he died.”

“Because that was when he met Max in person and knew his quest was at an end,” Rory said lightly.

“It was an impulsive decision,” Trevelyan argued.

“Or,” Rory proposed smoothly, “a decision made with a lifetime’s experience and an awareness that time was short.”

Thin-lipped with disapproval, the lawyer began, “He should have consulted—”

Peter interrupted. He still looked furious, but it was more controlled now. “Mr. Jones never consulted anyone a day in his life. He knew what he wanted, and he set out to get it. That didn’t change just because he got older.” With his own sneer, he added, “If you’d been his lawyer for more than five minutes, you’d know that.”

Now, Rory looked back at Peter. “And are you going to judge people for their age, and blame them for things they couldn’t possibly have experienced?”

Peter drew a deep breath and then expelled it in a rush. “I suppose that wasn’t fair.”

It certainly wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t gracious, and it wasn’t directed at Trevelyan, but the man relaxed slightly just the same. Max didn’t know how long Peter had been Mr. Jones’s secretary—companion?—but it was apparently causing friction with the new lawyer.