mothandpidgeon writing

His sweater lays on the rug where he left it the night before but the rest of his clothing is gone. You pick it up, clutch its soft fabric to your chest. A few quick strides put you in the living room. Empty. Somewhere far in the trees you can hear the first birds of morning warbling. 

“Ezra,” you say with more urgency.

Did he change? Did something go wrong? Did they already take him? A moment ago you were deep asleep, now you’ve never been so wide awake. Adrenaline courses through you, stabs at your chest. You think you’ll be sick. How could you have fallen asleep? Somehow there are still tears left to well in your eyes. 

You didn’t get to say goodbye. 

You throw open the bathroom door, push back the shower curtain. In your room you pull boxes out from under the bed to check his old hiding place. He’s nowhere to be found.

You’re still calling Ezra’s name when you burst into the store. 

It’s still dark down here where the windows face away from the rising sun. Fairy lights twinkle near the entrance, a dim glow that would be welcoming if you weren’t in a panic.

There’s movement in the office and you have a brief moment of relief until you recognize Margot’s shape through the shadows. She’s in the old armchair, a groggy gasp escaping her. She must have spent the night down here. 

“Where is he?” you ask before she can even open her mouth to speak. 

You take a lap of the first floor, searching high and low. The lights blink on as you enter each room. The basement door stands open and you shout Ezra’s name down the steps.

“What’s going on?” Margot asks, wrapping her cardigan tight around her. Her voice is ragged and if you weren’t in such a state you would notice that her eyes are just as red and puffy as yours.

“Percy, where’s Ezra?” you ask.

Percy is perched on Margot’s shoulder. He stands on his hind legs, balancing himself with one paw on her dangling earring. His dark eyes are alert, nose twitching, but all he gives you is a solemn shake of his head.

“Did it happen?” Margot asks.

“I was supposed to stay with him,” you say. You can barely manage a whisper.

You’re dizzy as you realize this is what the rest of your life will feel like. Ezra’s absence is so loud it makes your ears ring. 

You shake the thought away, unwilling to accept it. 

Margot reaches out a comforting hand but you’re already turning on your heel. Without another word, you begin to run. 

It’s not long before you’re thick in the forest, dashing through the trees. Tears blur your vision, rendering your surroundings a wash of dreary brown and orange. You can barely see the path ahead of you let alone the last of the leaves clinging to the trees. The soft soles of your house shoes are saturated with last night’s rain and you can feel every twig and stone underfoot.

In your race downstairs, you’d thrown on whatever clothes were at hand and put Ezra’s sweater over your head. Each inhale you take smells like him.

Ezra.

You think his name, visualize his face in all of its detail down to each dark hair of stubble on his chin. You remember the feel of the planes of his chest, the smooth roll of his shoulders beneath your touch. Soon your powers will be gone but right now, you’re calling upon them to keep him safe, to take you to him.

You might as well be racing the sun itself as it begins to rise. The sky is a hazy sherbert orange now and light catches on the raindrops that hang from the branches. Your lungs sting and the muscles in your legs burn but you can’t slow now.

Somewhere in the distance, you can hear your name echoing off of the trees. Margot is calling after you but you don’t slow your pace. 

By the time you reach the rusted, wrought iron gate of the old cemetery, the sky is kissed with pink. You've broken out in a sweat despite the prickling cold air that’s making your breath come out in steaming clouds.

You have no idea what you’ll find here, if he’s even here at all. You try your hardest to keep the worst possibilities at bay. This was where he hunted squirrels and tussled with the stray cats, where he went when he wanted to be alone. If Ezra is anywhere, it’s here.

You stop short. The sound of your heart pounding in your ears drowns out the noises of the morning. A sob catches in your throat. 

“Ezra,” you breathe. 

He sits huddled before one of the graves. You don’t even have to look at its marker to know that it’s engraved with a single name. Cee. 

You gasp for air as you look at him, frozen and light headed. What you see confounds you. Dawn has well and truly come and yet Ezra remains unchanged. His body, which you so meticulously examined the night before, is still human, still broad and beautiful. He’s shivering, teeth chattering. Wet leaves are stuck to his bare feet which have become dirty and scratched. He looks up at you, his mussed hair stuck to his forehead, brown eyes dazed.

You throw open the gate and race to his side, falling to your knees beside him.

“You’re still here,” you say. 

You hold his face in your hands, trying to make sense of him. This is no figment of your imagination. The stubble on his jaw bites into your palms, his skin chills your fingertips. It’s impossible yet you thank all the stars to have even one more moment spent with him.

“Forgive me,” he says, his voice weak. “I didn’t want you to see.” 

You should be angry but you’re flooded with relief that he’s still here and concern for how utterly shattered he looks. You blow into your hands, heating them with your powers and rub his arms, then his ice cold cheeks. His lips have lost their color and you put kisses on them. They’re frigid and chapped but you’ve never had a better kiss than this one when just a few minutes ago you thought he was lost forever.

“Moon and stars,” you hear Margot gasp behind you.

She struggles to catch her breath, clasping a stitch in her side.

“How?” she asks.

The sun has risen, a new day blossoming through the trees. There’s no denying it now. The Elder’s spell didn’t work.

Ezra merely shakes his head. His eyes are glassy from tears and exhaustion. Neither of you are sharp enough now to understand it.

“What spell?” Margot asks.

It takes a moment to realize she’s not talking to either of you. Percy climbs from her shoulder into Margot’s cupped hand, all the while sniffing the air. The mouse begins turning in a circle impatiently until she sets him down on the leafy ground. Percy scurries to Ezra’s side, his nose poking around him as if he’s trying to seek out some cheese. Ezra puts out his hand and Percy lets him lift him up to his face. 

“He says Ezra’s protected by your magic,” Margot says. “Did you do something last night?”

Your cheeks heat and you hope Margot can’t see the memories of those lingering touches, the all consuming pleasure that’s still so fresh in your mind. That’s not at all what she means.

“No,” you say, watching Percy’s little paws lean against Ezra’s bottom lip with an insistent squeak. His mouth falls open as he stares at the mouse in wonder.

“Not last night,” Ezra says. He looks at you, that familiar reverence in his eye.  “On the full moon.”

You blink as you recall the words you spoke that night. The protection spell you'd hastily come up with. You’d forgotten it. It had been overshadowed by everything that came after, the exhilaration of learning about Ezra’s feelings, the first kiss. 

“That was barely a spell,” you say.

Percy climbs out towards you on the tips of Ezra’s fingers.

“It’s strong,” Margot translates.

You shake your head. It doesn’t make sense. A spell like that, almost an afterthought, would be nothing compared to the magic of the Elders.  

“Little mage, you can’t begin to fathom how powerful you are,” Ezra says. 

Now your mind races with a litany of questions. Will they find another way to turn him? When your powers are gone, will your spell fade? What, exactly, are you capable of?

There’s no time to delve into any of them because a branch above you rustles as a large owl lands on it, sending leaves and fat rain drops to the ground below. Percy squeaks with alarm and scuttles back to Margot. Suddenly the elders are within the gates. Boggin scampers a few steps ahead of the witches, chittering away. The three Elders look quite at home in this ancient cemetery, regal and enigmatic.

A chill runs over your skin that has nothing to do with the frigid morning air. Esme’s eyes dart around the scene but Hester merely regards you with a raised eyebrow. 

You can only imagine how you look. Your clothes are wrinkled, shoes muddy. There are bags under your eyes which are still red from all of the crying you’ve done. 

Your pulse quickens but Ezra rises to his feet, standing tall. He pulls you up beside him, his hand holding firmly to yours. 

“You ought to be a cat by now,” Hester says flatly.

“It would appear your potion was a dud,” Ezra says.

“And how could that be?” she replies. She’s smiling with cold amusement but her eyes are all suspicion.

“When I told you that her abilities were uncanny, I meant it. The magic of three prestigious elders foiled by that of a young witch,” Ezra replies. 

His lip nearly curls into a smile. You wish you could share his confidence. Ezra might be safe now but if your powers are gone, will your spell go with it?

“Speak plainly,” Oswin complains. His gloved hand raps his cane against the ground.

“I cast a protection spell under a full moon,” you say. 

“And the very same spell shields her from harm,” Ezra tells them. 

It’s a bluff but your breath catches. If he’s right, if your gifts are that strong, maybe you can save yourself too.

It’s worth a shot. You quickly whisper words over yourself as Oswin glances to the others with concern. Magic prickles across your skin like goosebumps and Ezra squeezes your hand. 

“You’re welcome to attempt to wrest her powers if you’re prepared to suffer more embarrassment,” he says.  

“How dare you speak to your elders like that,” Esme says. 

“I’m older than any witch here,” Ezra says with a smirk. 

“Insolent beast,” she snarls and advances on him, eyes blazing. 

Ezra suddenly doubles as if he’s been punched in the gut by an invisible fist.

“Stop!” you yell.  

Esme twists her hand in the air, her bony fingers claw like. Hester’s familiar bounces, squealing and baring its teeth. You ready yourself for a fight but Margot pulls you back. 

“Wait,” she says, breathless. 

Ezra groans, the muscles in his neck straining. His jaw tightens but his defiant gaze returns to Esme. His shoulders heave with a great inhale and he straightens again. The discomfort on his face slips away and soon he’s wearing a wicked grin. 

You let out a shaky breath. Watching your spell hold fast is so exhilarating you almost laugh. 

Esme’s nostrils flare and Oswin staggers back, his dog familiar whining at his side. 

It’s Hester who lets out a good old fashioned cackle. 

“This is all quite impressive. Such a clever witch. No matter. We’ll deal with him once we’ve divested you of your gifts. I’m afraid that there is no spell strong enough to keep us from your magic,” she says. 

You can barely draw breath. She’s right. A few muttered words are as brittle as an eggshell under the hammer that is Hester’s magic. 

“Now. Step forward and we will do what we came for,” Hester commands.

You look to Margot who swallows hard. Her eyes glisten with tears but her jaw is clenched, doing her very best to be brave. Ezra’s brow is furrowed in determination and you remind yourself that dawn has come and gone. You foiled the elder’s magic unintentionally and you can do it again. At least, you have no choice but to believe that you can.

He gives you a nod and one last pulse around your hand before he releases you.

“Any last charms or incantations you would like to perform?” Hester asks.

You shake your head, already focused on what will come next.

Hester holds out her hand for the others. Esme grasps on eagerly but Owsin gives her outstretched hand a wary glance.

“I’m sorry, Hester,” he says. “I won’t do it. I didn’t get this far by crossing witches with such mighty gifts.”

“Very well,” Hester says with venom. “We can handle this ourselves.”

This is the moment. Your chest is constricted and your legs shake as you hope against hope that your spell was enough to protect you as it did Ezra. You close your eyes as you hear the witches begin to chant. You call on your own magic for what could be the very last time.

Wind swirls around you, lifting the sodden leaves from the ground. They pelt you in soggy patches as they fly about. Your clothes billow and your hair is caught in the storm. The early morning light is replaced by darkness, a swirling of black clouds. It’s hard to hear anything but the whistling of the air around you and it nearly chokes you, forcing itself up your nose and down your throat.

Through the chaos, you can see Hester’s eyes rolled back as she chants, her porcelain face made gaunt and ghoulish as if you can see her true form without the glamors of her magic. All the while, you try to say your own words, cast your own spell to counter hers, though no sound can fight its way out of your throat.

You fall to your knees, the hard earth biting them and you dig into the ground, mud catching under your fingernails. All of your muscles ache, spittle drips from between your clenched teeth, and you think you might break in two. You continue to recite your spell even as the air leaves your lungs.

Your vision blurs, and your body trembles, and all is quiet save for the drumming of your heartbeat in your ears. Without warning, a pulse leaves your palms. It’s strong enough to make the earth shake, radiating out from you in a great wave. Esme is knocked off of her feet and Oswin grabs hold to one of the old gravestones. That, you’re sure, is the sensation of your magic being pulled from your body.

Vertigo overtakes you and you give in, finally releasing your body and collapsing to the sodden ground.

🐈‍⬛

It was years ago that you found the young buck in the forest, the poor thing tangled in a clutch of thorny underbrush. The day was warm and green, perfect for a short hike in the woods. The sound of the deer caught your attention, bleating and upsetting the branches around it as it struggled. The poor thing became even more agitated when it saw you approach.

“It’s okay. I’m going to help you,” you said softly. You held your hands aloft.

“Careful, little mage,” Ezra warned. 

He had been your familiar for only a year then but the two of you had become fast friends. 

You moved towards the deer slowly as it huffed and pulled against the snare, tightening it further. 

“Be still,” Ezra chided the buck though neither of you had ever possessed the ability to communicate with animals. 

As you crept close the deer calmed, somehow either understanding that you meant no harm or giving in to whatever fate you had planned. With gentle hands, you unwrapped the vines from his leg. The buck gave a grunt as you pulled thorns from where they had lodged into its smooth fur. Though there was some blood, the cuts weren’t deep. 

“Does that hurt?” you asked, though you knew it would give no reply. 

When you released him, the buck stood gingerly on his hoof and took a cautious step. His honey colored eyes locked on you and you swore you felt its gratitude with perfect clarity. 

“That’s better, huh?” you said.

To your surprise, the deer bowed his crowned head. You let out a laugh. At this point in life, you were no stranger to magic, but this moment held some special enchantment, something that couldn’t be captured in spellbooks and amulets. 

You put out your hand again and the buck sniffed, the whiskers on his black nose tickling your palm. With a swallow, you slowly rested your fingertips on his snout. He didn’t even flinch.

Until a terrible crash came from the trees. Both you and the buck startled and he fled, leaping easily over the bushes and disappearing into the woods. The noise grew closer and your heart hammered in your ribs. More deer smashed through the trees– two doe and a spotted fawn– who raced past so quickly, you were knocked backwards.

“You alright?” Ezra asked as you stood and dusted yourself off.

“Yeah. That scared the shit out of me,” you chuckled.

Then another creature burst forth but this was no fawn. You’d always thought coyotes were cute with their bushy tails and pointy ears but you’d never been confronted with one in the middle of its hunt. It bared its pointed teeth, hunched in a mean looking crouch. Your eyes went wide and all of your muscles locked, useless to do anything but stare and shake. 

The coyote crouched as if to pounce at you but it wasn’t given the chance. Ezra lunged for the animal, ears back and claws out, his own sharp teeth sinking into the coyote’s tawny fur. The coyote yelped and you screamed as Ezra slashed and hissed. He was fierce but Ezra was no match for the beast who easily shook him off. 

“Ezra!” you yelled as his slender body hit the ground hard.

The coyote sprung over him, catching Ezra in his fearsome jaws. 

“Run!” Ezra managed.

His claws continued to bite at the coyote’s face, the fur of his tail stood out straight, and he swore and grunted as he was thrown around like a ragdoll.

“Stop! Stop!” you begged, your cheeks wet with hot tears. 

You were about to watch your best friend be torn apart by a wild animal and all you could do was scream. 

“Stop!” you yelled again. This time it was different. The word came out of you with more power and depth, a voice you didn’t recognize as your own, and with it an echo that sent the coyote back a yard, toppling over its own feet. Ezra flew from its teeth, landing on the forest floor in a heap of fur and blood. 

You barely registered the coyote whimpering, tucking its tail and running back the way it came. You were already at Ezra’s side, scooping his pathetic remains into your quivering arms. He twitched, eyes half open. You couldn’t bear to look at the wounds but you could feel them, hot and sticky with blood. There were spells that could help him, potions and salves that could ease the pain, but they were far beyond the powers of a teenage witch.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” you chanted. These words were thin and strangled, so different from the ones that had shaken the animal off of him.

Margot. She could fix this. You began to run, holding Ezra against your chest.

Margot, I need you, you thought as loud as you could but you knew that it was impossible for your aunt to hear your thoughts from such a distance.

“We’ll get you home. You’ll be okay,” you said again.

You stumbled over rocks and roots, blinded by the tears in your eyes. Each step, Ezra grew closer to death. He’d lived for centuries and now he was dying because he wanted to protect you. Because you let that fucking coyote’s dinner get away. 

Maybe death would be a gift for him. He’d lamented to you countless times how lonely his life had been, that the spell that made him a familiar kept him from taking his own life. But the thought of losing him was unbearable. 

There was still a good stretch of woods between you and home when you heard Ezra wheeze. He was limp, motionless. You stopped and put your ear to him, tried to see if his chest was moving but saw only so much blood. 

“No,” you sobbed. 

You sat in the dirt and leaves and curled yourself into a ball around Ezra. His head rested in the crook of your elbow and you kissed his face and cried over him. 

You didn’t know the right words and your powers were still young but you were desperate. With your eyes squeezed tight, snot gushing from your nose, limbs heavy and exhausted, you called on every ounce of magic in you and begged for it to obey. You willed it out of you through every muscle, every pore. The moon and stars and the trees themselves, whoever would listen, you plead for help.

All you could manage to say was a watery, “I love you,” and for a long while, you sat there rocking Ezra, sure that you’d lost him.

There was no gust of wind, no lightning or flickering of a candle. The birds sang and the branches rustled with squirrels. The sun shined through the leaves.

Until finally, you felt the faint beating of Ezra’s heart.

🐈‍⬛

Margot is beside you though the music of her earrings and bracelets sounds far away. Your eyes blink open and you find yourself gazing up into Ezra’s handsome face. This time you’re the one cradled in his arms. Your powers may be gone but at least you have him, just for a little bit longer.

“I’ve got you,” he says. 

Oswin helps Esme to her feet, sticks and debris caught in her silver hair. Hester’s shoulders rise and fall with deep breaths but she remains untouched. The only sign of her exertion is a loose tendril of hair that’s stuck to her forehead. 

Your eyelids are heavy and if it weren’t for Ezra holding you, you’re sure you’d melt away. You let them drift closed again, too weak to fight. It’s time to surrender.  

And then you gasp. There’s something— it’s small and far away like an echo, a vibration from deep within your chest. It takes some effort but you sit up. 

“Careful,” Ezra says, keeping a steady hand on your back. 

“Are you alright?” Margot asks. 

You can’t respond, utterly focused on the sensation, trying to call it forward like you’re remembering the details of the dream. You look at your hands, clammy and caked with dirt, and then your eyes fall on the elders. 

You snap your fingers. No. It’s not a snap. You do it just the way Ezra taught you, like flint hitting steel.

And there’s a spark. 

Margot inhales sharply behind you. Esme actually lets out a yelp. 

They wanted to take your powers. They wanted to take Ezra. The thought makes your heart beat so furiously, you’re sure you could set the world ablaze. 

With another flick of your fingers, a flame leaps from your palm. The leaves catch as though they aren’t soaked in last night’s rain but kerosene. Fire burns on the expanse of ground between you and Hester’s feet. 

Ezra is exhausted, every line in his face cutting deeper than ever before, but he beams at you with pride.

“I told you,” he says.

It’s hard to accept that he was right, that you have magic you can’t fathom but you’re grateful for it. With his help, you stand again, resolute about one thing– they won’t dare to take him away.

Oswin watches aghast, his familiar barking. Esme’s owl circles in the sky above, startled from its perch. Boggin runs up Hester’s robes and stands on her shoulder, squealing nervously.

“Well. That was quite a show,” she says, waving her hand to extinguish the flames before her. 

She examines you, this time with a much more careful consideration.

“Maybe we were too hasty. There’s no reason these talents should go to waste,” she says to the others as if her judgement means anything. 

She’s wise enough to know when she’s been bested and cunning enough to try and stay in your good graces.

“You wouldn’t seriously consider–” Esme begins, all puffed up with indignation.

“You’ll have to handle your personal squabbles some other way,” Hester snaps at her. She returns her gaze to you with a cordial smile. “Besides, think of all we could accomplish together.”

After all you’ve been put through in the last 24 hours, Hester’s sudden geniality makes you feel sick. 

“I’m not interested,” you say.

Hester’s cordial demeanor drops, her mouth forming a tight line.

“All I want is to be left alone. And if you ever threaten another person I love, I’ll show you the full extent of my powers,” you say.

Hester’s jaw shifts and you wonder the last time anyone spoke to her in such a way.

“Alright, then. She has spoken,” she tells the Elders.

“Come,” Oswin says, eager to leave this behind. 

You nearly collapse into Ezra’s arms as the three witches retreat towards the gates. You breathe a sigh of relief. This might not be the last you hear of the Elders. Esme might yet convince Hester to change her mind. But right now, you want to celebrate.  You look up into Ezra’s soft brown eyes and your heart flips.  Not only will he stay by your side but he’ll truly have the chance to live the life he deserves. 

“Wait,” you say.

Hester stops, casting her eyes over her shoulder. You step out of Ezra’s grasp. 

“There are others like him, aren’t there?” you ask. “Like Ezra.”

“Of course,” Hester says.

“Turn them back,” you demand.

There’s another Ezra out there somewhere. He’s done things he regrets but he’s paid the price ten fold. He deserves to find his own little mage or at least to stand on his own two feet. 

“We coudln’t possibly–”

“Give them an appeal or retry them. Commute their sentences. I don’t care how you do it.”

Hester’s eyes alight again.

“Turn them back or I will,” you warn.

Hester’s frown is so sour you can almost taste it in your own mouth but she knows, maybe for the first time, that she’s powerless.

“Fine,” is her answer, a short, bitter syllable. 

Before you can say another word or even crack a smile, she and the others are gone.

All you can do is laugh and it unwinds the knot that’s been tied around your heart.

“Did you see the look on Esme’s face?” Margot asks.

She puts a gleeful kiss on Percy’s cheek.

“Oh! I’m so proud of you!” she swoons.

She holds your arms and looks at you with fresh eyes, then pulls you into a tight embrace. You inhale, drawing in the familiar warm smell on her hair.

“You never cease to amaze me,” she whispers in your ear. 

You bask in her joy, letting her sway back and forth.

Over her shoulder you lock eyes with Ezra. His face has regained its color and his cheek is dimpled with a wistful smile. Even unkempt and exhausted, he’s still the most beautiful man you’ve laid eyes on.

“Thank you,” Ezra says softly when Margot finally lets go of you.

“I haven’t done anything,” you reply. You’re so tired and just now realizing the size of the task you’ve undertaken. Holding the Elders accountable will be a feat in and of itself and, in this moment, it makes you want to crumble. 

“There’s no need for modesty, little mage. You’ve just proven yourself a force to be reckoned with,” he chuckles. 

You trace the pad of your thumb across the creases that form at the corner of his eye. He sighs contentedly before pulling you into a kiss that feels like magic.

🐈‍⬛

EPILOGUE

The sun kisses your bare shoulders. Soon, Ezra thinks, he’ll be doing the same. 

Summer has well and truly come. The garden in front of the Arcane Page is lush with greenery and colorful perennial flowers. As the temperature’s risen, you’ve cast spells that keep the apartment breezy and cool. Much to Ezra’s delight, you’ve broken out your summer wardrobe. Shorts that ride up your thigh, gauzy tops that show off your decolatage, and today a sweet little sundress dotted with flowers.

Margot’s given you both a much deserved day off.

In the months since you faced the Elders, you’ve both been hard at work. Word got out quickly and familiars and witches alike sought you out. It’s been difficult. Not just the demands on your magic but your emotions too. Collecting centuries of trauma is a hard task for such an empathetic witch.

This morning, though, the two of you have only had to worry about what to order at the diner. Of course, Ezra has other plans for you once he gets you home and divests you of that dress.

You stroll down the main street hand in hand enjoying the warmth of the season, the color in the heart of town. The shops are full of patrons, locals and weekend tourists alike, and the smell of vanilla wafts out of the apothecary. The two of you have just passed the yarn shop and the florist when you gasp. Ezra’s arm is nearly yanked out of its socket as you pull him across the road.

He stumbles behind you, grateful that this isn’t a busier thoroughfare.

“Look!” you say.

A long folding table has been set out on the sidewalk in front of the pet store, atop it several metal crates hold cats of various ages and colors. For a moment, the sight makes Ezra’s jaw tighten. It was some time in the late 19th century that he served a witch who put Ezra in a cage whenever he was deemed disobedient. Centuries had passed but he can still remember the bite of the bars against his shoulders.

These cats seem quite content, though. Their enclosures are roomier than the prison Ezra had endured and they’re are filled with all sorts of enrichment. Water, food, even limp little mice and balls with jingle bells. The cats lounge happily in the sunshine, a few of them sleeping soundly.

“Hey there, handsome boy,” you say. 

You poke your hand through the wire crate. The cat with a nipped ear inside runs his side against you, angling for a scratch. Affixed to the cage is a laminated sign: Adopt me: Chairman Meow 4Y 11LBs. 

“Finally got you, eh? Well, life as a house cat isn’t so bad,” Ezra says.

The cat gives an unpleasant meow and you look at Ezra with a brow raised.

“We’re acquainted. He and I had a few altercations,” Ezra tells you.

“I hope you’ve both reformed your ways,” you say with the shake of your head.

You go on from cage to cage, cooing over each cat and coaxing them over with a pspsps.

“Oh, Ez!” you squeal at the last one.  

Inside is a skinny little kitten striped with orange fur.

“Hi, baby,” you say, your voice a high pitched sing song that makes Ezra roll his eyes. It’s a good thing you never spoke to him that way. It’s utterly undignified. 

“Would you like to see him?” the volunteer manning the table asks.

“Please!” you answer and watch with unbridled giddiness as the volunteer unlatches the door.

“Let’s see if he’ll come,” she tells you.

You hold out your hand and the kitten pads forward to sniff at your fingertips. He dips his small head so you can pet between his ears. 

“What a sweetie,” you say. 

Then he flops down and shows you his belly. 

Show off. 

You let out a delighted squeal, eyes glittering as you stroke the light fur on its belly. It wraps a paw around your wrist and gives bunny kicks as you giggle. 

“Looks like he likes you,” the volunteer says. “You can pick him up.”

You need no encouraging. “Come here, you,” you say, scooping the kitten into your arms.

He begins to rub his cheeks against your jawline, purring so loudly Ezra can hear it. 

He can’t help but feel a little jealous. For a moment, it’s like he’s forgotten that he’s human, that he can do much more than snuggle under your chin. Some instincts never fade. 

“Oh, Ez!” you gush. Your eyes are as big as saucers when you look at him, absolutely smitten. 

“Surely you jest,” he says before you can even say the words aloud.

“Why not? I’ve never had a cat. Not a real one at least,” you say, scratching at the kitten’s neck as it gazes at you reverently.

Ezra sighs. For years it’s been just you and him. Even when so many things came between you, he was always at your side. But seeing the unadulterated joy on your face, he knows he can’t deny you. You’ll always be his little mage and he’ll always serve you, once by bond, now of his own free will.

The kitten reaches out a paw as if beckoning for Ezra to come closer. He leans towards the little furball. It has a sweet face, round, green eyes and a pink button nose. His ears are too big for hisfeatures but Ezra can’t deny that they’re adorable. 

“Hello, little one,” Ezra says. 

The kitten smacks him, landing a direct hit on his nose. You laugh as Ezra recoils. A smile grows on his lips. He covers his face with his hand feigning injury. 

“That was entirely unprovoked,” he says. 

“That’s right. Show him who’s boss,” you say, scratching under the kitten’s chin. 

Ezra can almost feel it on his own skin. 

“Alright. I’m willing to acquiesce but let’s get one thing straight, you mangey feline,” Ezra says. He slings an arm around your waist and pulls you in tight. “She belongs to me.”

You give a sparkling laugh and then gift Ezra with a kiss so sweet, he’s glad he waited three hundred years for you. 

THE END

🐈‍⬛

You’d been so optimistic, so naive, before today. Instead, by this time tomorrow, you’ll have lost the one thing that matters most– Ezra. You’ve had your powers your entire life and Ezra, at least in this form, for only a few short weeks. But it’s easier to imagine a life without magic than it is one without Ezra. 

“There must be something we can do. We just have to think,” you say. 

Your mind spins as you pace around the living room, trying to summon ideas when nothing but panic clouds your thoughts. Outside, rain has begun to pelt the windows. You start to wonder if your own sorrows have affected the weather. It feels so deep and dark that you could believe this storm was of your own making. 

“Maybe Margot has a cleansing tonic.”

You remember taking one during a particularly bad bout of food poisoning. A rotten oyster is nothing compared to that potion. You shake away the idea.

“I can make the potion again. Right now,”  you say. “Reverse the spell.” 

You know that that won’t work but you’re grasping at straws. 

Ezra watches you with a pained expression. He shakes his head and says what you already know.

“It’s done.” 

He takes your hand, stops your frantic motion.

“You’ll only have your magic for a little while longer—”

“I don’t care about that.” You manage to say the thing that’s swum in your mind since Hester made that awful ruling,“I’ll never see you again,” you choke.

He swallows hard and his lips tremble. He’d been undaunted, staring down the Elders as he took that potion, looking directly at his fate.

“You’ll be here with Margot. She’ll take care of you.” He might be trying to convince himself. 

“I can’t–” you say, but your words are interrupted by a sob. There’s no way out. You grip on the front of his shirt so tightly that your knuckles begin to burn but you won’t let go.

Ezra presses kisses to your forehead, on the bridge of your nose, the damp apples of your cheeks. 

“Little mage, if this is to be our last night together, I can’t abide you crying through it,” Ezra murmurs against you. 

He cups your face in his palms, thumbs brushing your wet cheeks. His kiss is salty and sweet, coaxing your lips apart. Your tongues move in tandem as Ezra’s hands travel to your back, pressing you against him. You focus on the feel of him there, sturdy and warm and real. 

It’s not enough. You need to be closer.

Your hands slide beneath the fabric of Ezra’s shirt, skimming the coarse hairs and tender skin low on his belly. It’s impossible to keep the tears from coming when the only thing circling your mind is the fact that you’ll never feel his golden skin again.

“Lay with me,” he offers.

You nod weakly and peel away long enough for him to lead you by the hand into the other room.

There you undress each other. It’s not the ravenous shucking of clothes that you’re used to, but a deliberate ritual. Your hands skim across each newly uncovered bit of flesh, mapping each other's bodies with your touch.

It’s now well past sunset, the room dark. With a wave of Ezra’s hand, the lamp on your bedside table comes on, bathing everything in its warm glow. The light kisses each edge of his silhouette— his strong nose and the plump of his bottom lip— falling off into shadow. 

“I want to see you,” he whispers, brushing your collarbone with his knuckles. 

His gaze falls over you, eyes unsure where to land and you know that you’re both trying to memorize one another while you still can.

“You are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen,” he says, and your whole body heats. 

You lie together in the cocoon of your sheets, limbs woven tight, joined in an unending kiss. This will be the last night you spend in each other’s arms. You want to remember as much as you want to forget. All you can do is give in, focus on the sensations in your body to keep from hearing the thoughts in your mind.

Every brush and caress, each drag of his tongue is heightened as you lose yourself in the here and now. The hairs that dust his chest graze your nipples. His thigh leans into yours with a weight you’ve never fully appreciated before.

Ezra is quiet for once. Not even a moan escapes him. He’s doing it, too, trying to lock in to this moment before it evaporates. You listen, though, for the hitch in his breath and the stutter in his exhale. You swear you hear him purr.

He’ll be gone soon. You just can’t shake it. You’ll lay here at night alone.

You bring Ezra’s hand to your core. He hesitates. 

“I want to forget,” you breathe.

He responds with a nod. Your loyal Ezra, always gives what you need. His fingers find you with featherlight strokes that make you gasp. Ezra gently cants his hips, pressing your thigh open against the mattress. When he gathers up your slick, he lets out a whine and nuzzles into your jaw. 

He knows what to do to send you spinning, but now he’s slow with motions, as careful as strumming a spider’s web. Almost as if he's suspending you in a haze of pleasure to keep you safe just a moment longer. 

Finally, it's all too much. The pressure building low shatters and your back bends away from the bed. Ezra keeps anchoring you down, caging you beneath him. If he didn’t, you might begin to levitate. This is the divine. There’s no need to call upon magic, to summon it, command it. It flows through the two of you as easily as you share the same air. 

He soothes you with soft kisses on the pulse in your neck and the shell of your ear as your breath evens out.

The low light sparkles in his eye as he watches you. He wears the ghost of a smile on his lips and you trace them with the pads of your thumbs. 

Ezra has so many beautiful features. His brown eyes, that strong nose, the dimple in his cheek. But it was shape of his mouth that captured your attention that first night you spent together. You’d kept waking up, checking that he was still there, still human. He’d looked serene sleeping beside you and his mouth had hung open just slightly, parting his lips so sweetly that you’d wanted to kiss them. The thought made you flush with heat, knowing all the reasons why it was wrong. But even now, on the precipice of ruin, you can’t regret a single kiss you shared with him.

Ezra’s cock leaks against the crease in your thigh, ruddy and stiff. You shift, inviting him to blanket you with his broad frame.

He notches himself at your entrance then eases in like he’s sinking into a warm bath. There’s a long, low exhale against your skin. His thrusts are slow, deliberate, each roll of his hips draws out a grunt or groan that sets you on fire.

He stills, stretching you, just barely brushing where you need him most. 

“Ezra,” you plead.

You want him to move, press deeper, and you urge him on with your palms splayed on the small of his back. 

“Not yet,” he says. “I must savor you.”

You whimper, his words and your desperation make you clench around him. Ezra lets out a moan and he bucks into you reflexively.

He loses himself. Whatever has been restraining him disappears all at once. He drives into you with a snarl on his lips and tears in his eyes. You twist your fingers in his hair as wild noises escape him. It’s almost painful but you welcome it. You want it to hurt, for him to leave some mark, an ache, that might linger after he’s gone. 

New pleasure coils in you and there’s a throb as he finds the place that doubles the sensations. Ezra’s teeth rake at your flesh, needy and delirious. Everywhere your bodies meet buzzes with magic. 

You begin to thrum around him and fight the urge to close your eyes so you can watch Ezra fall apart. He’s exquisite, lips turned down, brow furrowed. A punched-out sound leaves him as he buries himself in you. 

You let go, hitting your peak and for a moment you really do forget. The world falls away and it’s just your body and Ezra inside of you, no future, no impending doom. Just bliss and magic. You try to hold onto the abyss for as long as you can, steal as many extra moments of this reverie before you lose it all.

As you come down, it crashes over you, wiping you out like a wave. There are tears once again staining your face. You hold Ezra firmly in place on top of you, your nails digging half moons into his shoulder blades, as if you can anchor him in this moment forever. He makes no effort to move, his forehead pressed against your own, ragged breaths against your cheek. 

“I love you,” you whisper again and again. “I love you, Ezra.” It’s its own incantation. 

He swallows your words with his lips. 

“You were mine, little mage,” he finally says, “if only for a moment.” 

-

As the night stretches on, your eyelids grow heavy. 

“I’m not going to fall asleep,” you say. “I’ll stay with you. I’ll be here when it happens.”

You gaze at him, mustering a sweet smile and kissing his fingertips. 

Ezra doesn’t stop you when your eyes eventually do drift shut. You’re both exhausted. His limbs feel thick– they always do after making love to you– but the emotions of the day have taken their toll. 

He’s always loved your sleeping body beside him, safe and warm. For a while, he watches your skin glow in the soft light of the lamp, your chest rising and falling gently. You begin to snore quietly and Ezra can’t help but grin. This is how he’ll remember you, his little mage. 

Carefully he traces his fingertips across your skin. For the very last time. He can’t dwell on that thought or he’ll never be able to move.

Eventually, Ezra summons the will to pull himself from your embrace. He’s quiet and careful, pulling the sheet across your naked shoulder. You’re so deeply asleep you barely stir. 

He slips into a pair of jeans. There’s so much to mourn tonight but he won’t miss this restrictive denim. It’s cold but he only pulls a t-shirt over his head and forgoes shoes altogether. Soon he won’t need them.

He should be there when they come for your powers but he can’t bear to make you witness his change. It won’t happen the way it did when you cast your spell, something neither of you noticed as you peacefully slept. This will be painful, grotesque. All of his bones snapping and muscles twisting. He’ll shrink and howl. His skin will sprout with ten thousand dark hairs. A tail will rupture from the base of his spine, claws will tear through his skin. He’d rather you keep the memory of tonight.

It wasn’t enough but it was more than he once could ever have dreamed of. 

The moon still hangs heavy in the sky as he creeps away. From the doorway he gives you one last look, a whispered farewell before he disappears into the night. 

🐈‍⬛

If you’ve watched the new episodes of ST, you’d be hard pressed to miss the similarities between the shows. And I really wouldn’t complain about turning Hawkins into a post outbreak au (militarized quarantine zone and all). Nothing is original. I write fic for fuck’s sake I have no issues about borrowing story elements from other media. The problem is, it really doesn’t work for this show.

El and Hopper’s relationship is often compared to Joel and Ellie. I’ve heard tell that they are inspired by Druckman’s characters (I am too lazy to confirm this and it doesn’t matter to me). The show renders this dynamic in the most ham fisted of ways. This season our father/daughter duo are sent on a side quest to the upside down so we can be told over and over again how much they love one another. Maybe Harbor and MBB just don’t have the chemistry. They’re not really given the chance to show not tell. It’s spelled out for us almost any time they share the screen. In case you missed it while you were scrolling on your phone, Hopper cares about El!

And, sure, I guess. But it leaves me feeling nothing. Compare Harbor’s lines about killing anyone who tries to hurt the one person he loves with Pascal’s tearful scene on the porch. There’s weight to the love in TLOU. Stranger Things uses it as an excuse to mow down a squad of NPCs.

There’s been a lot of complaining about Hopper’s action herofication over the past few season and, while I agree with that, what really struck me in season 5 is the violence. In these few episodes, Hop has gunned down at least a dozen people without a second thought. Hell, even El is getting in on the action using her mind powers to snap necks. Remember when this was a show about kids playing D&D?

Sure, ST isn’t interested in reckoning with what we’re willing to do for love, but the disregard for human life is frankly shocking. Each kill took something from Joel and Ellie’s soul. Hopper and El on the other hand are like Rambo and Sarah Conner. It has me questioning who the good guys really are here and, well, this show doesn’t do shades of grey.

It’s not just the family dynamics at play in Stranger Things. My jaw hit the floor when I watched that final battle scene. I was having flashbacks to Kansas City. There were so many beats from the KC bloater battle but, again, I’m not here to cry rip off. It has the camera work from Children of Men, the feel of any first person shooter. Regardless of who they were mimicking, the question I was left with was, is this appropriate for Stranger Things? Sure it looks pretty sick (I mean if you ignore the CGI monsters) but is this Stranger Things? Did we tune in to this show for gritty action and a guy getting his fucking eyeballs impaled?? (And does that even mean anything when El is doing force murder?)

I’m not even sure the show is bought into its own premise. There’s a 7 year old wailing “I don’t want to die!” which is comedy gold (tbh I love Derek) paired with what could be a scene from an Alex Garland movie. It’s one of many tonal inconsistencies in the season and the only conclusion I can come to is that the Duffer Brothers (or Netflix or whoever is flying this plane) are trying to follow in the footsteps of other prestige TV like GOT/HOD or TLOU. Which is a shame because they had a good thing going doing their own thing. Even when Stranger Things was doing insane shit before, I was having fun watching it.

The sun is sinking, though it’s spent most of the day hiding behind thickening clouds. You’ve been sitting on your bed for what feels like hours, waiting. 

Neither of you have spoken to each other since your spat this morning. You retreated to your room, still fuming, stubbornly waiting for Ezra to make an apology. He didn’t come.

You shoved clothes around noisily in your closet, angry with him, with everyone, with yourself. What was he thinking? Why couldn’t he trust you to handle this?

Hangers caught on one another and you wrestled them apart, hot, indignant tears prickling in your eyes. You opened drawers to hunt around in your dresser. What did one wear to their own judgement before a panel of Elders? What difference did it even make? You were going to lose it all. You pulled sweaters out and tossed them onto your unmade bed.

Why did River have to be such an asshole? He hadn’t changed at all. In fact, he was worse. Jealous and petty and judgemental. Why had you confided in him? Had you really thought he was sincere when he apologized? Ezra was right. On top of everything else— the dread and anger— you felt like an idiot and you didn’t want to admit it.

Your anger took another turn as you rummaged through your shoes. Why had you taken out your anger on Ezra? As soon as you’d snapped at him, you wanted to take the words back. His hurt expression haunts you as the hours of silence pass.

You feel ill, sitting amongst the shirts and skirts and scarves, the sword of Damoclese hanging closer than ever. It’s all ruined. You’re about to face the Elders and you’ve hurt the witch you care about most.

Your eyes fall onto your bedside table. The little box sits discarded where you tossed it when you returned. There was so much joy when you’d snuck down to the office to get it, when you had so much hope.

You finally step out of your room and seat yourself at Ezra’s feet. There’s pain in his eyes when they shift to you. It gives you another stab in the chest.

“I’m sorry, Ezra,” you croak out.

“As am I. For what I said, for what I did,” he replies. 

Relief smooths at the deep crease between his brows. You feel it too as that invisible wall lifts between you.

“I’ve bungled this haven’t I?” he asks. 

You shake your head. “I wish you’d hit him,” you say.

“Now, now, little mage,” Ezra tuts.

“It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have told him. You were right,” you say. 

He tilts your chin up, looking at you with sweet, round eyes. “You see the good in everyone. As you did with me.” 

“I shouldn’t have said–”

“Alright,” he quiets you by sliding his palm across your jaw to cup your face. “Let’s not squander a minute more with foolish squabbling.”

He’s right. There’s no time now, not even for apologies. There could be just hours left and you’ve spent the entire day hiding from each other.

“I have something for you,” you say and reveal the little box that’s tucked beneath you. “It was for Yule but...”

You can’t bring yourself to say the words, that you may not make it past today. Instead you flip the box open to reveal its contents. 

Ezra’s eyes round and he pulls you up to sit on his lap. You curl your legs up and one of his arms encircles you, heaving you in close. It finally feels safe here against his warmth, his scent surrounding you.

His dark eyes dance between you and the ring.

“Do you like it?” you ask.

He nods and you watch him swallow hard. It all but breaks you apart. You press your hand into the flat of his chest to ground him, his sweater soft beneath you. Ezra circles your hand in his own, bringing your fingertips to his lips. 

“Here,” you say, and Ezra lets you slide the ring onto his finger. 

It’s been enchanted to fit perfectly but it looks as if it had been designed for him. The stone shines against the gold of his skin. You smooth a finger across it, the band already warm to the touch. 

“Why me?” he asks. 

The expression on his face is so earnest, so sweet, you can’t help but giggle. How could he not know?

“Because you’re mine,” you say. 

You’ve always thought of Ezra as yours. And he always has been. Whether he was your familiar or friend or lover, he’s always belonged to you.

Ezra pulls you into a deep kiss. You melt into him, wanting to live in this moment as long as you can.

He keeps you close once your lips part, the stubble of his jawline grazing against your skin. 

“Little Mage, no matter what is to pass, whatever becomes of us, whatever they decide. I promise I will stay with you,” he says. 

You shut your eyes as if you can blind yourself to the future. 

“Don’t say it,” you tell him. 

You want him to reassure you, to promise that this will all blow over, but it’s not fair to ask that of him now. He’s in just as much danger. 

“I must,” Ezra says. 

You stay like that, clutching each other as you wait for the oncoming storm. 

You’re not sure how long passes before there’s footsteps on the stairs, a knock at the door.

“They’re here,” Margot says. “Waiting in the cellar.”

You nod. “We’re coming,” you manage to say though there’s a knot squeezing your throat tight.

She gives a sympathetic look to each of you before retreating down the stairs.

You put your hand in his and feel a reassuring squeeze. 

-

When Ezra was tried the first time, his hands were bound in enchanted shackles that dulled his powers. It was a grey day just like this. Dreary and damp.

That was a far more grandiose affair. A full counsel of seven elders sat before the crowd. The entire village had come to bear witness. It took years of careful thought to block out their scornful faces but now, as he descends to the basement behind you, they come flooding back to him. Disgusted looks, even jeers from the witches who had once been his neighbors and kin. He remembers a familiar, another cat, arching her back and hissing. 

None of it compared to the sight of his father ashen, his hair thinning and grey. The death of Ezra’s mother had all but crushed him, weakened his magic and zest for life and now he was losing a son. He would pass not long after, another life Ezra would feel responsible for. 

And then there was Cee. The young woman sat at the front, shoulders drawn up to her ears. Her eyes held that determined anger Ezra would come to know so well. Stern yet tired, always on the edge of giving up the fight yet carrying on. 

The shame consumed him. He could imagine the whispers behind him—how tragic it was that his mother, so beloved by the community, wound up with such a son, that no real witch would ever do something so heinous to one of his own kind. They were right. Ezra decided then and there that he wouldn’t speak for himself, that he would accept whatever punishment was handed down to him and spare his family any more embarrassment. He would be forgotten, spend the rest of his worthless life in penance. 

He should have stayed that way. His greed for you had brought yet another witch to peril. 

The ceiling of the basement has never felt so low, the room crowded by the quickly growing shadows and the palpable anticipation. Flickering candles make the scene look just like that other trial. If he weren’t so anxious, Ezra might laugh at the drama of it all when there are perfectly good electric lights overhead. The wide table where he once sat and drank down your potion is gone, magicked away somewhere leaving only three wooden chairs and a wide expanse of bare floor. At the far end of the room, six sets of eyes are fixed on him– three elders and their familiars.

The sight of them makes Ezra’s stomach drop. Only three. There was a full panel of seven Elders at his trial. This is almost an afterthought by comparison. 

He recognizes the first of the Elders. Esme stands behind her chair as if guarding herself, a long silver braid on her shoulder. On her face is a familiar repugnance. That sour expression must be hereditary because River wore the very same. Her owl glares down from a shelf laden with jars of coffin nails and cicada husks and yet more candles. Ezra wonders what she’s told the others, how deeply she’s exaggerated what happened with River, though it really doesn’t matter. Even if he’d just given River a friendly pat on the back, it wouldn’t change the fact that you and he had broken the law.

Opposite Esme is a witch Ezra knows only by reputation. Oswin Thorne spent his youth running with bootleggers during prohibition. He used his powers to confound police and conceal whole truckloads of moonshine. His suit is many years out of fashion but he still has an elegance about him. The tight white curls on his head and in his beard are a stark contrast to the umber of his skin. The lines in his face deepen as he sizes Ezra up. 

Despite the fact that she’s seated, Hester Dreadmoor still commands the room. As Grand Matron, it’s only natural that she’s powerful but Ezra can feel the magic rolling off of her like an especially strong perfume. 

Hester is an elegant witch. Tall, slim, and pale. Her dark eyes are knowing, calculating. She must have been born at the turn of the century but she doesn’t look a day over 75. She would have you believe that her immense power has kept her from aging but rumor has it she’s delved deep into blood magic to keep herself looking as youthful as she can. 

A little monkey called Boggin chitters and hops in restless excitement, bouncing from one of Hester’s shoulders to the other. It doesn’t perturb her if she notices at all. She sits sipping tea from one of Margot’s delicate cups as though this were a social call.

There’s a collective gasp when Ezra’s feet land at the bottom of the stairs. Ezra fights the urge to reach for you, clasp your hand in his own, whether to comfort you or himself, he’s not sure. His instincts and the sneer on Esme’s lips tell him that a show of affection won’t help either of you right now. 

“So it’s true,” Oswin says. He leans his weight on his cane as he lowers himself into a wooden chair. At his feet lies a large Great Dane, his familiar. 

You raise your chin, set your shoulders, put on a brave face. Ezra’s never been more proud of you. 

“Outrageous,” Esme gasps. 

“Hester, I object to this entire proceeding,” Margot jumps in. “Esme must recuse herself.”

“Why? Because my grandson was accosted by this ne’er do well?” Esme says. 

“‘Accosted,’” you scoff. 

“There is no need for Esme to recuse herself because there is nothing to discuss. There he stands. Any witch with eyes can see that the law has been broken,” Oswin grumbles. 

Ezra clenches his jaw. Already two of the Elders are set against you. 

“This is not the only crime to litigate. They’re fornicating. Did you know that?” Esme asks.

Oswin’s lip curls.

“Is that a crime?” Margot asks.

“It ought to be,” Esme says. “And there’s the matter of the spell. There are other conspirators, no doubt. She couldn’t have cast such a spell on her own.” Esme’s eyes fall once again on your aunt.

“Margot had nothing to do with this,” you say. 

“Even if that were the case, she aided and abetted,” Esme says and turns to Margot. “How could you be a party to this?” 

“That’s between me and my niece,” Margot tells her, puffing up defensively.

In an instant, Ezra watches decades of friendship dissolves into nothing. All because of him.

“Do you really expect us to believe that you did that magic single-handedly?” Oswin demands of you. 

“I did,” you say. 

“There’s no witch living capable of such magic,” he scoffs. 

“There’s one,” you reply. 

Your bravado brings a smile to Ezra’s lips but the laughter he hears is not his own. The room falls silent with Hester’s low chuckle and his chest tightens. 

“You certainly are a precocious little thing,” Hester purrs. She hands her teacup off to the little beast on her shoulder and it hops to the floor without spilling a drop. 

Hester  approaches you, gliding more than stepping. She is the only one dressed in robes, their fabric something enchanted– soft like velvet yet flowing like silk, the color impossible to distinguish between inky blue or a verdant green, embroidered in oxblood and aubergine.

She hooks a finger under your chin and turns you this way and that for examination. Her dark eyes dance over your face and then come to rest on your own. They narrow as she gazes at you, searching deep within. There’s no knowing exactly what Hester Dreadmoor is capable of seeing. Her powers exceed the rest and she’s been alive long enough to have honed them.

Ezra holds his breath, every muscle in his body taut and ready to pounce but he controls himself. He won’t make the same mistake he did at the diner. He works his thumb against the tiger’s eye in the ring you gave him, its smooth surface tempering his heat. 

Hester’s brows come together then lift and her lips part. Finally she releases you.

“My word,” she marvels.

She looks Ezra up and down and then allows you the smallest smile.

“She is talented,” she tells the others.

Now is hardly the appropriate time but Ezra’s heart swells anyway. The Grand Matron has confirmed that you are no average witch. He’s known that perhaps from the moment he met you. He might not have been aware of how deep your magic went but your love for him made you just as rare.

“You’re also audacious. Defying the judgement of our predecessors. Were you not afraid of having your gifts severed? And taking your own familiar as your lover? Have you ever heard of such a thing?” She asks the room. “Though I could be tempted.” She looks at Ezra once again with a hungry grin.

“Ezra has more than paid for what he did. No witch has been given such a harsh sentence for 150 years,” you say, ignoring Hester’s leering. 

“That is true,” Hester considers. 

Her familiar easily scales her robes and situates itself in the crook of her arm. She strokes at its neck absently. The monkey preens under her fingers.

“If the sentence has changed, his sentence should have changed with it,” you say.

“Then make an appeal,” Esme says.

“The murder of a witch is one of the most egregious crimes one can commit. Perhaps the sentence has changed now. But when this Damon was slain, the witch hunts were within living memory. There was a reason for such punishments,” Hester says with a grave expression.

Ezra shudders at the reminder. His mother ended up in their little village fleeing those mortals. Midwives were easy targets so she picked up and left for a place where she didn’t have to live in secret. Somewhere safe for their kind.  

“Ezra was acting in self defense. And defending another witch,” you go on.

You make him sound so heroic but he feels like a fraud even now. 

“Convenient that the witnesses are dead,” Oswin grumbles. 

“We’ll get the testimony of a necromancer,” Margot insists. 

“If I may have the floor,” Ezra tries.

They all hush again and Ezra realizes he hasn’t said a word. He scolds himself for not speaking up sooner. He’s never been one to hold his tongue yet his throat is dry. Meanwhile you, his brilliant little mage, have refused to let them make you small. 

“You’re correct. Were you to try me once more, I would be just as guilty as I was then and I would plead no differently. I killed Damon,” he says.

Esme squirms, clutching her shawl closer around her shoulders.

“It was my life or his and for centuries I wished he’d finished me. I would have been saved from many lifetimes of servitude. It was not until late that I had reason to wish for a pardon. I’ve served many witches since my transfiguration and not one of them considered me anything more than a witchslayer. Save for one. A witch singular in every way.”

You watch him with glistening eyes, so beautiful. He’s lived a miserable life but you were there at the end of it. Even if it were just for what little time you’ve had together, it’s undone all of the loneliness and despair he’s ever known.

“When she offered me her spell I knew the risks. Selfishly, I agreed though my mightiest regret is that she faces your censure,” he says. 

He draws in a deep breath. These next words he decided on as he watched out the window, listening to your shaky breaths in the other room. He made a promise to protect you and he would stand by it even if it spelled his own doom. 

“I have little reason to hope for a commutation of my sentence and no reason to believe you will heed a word I say. But I implore you to limit your punitive measures to me and me alone. She did this for me and I am the one that should be held to account.”

The elders will have their pound of flesh but it needn’t be yours. It’s hardly enough but this is all he can do for you.

Hester walks back to her place between the others.

“Such a dilemma. The most powerful witch we’ve seen in a generation wasting her magic on criminal mischief. She could have a bright future ahead of her,” she says almost to herself. She strokes a finger down the side of her face in thought. 

He can’t help it. In that moment, Ezra allows himself to hope. He can nearly see a future flash before his eyes– so many solstice bonfires, mornings waking in your arms.

“Then again it is not for one solitary witch to decide which laws should and should not be obeyed, do you not agree?” she asks Oswin. It’s another rhetorical question. 

Ezra’s stomach turns so quickly he’s afraid he’ll be sick.

“Such formidable gifts are not playthings,” she scolds. “I believe the rest of this council agree with me.”

The others nod, though Esme adds a harumph to the end of hers.

“But I must admit that I am impressed by what you have accomplished here so I will be generous. Ezra, you will complete the rest of your sentence. And you, my dear, you will forfeit your powers from this day forth,” Hester concludes. 

A whimper escapes from Margot.

“That’s generous?” you ask.

“It’s munificent,” Hester says, her voice biting cold. “I could add a hundred years to Ezra’s sentence. I could make him a bird and you a fish. I could try Margot for her collusion in this mess.” 

You quiver but Ezra boils. 

“No,” Ezra says. He can barely manage to bring his voice above a whisper, afraid that everything roiling within him might spill out. His nostrils flare as he glares at Hester from under his eyebrows. There’s a familiar flame of rage flickering to life in his chest, a sensation he remembers feeling so clearly when he was under Damon’s weight so many years ago.

“I was convicted to a thousand years of labor for killing a witch. And yet you would unmake one ten times as powerful, just like that?” He asks. Any congeniality has abandoned him. He has nothing left to lose. 

“The verdict has been rendered.” Hester raises her chin.

“I won’t let you do that to her,” he demands. 

Hester’s eyebrows raise as if to ask how. What could he possibly do to save you? To save those powers that had saved his life time and time again?

“No. You can have my powers. Give me another millennium. Whatever it must be,” he says. “It’s my burden to bear.”

“Ez,” you gasp and he feels your hand around his wrist. 

“How gallant,” Hester says. Her voice drips with sarcasm.

Boggin climbs up her arm, a vial of blue liquid clutched in his paw. The potion within gives off a dull glow and Ezra’s heart quickens at the sight. 

“Now,” Hester says. “Since I do hate to have to do this, I’ll give you both until dawn. You can have tonight to say your goodbyes.” 

“Goodbye?” you breathe. 

“My dear, if you’re not a witch, what use have you for a familiar?” Hester asks. 

The words crash down on Ezra, nearly knocking the air from his lungs. Your hand clasps in his, holding on like he might be torn away by a great wave. 

“You can’t take him from me,” you snarl. 

“Hester, please,” Margot tries. 

“Don’t worry. We’ll find a suitable witch for him,” Hester says. 

“You’re making a grave mistake,” Ezra says through gritted teeth. His nostrils flare. 

She is unmoved, holding the potion aloft. “I suggest you drink this if you care for your little mage. I could always turn her into something unsavory. A cockroach?” 

“Don’t, Ezra,” you say. You squeeze his fingers so hard that the ring bites into his flesh. 

The last time he came in front of the Elders, he knew his life was over. He would keep living. A long, unnatural life, but he would no longer have any of the pieces that made him. His body, his powers, his community were all stripped in an instant. And yet you happened. It took centuries, nearly broke him. He found someone that looked at him as worthy of love.

Now he was losing you, too. 

He’s never felt more impotent. There’s only one thing he can do to keep you safe.

Ezra snatches the vial and throws it back, hearing you cry out in protest. It’s a bitter brew, more foul than the one that made him a man. His throat burns and he nearly gags but he refuses to let it show. He won’t let them see him flinch. He won’t let you see him suffer. 

Instead he casts the vial to the floor where it shatters. He glowers at Hester and spits at her feet. She merely raises her chin.

“I curse you,” you snarl with a venom Ezra’s never heard in your voice. “All of you.”

Tears stain your cheeks but your eyes are sharp enough to cast actual daggers. 

“Don’t,” Margot warns. 

Esme staggers backwards despite the fact that Margot has a grip on your arm to keep you from bursting forth.

Ezra should stop you, keep you from doing something you regret, but what’s the point?

“Be careful, little witch. You still have much to lose,” Hester says.

There’s nothing Ezra can do now but hold you. He pulls you against his chest and you tremble in his arms.

Hester joins hands with Esme and Oswin and the three begin to chant the words he heard so many years ago. The candles flicker as their power swirls around the two of you. Esme’s familiar flutters its wings while Boggin hops from one foot to the other, clapping his paws together. Ezra can feel the magic heat his skin, a painful prickle, but he glares defiantly until their spell is cast.

“We’ll return at dawn and see this out. Don’t be foolish,” Hester adds.

And, with that, your fate is sealed.

-

🐈‍⬛

Part 8

The ending takes a hard turn and it really stuck with me. It’s nearly unintelligible (I tried explaining its events to someone which was…impossible), so bizarre and outlandish that it felt (upon first watch) like it belonged in a a completely different film. I spent a lot of time thinking about it and trying to parse its meaning. After last week, it’s making a lot more sense to me. 

At the dramatic turning point, a group of masked baddies begin wreaking havoc on Eddington. The right would have you believe (as declared in the epilogue) that they are antifa terrorists, just as they did in the wake of Kirk’s death. Trump was frothing at the mouth to blame left wing radicals and declare war. But, of course, they aren’t Antifa super soldiers. They’re shown flying into town on a private jet emblazoned with the logo of some sort of globalist cabal, cigars in hand. It’s possible they’re working for SolidGoldMagikarp or, perhaps, are agents of the pedophile elites as Louise’s mother speculates. In our reality, when the dust settled, the shooter was more likely aligned with online extremism, nihilists, and accelerationists than a woke transgender Democrat.

Eddington beautifully illustrates this idea that there’s conflict between the left and the right being exploited by a more mysterious, more dangerous, less predictable force. 

There's a more direct parallel with Joe's teenage savior Brian filming himself as he guns down the attacker. A more heavy handed movie might have had Brian drop his Tik Tok handle and urge viewers to subscribe. In real life, content creator(??) Elder Tik Tok did just that as the crowd around him fled the site of the shooting.

And then there’s Joe’s fate. Joe is paralyzed and becomes a puppet of the powers that be. He’s carrying out their bidding, forced to watch them guide his hand. He’s lost all of his agency. He’s literally in bed with his mother in law, conspirator in chief, who is cashing checks from SolidMagikarp et al. Whether he likes it or not, he’s become an object. 

Charlie Kirk is just as much a vegetable as Joe. The minute he died, he became a pawn in his own game. No one on the right actually cares about him. His wife is getting a fresh manicure before posting photos of his corpse on instagram. Trump is lowering flags to half mast and will use his death to start a civil war, no matter who pulled the trigger. He’s a prop, a piece of propaganda. His humanity has been lost (not that he had any to begin with).

“You know what’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Joe Cross, that’s what,” Ted replies.

You try your best to not roll your eyes but Ted’s been bitching about this ever since the sheriff posted that video saying that he was entering the race.

“He’s a joke,” you say for the hundredth time. “Nobody’s going to take him seriously.”

“Then howcome I’m seeing his signs at Gunther’s? At, at the gas station?” he asks. “He’s doing a town hall at Paula’s.”

“Paula’s a cunt,” you say.

Ted’s handsome face remains stormy. 

“I went out for a coffee. This was under my windshield wiper,” he says, thrusting the paper at you.

It’s a flier for Joe’s campaign decorated with clip art. At its center, a photo of the man himself in his big white cowboy hat, run through with streaks as though the printer was running low on ink. You can spot at least one typo and a grammatical error at first glance.

“This is the ugliest damn thing I’ve ever seen,” you say.

“That’s what’s so fucking ridiculous about this whole thing. He’s running around like a clown and people’ll still vote for him,” he grumbles. 

“Ted, if you’re just going to bitch and moan, I’m just going to go home,” you say. 

Shit’s difficult enough after two months of lockdown and Ted’s spoiling the already precarious mood. Your relationship, if you could call it that, has just been about blowing off steam, having a little fun to take your minds off of things but recently, it’s been nothing but reminders of just how bad things are around here.

“And after everything I’ve done for this town,” he goes on. “Y’know, I’ve given my whole life to Eddington and men like Joe Cross–”

“Ted! Shut the fuck up.” 

He actually stops talking for once, his full bottom lip hanging open. You slam the flier onto his desk and put yourself between it and Ted.

“I don’t want to hear about Joe Cross today,” you say. You rake your fingers through his thick, dark hair and then tug on it. “In fact, I don’t want you to talk at all.”

Ted’s shoulders stoop with a sigh. “I know you’re trying to make me feel better but I’m just not in the mood. Maybe you ought to just go home,” he grouses.

“I’m not here to make you feel better, Ted. I’m here as one of your constituents,” you say. You lift yourself up onto his desk, sitting your ass right on Joe’s hideous flyer. You hike up your skirt and spread your legs, revealing that you’re completely bare. “The mayor’s got to earn my vote.”

Ted’s eyes dart between your face and your pussy, his pupils going wide. His jeans tent and, once the shock has worn off, he’s sliding off the chair onto his knees.

He swears as he hooks his hands around your thighs. He wastes no time, burying his face in you with a pathetic little whimper. 

“Good boy,” you coo, and you’re rewarded with a groan that vibrates through your core. 

The bite of Ted’s mustache makes you gasp every time he goes down on you. Today he’s eager, desperate, tongue working you in circles that have your toes curling. 

You love Ted like this, obedient and needy. He can be petulant and egotistical but he only gets on his knees for you. A true civil servant. 

He quickly finds the rhythm you like accompanied by more mewls and moans. Your head is thrown back, eyes pinched shut, reveling in the delicious sensations winding you up just right. 

Ted’s hand travels up sliding beneath your shirt. 

“Fuck,” he growls into you when his fingertips graze the lace of your bra. 

You might’ve forgone panties but you wore this just for him. 

Ted palms at you, teasing your nipple into a stiff peak. His hand is strong and big but his skin is soft. He’s never worked a hard day in his life. 

“Ted,” you whine with a yank to his hair. 

He’s so lost in your body that his pace has slowed. 

Ted responds in kind, releasing you to circle your entrance with his finger. He sucks your clit between his lips and as you gasp, he slides inside of you. The sudden stretch has you keening. 

You fist his hair, back arching up towards him but he anchors your thigh against the table with his other hand. He’s ruthless, finding that spot that makes you see double as his mouth devours you. He knows you’re close— your legs quiver and you’re beginning to flutter around his thick fingers, you gyrate against his tongue in desperate need of relief. And soon you’re at your peak, speeding towards bliss like you’ve just dove off a mountain. There’s no reason to stay quiet in this deserted office so you let out a feral cry as fireworks explode in your vision. 

Ted stays focused, dutifully working you through your high, his fingers slowing as your bones turn liquid. His mouth leaves you but his lips stay close, his hot breath teasing aftershocks from you, his nose brushing gently against your swollen clit. 

“I love making you cum,” he says dreamily. 

He backs away, admiring the mess he’s made of you and the campaign flier beneath your ass. His lips and chin glisten with your release. 

“You going to keep staring at Joe or are you going to fuck me?” you ask. 

Ted looks up at you, grinning darkly. He rises to his feet, undoing his belt and unzipping his jeans letting them fall around his knees. You still stare every time he takes his cock out, so thick and coated with precum. It makes your mouth water. He pumps himself slowly and you're already clenching. 

“You want more?” he asks, a little too cocky, but then he slides his length through your swollen, slick lips and you groan. 

He keeps going like that, coating himself in your arousal. You have to hold onto him— one hand on his forearm the other twisted in the front of his fleece vest— so you don’t squirm off of the desk. 

“Ted, fuck me,” you say. It’s not a plea but a command. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he responds. 

He slides into you slowly, hissing and humming with pleasure as he inches in. When he’s buried himself to the hilt, he’s got both of his hands braced on the table top on either side of you. His face is so close, you catch your own scent on his lips. Finally he kisses you, his tongue searching your mouth with the same diligence it had between your legs. You taste yourself there along with the bitter warmth of his coffee. 

Your lips travel lower, teeth grating against his neck, marking him with a bite. His hips stutter. 

“Careful,” he warns. 

You ignore him, this time biting harder. He’ll have to go to his big fundraiser with your mark on him, let everybody wonder what Ted Garcia’s been doing in his spare time. 

He responds by tugging your shirt up so he can finally see your bra. Those big brown eyes take you in before nuzzling his face between your tits, nipping and sucking on the flesh beyond the delicate fabric. 

His pace intensifies, thrusting without restraint, his hand pressing into the small of your back so you don’t slip away. 

“Tell me you like it,” he growls. 

“It’s so good,” you pant. “You’re so good for me. So good for this town.” 

That does it for him. Ted’s eyes squeeze shut, the muscles in his arms and neck going taught. You know he won't last much longer.

“Cum for me, Ted,” you say. 

He nods, absolutely ruined, and makes a guttural sound. You gasp as he pulls out of you. Ted fucks his fist with the same urgent pace until he’s spurting thick ropes across your thigh. Most of it, though, lands between your legs on Joe Cross’s smiling face. 

Ted collapses onto you, his sweaty forehead pressed into your shoulder. You cradle his head against you, carding your fingers through his hair. Beneath the perspiration you can smell his cologne, something spicy and warm. 

“When this is all finished, I’d like you to come over. Take you on a real date,” Ted says, breathless. 

You’re not sure you like the idea of being First Lady of Eddington but in this town, you could do a lot worse. 

--

He stopped you, a big hand encircling your wrists. 

“I’ve waited a long time,” he said against your lips. “I want to do this right. Enjoy you.”

His smooth voice had done nothing to extinguish the need building inside of you.

Now Ezra guides you backwards through the door to your apartment, past the old arm chair towards your bed—though you’d be just as happy on the couch or on the landing or under a tree in the forest. You have just enough presence of mind to snap your fingers so the front door, thrown wide open when you’d returned, shuts itself tight. You’ve never wanted anyone with this intensity before. Now that you know he has the same feelings for you, that you can let go of the denial and worry, you’re all desire and heat.

“I’ve had this dream so many times, I can’t be sure this isn’t a phantom of the mind,” Ezra says. 

Your heart leaps again. 

“It’s real,” you say. You comb your fingers through his hair and his forehead rests against yours. “Since you changed, I— I can’t stop thinking about you. About this.” 

His hands skate down your arms, resting on your waist with a sigh. “You’re certain? You would have such a wretch?”

You put your fingertips beneath his chin so you can look him in the eye when you say, “I’ve had worse. And none of them were half as loyal or brave. Or beautiful.” 

With that, he’s on you again, moaning into your mouth, holding your body close. You slide the robes off of his shoulders and he’s bare beneath them, revealing just how much he wants you right now. 

His skin glows in the moonlight as you take him in. The smooth plane of his chest, the dip of his narrow hips, his muscled thighs. It makes your head swim. Ezra, your Ezra, devoted, protective Ezra who needs you just as fervently. Every inch of him is absolute beauty as if he was made for you. As if you’d had that premonition so fate could lead you to this very moment. You’ve always been skeptical of the foresight of tarot cards and scrying mirrors, written in stars as if your free will were nothing more than futile choices. Yet it’s easy to believe that you and Ezra have been fated. You feel it in your body, in the desperation to be consumed by him.

His hands travel from the nape of your neck down to your lower back, across to anchor on your hips, and he kneels before you. Those eyes, the round, glimmering eyes you feel like you’ve known for a century, gaze up at you with an admiration that makes you light headed.

Slowly, agonizingly so, he lifts the hem of your dress, pulling it up to reveal your legs inch by inch. His fingertips drag up the backs of your thighs with a featherlight touch and he puts soft kisses on the fronts. Your knees are already weak and you have to steady yourself on his shoulder. You might not be able to survive him. 

With your skirt bunched in his fist, Ezra nuzzles at your lower belly with a groan. The sound goes straight to your core and you clench around nothing. 

He undresses you methodically, kissing each bit of flesh that’s uncovered, nipping at the delicate spots of your neck, sucking at the pulse in your wrist. You writhe and moan, dizzy. 

“Ezra,” you beg. You tug at his hair but it only makes him more voracious. 

“Patience, little mage,” he whispers against your breast. “Do you know how patient I’ve been?” 

You can only whimper in reply knowing now how impossible it must have been for him, for who knows how long. 

“Do you know what madness I felt each time you had another in this bed?” he growls. 

It makes so much sense now, the way he turned his nose up at those mortals. You reach for him again, as if to make amends for those years, desperate to feel his stiff length in your fist. A glossy bead of precum glistens over velvety skin and you salivate shamelessly. 

“I fear I will combust,” he says, stilling you once again.  

He lays you back on the bed, looking over your body with pupils blown. Another round of kisses are trailed down your middle until Ezra’s broad frame settles between your legs. With reverence, his lips graze across your cunt, nosing at where you’re most sensitive. 

“I have wanted to know the taste of you,” he murmurs into you.

And finally he lets himself, his hot tongue swirling over you. A yelp escapes you and you’re grasping at the sheets. Ezra’s dark eyes are on your face, concern marking his brow.  

“Ez, you’re torturing me,” you say. 

“Forgive me,” he says. He hooks an arm around your thigh and you can feel his breath on your wet lips. “Allow me to put you out of your misery.” 

He latches his mouth around your clit, kissing and sucking, then widens his attention, licking long stripes and lapping at your arousal. 

Behind your eyes, you see lightning crackling across a summer night. Your body is more responsive than ever. Each sensation is so overwhelming, your muscles tense and strain as you descend into the most delicious ecstasy you’ve never known. Is this what it’s always like to be with a witch or is there some special magic between the two of you? You could swear you’re floating, in fact you’re not sure you’re tethered to this plane at all. 

Ezra’s tongue works you methodically, answering each twitch and flutter you give him. The room fills with the sound of his mouth on you, your wanton moans. He hums into you, whimpers and growls, lost in his own bliss. 

It hits you like a landslide. Your back arches and your hips grind into his mouth. Ezra’s tongue coaxes you on as you ride an avalanche of overwhelm. You open your mouth but no sound comes, just the sigh of release. 

He doesn’t let up, a finger slipping easily into you and slowly caressing at a spot that immediately sends you towards another high. His instincts are honed now. He knows just how much to touch and suck and bite to make you shake with pleasure. 

“Ez,” you whine as you drift back to earth. “Ez, enough.” 

He blinks out of his reverie, slows his ministrations. After one final, gentle kiss on your now swollen sex, he climbs up your body. One hand trails lazily up your belly and you pull him into an ardent kiss, lips sliding against one another with your slick. 

“My exquisite little mage,” Ezra says, breaths heavy against you. “I could do that from now until eternity. It still wouldn’t be enough.”

You become a tangle of limbs, bodies entwined. Insatiable despite the fact he’s just made you touch the stars. You straddle him, bracketing Ezra’s hips with your knees. He looks up at you from under hooded eyes, his lips swollen from kissing.

“I won’t last,” he warns you.

You shake your head. It doesn’t matter. Right now, you need him under your skin.

You sink down onto him and he makes a choked sound. The pads of his fingers dig into your hips as he holds you hard in place. A single blink and you’re sure he’ll shatter. You close your eyes and link your fingers into his, kiss them. Then you begin to rock on him. 

The tension leaves his brow and he melts beneath you. His eyes practically roll back as you ride him, slow and steady. It’s a delicious stretch around him, a sweet friction where you’re already so sensitive.

“You feel, you feel like—“ he’s interrupted by a wince and a punched out sound. 

Words fall from his lips, old ones unknown to you but you can feel the magic in them. It throbs across your skin, a shiver up your spine and you throw your head back. 

You increase your pace, chasing yet another climax. Ezra’s absolutely debauched— eyes screwed shut, teeth bared, the cords in his neck straining. Seeing him so beautifully rendered sends you over the edge. 

He pulls you against his chest just as you begin to lose yourself, lips crashing desperately, all teeth and tongue. His hips rut into you as you clench around his cock and suddenly he’s quiet and stillness, burying himself deep and hard. 

The world comes into focus slowly. The sound of Ezra’s ragged breaths, his sticky skin beneath you. You stay linked together, wordless, noses brushing, and you want to live in this bliss forever.

-

Ezra would pinch himself but he knows his dreams could never be this good. 

The smell of woodsmoke and sex lingers between the two of you, a sheen of perspiration on your skin. One of your legs still lays across his hips, your cheek rests against his collarbone. There’s undoubtedly a goofy grin on his face but he could care less. This is euphoria.

He’s lived a lonely life. Even before he was condemned, he was a solitary creature. There were friends and lovers but none of them had been allowed to see anything beneath the slick facade he’d always maintained. Then, of course, he’d prowled the earth for hundreds of years– not truly a witch, familiar, or a cat.

And then there was you. The only witch that’s ever loved him. The only woman he’s wanted so completely. A secret desire that burned bright and yet so remote like the point of a star now finally realized in the glorious ecstasy of your body. 

He holds you in his arms now. Not by chance, not because you’re heartbroken over yet another mortal, not because you rolled over in your sleep in the bed you share, but because you chose him. Just as you have so many times before.

Your fingers trail across his chest. There are scars there, some Ezra doesn’t recognize, and you absently put your lips to them. Every once in a while you look up at him and a beautiful, bashful smile forms on your lips and he kisses you again. He has to. Sweet, soft kisses that have you come away murmuring, “I can’t believe it. You were right here the whole time.”

And he vows he’ll never leave your side.

“How long?” you ask. 

Ezra’s brows crease at the question. 

“You said you waited a long time.”

He blushes. He’s never told another soul about his feelings for you. He loved you from the very beginning, a clever teenage witch that never judged him, but as time passed, his affection deepened and grew into something beyond his control. 

“I’m ashamed to admit it. You were still so young,” he says. You still are. So much ahead of you but willing to waste yourself on a man like him. He tries to keep these thoughts from ruining this moment he’s longed for. 

“Your 21st birthday. You were…ineffable. I knew I was done for,” he says. 

Margot threw a party for you in the bookshop and all of the witches and their familiars were in attendance. They brewed cocktails that bubbled and smoked and there was a tall chocolate cake frosted with a layer of thick, decadent icing. He remembers every detail of the dress you wore. Delicate black lace trimmed in a scalloped edge. The straps were silk ribbons that tied in bows at each shoulder. 

Its bodice hugged you deliciously and Ezra realized for the first time that you were no longer the girl that he’d known for so many years. He hated himself that night. You were his ward and yet he spent the entire evening noticing curves that had seemingly appeared from nowhere, feeling your warmth through his fur whenever you held him. 

“That was so many years ago,” you say. 

“It was nearly 300 years before I even met you, little mage,” he reminds you. The decades seemed to blur together until he started carrying such a burdensome secret. 

Your eyes suddenly well with tears. “It’s not fair,” you say.

You’ll always be his sweet little mage, so compassionate. 

“Perhaps it’s all worthwhile,” he replies, putting another kiss to your lips.

He’d waited and finally, finally, you belong to him. 

-

For the next week, you can’t keep your hands off each other. You find any excuse to touch. It’s like you’re making up for lost time. Ezra’s hand skates over the small of your back as he passes behind you behind the register. You rest your forehead against his shoulder when customers aren’t looking, inhale his scent. There’s more than one occasion when you sneak down to the basement together to make out amongst the spell books, Ezra lifting you onto the pentagram table and pressing his hips into yours.  

And in private, you’re insatiable. He’s the best sex you’ve ever had and not just because he’s a witch. Each time better than the last as you learn each other’s bodies and you become even more intimate. Ezra worships you even when you’re the one on your knees, the velvet of his voice drives you as wild as the way he uses his mouth.

Of course, it’s not all debauchery. There’s a lovely domesticity between you. You cook together and lay on the couch with your legs across his lap. Ezra helps you clear space in your closet so there’s room for his new clothes. At night, you sleep with his head tucked under your chin, just as you always have.

You choose not to mention these new developments to Margot. It was one thing to turn Ezra into a human, but this? A witch in love with her own 300 year old familiar? You’re just not ready to face her judgement.

“You were gone a while,” she says when you descend the stairs to the basement. 

She’s grinding cinnamon bark in a mortar and pestle for the prosperity charm she performs each month. Her ingredients are lined neatly on the table– nutmeg, dried honeysuckle, old copper pennies, and a long green candle. “Did you and Ezra have a hard time finding a good tree for the Yule log?”

“Yup,” you lie. 

Selecting the tree had been easy enough. You and Ezra picked a white ash after a short hike in the woods and he made quick work of it. It was everything that came after that had delayed you. Watching Ezra split the log, axe gripped in his big hands, shoulders straining, huffing warm breaths against the chilly air. You ended up with your back pressed against the bark of a sugar maple, Ezra’s mouth exploring the trunk of your neck as he held your bare thigh open.

”Brought you this,” you say, trying not to dwell on forest sex.

You hold up a chunk of hardened pine resin you collected on the way back.

”Oh! Wonderful!” Margot replies. “Just what I need for my joint salve.”

You find an empty jar amongst the shelves for your prize and find a place for it beside a tin of lanolin.

“So when are you going to tell me that you and Ezra are in love?” Margot asks casually.

You spin on your heel, face burning, only to find that she hasn’t even looked up from the spices. 

“No non consensual mind reading!” you protest. 

“Ha! Your thoughts are so loud I can barely hear my own. And Percy caught you two canoodling next to the first editions,“ she says. 

You cringe so hard you’re afraid you might implode. 

”I think you’re old enough to know you should do that on your own time. Certainly one of you is,” she adds. 

“Sorry,” you say, voice wilting with embarrassment.

She shakes her head, earrings tinkling. Margot puts out her hand for the nutmeg and you pass it across the table. 

”I hoped you were done keeping secrets from me,“ she chides. 

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just— I didn’t know what you’d think,” you say. 

“About you and him? Well, it’s certainly odd. There’s no precedent for a witch and familiar that I know of. And, of course, the only people that I could ask can’t know,” Margot says. 

You know she means the elders. She’s been urging the two of you to submit an appeal to them from the start. She’d even offered to talk to Esme on your behalf. They’re old friends and it gives you some hope that they’ll see reason. You have to hope. 

“Before Yule,” you promise once again. 

You want to have as much time with Ezra as you can. 

"That's only a few weeks away,” Margot reminds you.

You’ve been trying to ignore the anxious ache in your chest that keeps building. This could all disappear. Worse. 

If you’d been smart you would never have talked Ezra into that spell. But then you wouldn’t have known how his eyes can melt without a moment’s notice, what it feels like to kiss along his jaw. It might be harder to lose that than to never have never had it.

“What’s the worst they could do?” you‘ve asked him on sleepless nights. 

”You could be given the same curse I suffered. There’s always the risk they’ll take your powers,” he said. 

”And you?”

”Make me serve out my sentence. Double it? Who knows,” he said. 

How could you have talked him into this? 

“In all of the lifetimes I’ve lived, I have found that it’s much easier to apologize than to ask for permission,” Ezra said, tracing the crease in your brow with the pad of his thumb. “We’ll endure.”

It’s so easy to sink into Ezra’s words, to trust in him and all of his wisdom, but you’re not sure he believes it himself. His eyes clouded with worry, his smile straining.

”Well, I suppose I should be glad you’ve found someone that’s actually a witch,” Margot says, pulling you back from your disquieting thoughts.

“At least there’s that,” you say with a roll of your eyes. 

Margot sighs and sets down the nutmeg grater. ”Alright. I admit it. I have my prejudice against mortals. But you know I would accept whoever you chose. Man or woman, witch or mortal,” she says.

She puts her hand to your cheek, a look of the most earnest love in her eyes, and it makes your heart burst. Margot has been just as much your rock as Ezra, her love so unconditional. Even after breaking the law, going behind her back, she’s still there for you. 

”Or a cat, I guess,” she says. 

You chuckle. 

“Fugitive from the law,” she adds. 

Now you’re both laughing. It’s such a relief to tell her. Your feelings for Ezra are just too big to hide, but most of all, you want Margot to be happy for you. 

”He’s certainly older than I expected you to fall for,” she says, “but he cares for you. That’s all that matters to me.”

She gives you her warm smile, then returns to her work. You follow suit, plucking the papery honeysuckle blossoms with a dreamy grin on your face, excited to tell Ezra that the cat’s out of the bag, so to speak.

”My thoughts were loud, huh?” you ask.

”Blaring,” she complains.

”Ezra’s, too?”

”Are you asking me to tell you someone else’s thoughts?” she asks, incredulous.

”No! Of course not,” you answer too quickly.

“Good. That’s highly unethical.”

She finishes preparing her ingredients, stirring the pennies into the spices and flower petals, and then sets off towards the stairs.

“He likes the way your behind looks in those dungarees,” Margot tells you as she hits the first step.

Then she turns up the stairs, leaving you to giggle on your own.

-

Ezra’s at the stove when you come back, a pot simmering away gently. It’s after sunset and the scents of Yule fill the apartment— spruce and cinnamon, clove and citrus— all cozy and warm. 

“Oh, Ez,” you sigh, and he turns to see you halted in the doorway, looking at his handiwork. 

He’d been busy while you were at the shop, decorating for Yule. On the table, Ezra placed the Yule log trimmed with candles, pinecones, and herbs. Evergreen boughs hang in the windows dotted with candles, their flames enchanted to burn cold so the wax never melts. The strings of dried oranges are his favorite. He’d draped the delicate little chains over the doorframes and above the headboard of your bed. 

“You did all this?” you ask, putting your arms around his neck. 

“Is it to your liking?”  

Seeing your delight makes his heart flutter but it’s the way that your body melts into him for a kiss that makes him giddy. His hands trace down from your shoulders to the swell of your ass, finally resting at the small of your back. You’re wearing those jeans that hug you just right, that have always made him ache to touch you. And now he can.

“And there’s wine!” you say when your eyes fall onto the stovetop. Steam rises from the red wine mulling in the ceramic pot. The perfect start to the Yuletide season after felling the log. Although the two of you already had a bit of celebration in the woods together. 

In his younger days he’d cut many a timber. None of them had ever made a woman look at him the way you had there amongst the trees. Your lips were eager and he was all too willing to give you what you wanted. 

“I like this,” you say, fingering the edge of the apron he’s wearing. 

It’s yours, a black, pinafore style with a moon embroidered on its pocket. A little feminine for his tastes but functional. You’re teasing him but your eyes sparkle so beautifully, it makes him hungry for another kiss. He’s not sure he’ll ever tire of it– the taste of your mouth, the feel of your fingers tangled in his hair. It’s still difficult to believe you’re his.

“Shall I fix you a drink?” he asks, fingertips dipping into the back pockets of your jeans. 

“Mm,” you say with a nod.

Ezra releases you to set up a mug and you wander around, taking in the details of his handiwork.

“I never took you for a trimming the Yule log type. I thought that witches didn’t decorate back then,” you say, 

“We didn’t,” he says. “There was too much peril in putting ourselves on display. That’s why our rituals were confined to the woods. Perhaps that’s why I find charm in all of the ostentation.”

He ladles the warm liquid in along with some cranberries and a stick of cinnamon.

“Although it was my mother’s favorite season. She kept an altar for Yule over the hearth.” He drifts off, searching for her in his memory. She’s just a shadow in his mind but her diligence in that ritual is still vivid in his mind, laying out walnuts and molasses taffies, bushels of dried mint.

“You’ve never told me about your mother,” you say softly. “Besides that she was a midwife.”

Ezra nods. He’s ashamed to admit that there are days when he has trouble recalling her name. It infuriates him that the finer details of his family have been lost to him yet he can recall every detail of that day with Damon– the color of his coat, the sway in his step, the scream that Cee let out.

He’s glad his mother was dead before she saw what became of him.

“She had red hair,” he says. His thumb traces over his forefinger, as if touching the lock she placed amongst the pinecones and smooth acorns on the altar, braided and tied at both ends with linen tape. “She made dolls from dried corn husks for the mothers. Little charms for their babes.”

You look at him with soft eyes, the corner of your lips turned up. 

“Was she nice?” you ask.

He shrugs. “She had to endure me. I was no felicitous youth.”

You chuckle at that.

“I wish I could’ve seen you then,” you say, taking your drink and leaning your back against the counter.

Ezra grins. He’s thought about that more than once, what his life could have looked like had he known you in his younger days. It’s the thought of you in bodice and petticoats that he finds himself dwelling on.

“Margot knows,” you say and catch your bottom lip in your teeth.

“Am I in danger of incurring her wrath?” he asks.  

You shake your head and smile to yourself. “It actually went well.”

That’s a relief. He’d hate to be the reason you fell out with Margot. Again. Yet he’s never known Margot to deny her niece anything. She’s always let you march to the beat of your own drum, whether that’s casting charms that turn your hair bright pink or that summer you insisted on making all of your potions vegan.

“We can’t wait anymore. We have to go to the elders,” you say. 

Your words stop him in his tracks, heart falling into the pit of his stomach. He’s always known this would end with his appealing to the elders but he had no idea how afraid he’d be to face them. Perhaps because he’d done it before he was overconfident but that was before he knew just how much he was in danger of losing. 

He schools his expression before he turns to face you. You’re frightened enough already. The only way to protect you now is to shield you from his own worries. 

Just as he predicted, you’re all concern, jaw clenched tight, your hands holding the edge of the counter behind you as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright. 

“We’ll do it. We’ll summon them tomorrow,” he says and he almost believes the ease in his own voice. As if it’s no trouble at all, as simple as hanging some pretty garlands. 

Your throat works as you choke down your emotions but tears are already beginning to well in your eyes. Ezra’s stomach twists at the sight and he closes the distance between you as quickly as he can. 

“Don’t,” he says. “There’s nothing that fretting can remedy.”

You cast your tearful eyes to the ground but Ezra lifts your chin, holding your face gently to look at him. 

“I’m so scared,” you admit simply. It’s as if saying the words break you open, your lips quiver and you choke. You all but fall into his chest, burying your face in his front. Ezra smooths his hand across your back. Over the years, he’s seen you cry too many times but this is the first that he can hold you. It’s almost more heartbreaking this way. 

“I know, little mage,” he whispers into your hair. 

“What if…what if they turn you back?” you ask. Your fists are balled in the sides of his shirt. 

He’s asked himself this question a thousand times since your spell worked and he can’t begin to face the answer. It makes him feel ill, acid rising in his throat each time he considers a future scurrying at your feet, that pitiful creature he once was. The only thing worse than that possibility is knowing that you’ll have your own dreadful fate. And all because he was so selfish, because he needed to know what it felt like to hold your hand.

“Don’t lose faith,” he tells you. “You’ll deliver that rousing speech you gave me about justice and they’ll be moved.”

He wishes he could believe what he says, just for your sake. He wishes he’d kept on loving you from afar so that this wasn’t so painful for you. 

“They won’t listen.” You shake your head against him. 

“Enough of this,” Ezra says. He presses his forehead against yours, noses brushing. “Shall I bring you to bed? I believe I’ve recovered from our jaunt in the woods.” 

“I’m serious, Ez. I’m scared,” you say. 

There must be something feline still left in him because there’s only one way to tell you everything on his heart. That he is just as frightened but he’s not leaving your side. He takes your face in his hands, looks into your eyes and slowly blinks. 

-

Ezra’s still sleeping when you pad down to the shop. 

Sleep was nearly impossible with your thoughts racing, fears chasing you in unending circles as the moon crept across the sky. Eventually the sun peeked through your window and you gave up, throwing back the covers and sliding a sweatshirt over your head. 

“Where’re you off to?” Ezra's groggy voice came. 

He’d tossed and turned all night but had finally gone still in the early hours. 

“Go back to sleep,” you whispered. 

There’s no reason both of you should be exhausted. One of you will need your wits about you today. 

The shop is dim and quiet, the fairy lights strung in the windows still glowing since Margot closed last night. A deep breath of the familiar air eases some of the dread that’s tightening between your shoulderblades, a mix of old paper and glue, incense and cinnamon brooms that feel like home. For a moment, you feel some safety, some hope. Things could work out.

But they might not, though. And if that’s the case, you’ve come to fetch something from the office– the gift you were going to give Ezra at Yule. Considering you could both be transfigured into rabbits by then, waiting seems risky. You’ll let him open it this morning and have your own personal Yule, just the two of you, before Margot calls on Esme. 

You open the top drawer in the old desk to see the mess inside. It’s strewn with the expected supplies— pads of sticky notes and countless paper clips— but there are magical items mixed in as well. A black candle, stones carved with runes, the feather of a pheasant. You close the drawer and rap on the desktop with your knuckles, then pull it out once more to reveal the enchantment. Now the drawer stands empty save a small green box. 

You open it once more and it manages to put a smile on your lips. Inside is a thin band, inlaid with tiger's eye. It’s nothing fancy, you found it at the local vintage store but the stone’s always reminded you of Ezra’s cat eyes, the same shade of warm gold. 

You’re still picturing his surprise when he opens it as you wander back into the shop– the softness in his face, that sweet brightening of his eyes– but you stop short when you hear footsteps on the porch. It’s too early for customers and you’ve only known Margot to use the back door. 

Someone’s out there, peering in through the window, cupping his hands around his face so he can see inside. When you recognize him, your guts do a backflip and your brittle nerves nearly snap.

You could skitter to the steps and go back upstairs but it’s too late. He sees you staring dumbly and running is the worst thing you could do. With a deep breath, you step forward and open the door. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I know you’re not open.”

River is the very last person you want to see lurking around and not just because he’s crashing the last quiet moment you might have with Ezra..

“I was going to leave a note,” he says. He shakes the paper in his hand and it disappears. 

River wipes his palm on the front of his jeans. The morning air is crisp and chilly but he looks cozy in a cable knit sweater. “I’m in early for Yule,” he explains. 

“Here?” 

His family is in Salem. 

“Can we talk?” he asks. 

There’s plenty of things he could want to talk about though you’re having a hard time thinking of something that isn’t the one thing you’ve been trying to keep from the Elders, his grandmother. Don’t jump to conclusions. It could be anything.

“What’s up?” you ask. 

He lets out an awkward chuckle and you realize this isn’t the kind of conversation he wants to have out here. You’re debating whether or not you should invite him inside or tell him to come back later when Rhea lands heavily behind him on the porch railing. The bird cocks her head at you. Her eyes are nothing but shining black pearls but you swear she’s looking right through you. Suddenly you feel outnumbered. 

You motion for River to follow you into the shop. 

“Is Ezra around?” he asks as soon as you’re through the door. 

Your body tenses so hard that he must see you flinch. The last time you spoke to him, he didn’t even know Ezra’s name.

Rhea’s great wings flap away as you turn to tell River, “He’s not here.”

You bite the inside of your lip, wishing you hadn’t said that. This purposeful deception feels like an admission of guilt. Ezra’s just a few floors above you. You left him in bed, the naked expanse of his shoulders framed by your sheets. You’d give anything to be back there now, curled up against him instead of down here in front of River with this stupid little ring. 

“Why?” you ask. You’re impressed by how even your voice comes.

The sound of a bird’s caw makes you jump before you realize it’s River’s familiar outside. Rhea’s call is followed by the back door opening and you’re paralyzed with fear that an unsuspecting Ezra’s about to step through the door and make a liar out of you. Luckily the next noise you hear is the jangle of Margot’s bracelets. 

“Oh, morning, dear. I didn’t expect you so early. Where’s–?” she asks. 

She stops short when she sees you have company and Percy’s head pops out of the pocket of her coat.

“River. What a surprise,” she says, closing her gaping mouth with a snap. “How’s your grandmother?”

“She sends her regards,” he says with a smile. 

That only makes you more wary. You can sense it from Margot, too. You need to know what he knows and, more importantly, you need to get him away from the shop before things go sideways.

“What brings you to our neck of the woods?” Margot asks.

“Actually, Grimgram suggested I come,” he says. 

River pins you with his green eyes and, despite the crisp air, you begin to sweat. Your fears are all but confirmed. This can’t just be a friendly visit. Everything is about the come crashing down. You swear the building itself is in danger of crumbling around you, crushing you under the beams and the books all because you waited too long. 

You have to do something. Maybe you can still salvage this situation but you have to be quick. You’ll explain everything and perhaps you can convince River to talk them into going easy on you. 

“River and I were going to have a coffee,” you say. 

Anything to get him out of here. Both his and your aunt’s brows raise. 

Before you follow him out the door you look at Margot. If she can’t tell what you’re thinking from the look on your face, you do your best to telegraph two words in her direction.

Ezra. Hide.

-

Ezra paces what little floor there is between the kitchen and the front door with the energy of a caged tiger. He’d hoped to savor this morning but his dreams turned into a waking nightmare with Margot’s knock at the front door. 

“I need you to stay calm,” was the first thing she’d said, words which had the exact opposite effect on him. 

His heart’s been hammering ever since, as she explained how she found you in the shop talking to River of all witches. How you willingly went with him to keep Ezra from being found out. 

“What does he want?” Ezra asks himself aloud. He can’t keep from imagining River interrogating you, though that seems unlikely. The little weasel is probably pressing you for information, dangling rumors. That’s what Ezra would do. 

He grumbles to himself. He feels just as powerless as the last time you were with River, forced to wait at the sidelines. Though this time there’s more at stake and it’s not envy that’s coursing through his veins but fear. 

Margot shakes her head. She stands against in the kitchen, her eyes sharp and alert. 

“You’re the clairvoyant. What does he know?” Ezra demands. “It doesn’t work like that, Ezra. You know that,” she grumbles. “I told you that you should have gone to the elders earlier. The longer you put this off, the more trouble this becomes.”

She’s right. They should have done it right away. Ezra could have convinced them to be lenient, he always had been a gifted talker.

But there was a chance they wouldn’t be so magnanimous. And that risk was too great. So he put it off– a little longer, soon. The two of you avoided this judgement as long as you could. You’d gotten greedy.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.  He pictured himself holding your hand as you confessed. Together. If they saw you together, the sheer force of fate and the enormity of your powers, the undeniable bond between you, perhaps that would convince them to be lenient. But if the elders had gotten wind of what you and he had done, if you had to explain it on your own to that snobby witch River? It’s unbearable for Ezra to imagine you having to do that on your own. Not that you’re not capable but because it’s not your burden to bear alone. 

“Damn it all,” Ezra mutters, grabbing his coat from the hook by the door and shoving his arms into its sleeves. 

“What’re you doing?” Margot asks. 

“You can’t expect me to mill about,” he says. “Where did he take her?”

Margot sets her jaw. 

“I’ll search the entire city if I must,” Ezra threatens. 

“She was thinking about the diner,” she admits. “She wants you to stay put.”

“I may no longer be her familiar but that doesn’t mean the promises I made to her have expired,” he says and he’s dashing out the door and down the stairs. 

-

The diner is a real old school joint. Pies rotate in a glass case above pale pink terrazzo floors, old swivel stools jut out from the breakfast counter. It always smells like pancakes with maple syrup, a fact that is right now making you feel extra queasy.

On the table is a paper placemat decorated with advertisements for local businesses. You’ve nearly shredded its corners to bits, nervously fiddling as you sit across from River in a booth. 

He makes small talk with you which feels like some sort of sadistic torture. 

You’re so caught up in your anxiety that you don’t notice your waitress sidle up to the table. And lucky you, it just so happens to be Zoe. 

She somehow looks even cooler in her waitress uniform, the tattoos and septum piercing clashing perfectly with the mint green dress’s matching apron and collar. Its short skirt leaves lots of leg to admire. 

“Hey,” she says to you with a familiar nod. 

If River is the last person you wanted to see today, Zoe is a close second. She came into the shop exactly once after her failed date with Ezra. He let her down easy by his account.

You still have a hard time believing that he didn’t sleep with her. When he told you, you laughed, thought it was some kind of joke. 

Such petty melodrama feels ridiculous now. 

“Hi,” you squeak out.

“Don’t make it weird,” she says, putting a friendly hand on your shoulder. “No hard feelings, okay?”

River’s brow furrows and you wish you could cast a spell that would zip her mouth shut before she says anything else. With your heart in your throat, all you can manage is a nod.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, casting an apologetic smile towards River. Once she’s gotten a good look at him, she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’m Zoe,” she says, pointing at the embroidered name tag on her apron.

“Cheers,” River replies. His green eyes look her up and down and Zoe blushes prettily.

“You ready to order?” she asks, readying her notepad.

“Just coffee for me,” River says.

“Same,” you say.

River watches her saunter back to the breakfast counter.

“River, can I explain?” you blurt out. Of course, any explanation, any sensical words at all have left you now that you’re confronted with the moment you’ve been dreading, but If you don’t say it soon, you’re afraid you might puke.

“Wait. Let me say my piece,” he insists.

Zoe returns with two steaming mugs and you both fall into an awkward quiet. You chew on your bottom lip. When she’s gone, River sits up straight.

“I don’t really know how to say this,” he sighs. 

You swallow hard.

“I really fucked things up with you. That shit I said at the solstice. It was ignorant and I’m pretty embarrassed if I’m being totally honest,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I wanted to apologize to you at Samhain but you weren’t there. And I think maybe that was my fault. I feel like an asshole if that was the case. But I figured you didn’t want to hear from me. But then– I don’t know. It’s been on my mind. You’ve been on my mind. I can’t help wondering if I hadn’t been such a jerk...you know. I like you. I’ve always liked you even when we were kids,” he stammers. 

You blink at him trying to make sense of what the fuck is happening here. You sat down ready for accusations and now River is professing his feelings for you?

“That’s what you wanted to talk about?” 

He nods, shrugs. 

“What does this have to do with Esme?” you ask, still feeling a million miles behind.

“What?”

“You said she sent you,” you remind him.

“I wouldn’t say she sent me,” he chuckles. “She and I are close. I told her that I messed things up with a really great witch and she encouraged me to make it right. See if you’d give me a second chance.” 

Now it’s River’s turn to wriggle in his seat, spinning the ceramic mug around in his hands as you gape at him.

“River, I– I appreciate the apology,” you finally say. “And…everything else.” 

He looks at you hopefully and you know you’ve got to do this very carefully. Keep it vague and kind, break the news gently.

“But I’m seeing someone,” you tell him. 

River deflates but he takes it well. There’s a sigh and a slow, understanding nod.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” he admits.”Well, I’m glad I could at least say I’m sorry.”

He looks so pathetic it’s almost sweet. You give him a sympathetic smile and an idea comes to you.

“River, if we’re being vulnerable, can I tell you something?” you ask. 

This might be stupid, suicidal even, when you were in the clear but one last glimmer of hope shines in the darkness. If River is close to Esme and, admittedly, fond of you, maybe he can persuade her. Maybe you and Ezra still have a chance with the Elders.

“Of course,” River says and sits forward.

You open your mouth but over his shoulder, the door swings open and the broad man that bounds in catches your eye. Ezra. Shit. Energy pulses around him, wound and alert and ready to spring. More like a lion than a cat. But his eyes are round, when you meet his gaze. You’re frozen, wishing Ezra could hear your thoughts, too. Get the fuck out of here! And damning him for being so loyal. Of course he came after you.

River notices the way you’re staring and he cranes his head around. You remember how Margot reacted when she walked into the basement only to discover your cat was now a man. She’d forgiven you but she was family. 

“It’s a little crazy,” you say, and, thank the stars, he turns back to you. Crisis averted. “But I could use your help.”

He nods.

Your heart pounds in your ears but somehow, over the blood rushing, you can hear Zoe’s voice clear as day.

“Oh, hey, Ezra. Your girl’s over here,” she calls. 

River must hear it too because he turns again and time stops as he looks at Ezra. He studies him– his dark whiskers, the silver patch of hair– as if he’s trying to place where he’s seen this man before. All you can do is hold your breath. 

When Margot discovered you and Ezra in the basement, she knew just by looking at him, just feeling his magic in the air, what you’d done. You can only hope River isn’t as perceptive. 

And then that dreaded cawing comes again, loud enough to make you jump. Rhea flaps her wings outside the window frantically enough that some of the other diners are taking notice. That sinking feeling is back and, somehow, this time it’s worse. River looks at the bird, then at you. 

“That’s him,” he says, words barely a whisper. “Your familiar.”

“Mhm,” is all you can answer, the knot in your throat thick and tight.

Ezra’s tight shoulders fall and he approaches the table.

“How?” River can’t take his eyes off of Ezra, slack jawed. 

“River. Pleasure to see you again,” Ezra says though his words are a bit chilly. 

River has to crane his neck to look up at Ezra as he stands at the end of the table. His form is imposing, tall and wide, eyes calculating.

“He got parole?” River asks you as if the other man weren’t looming above him. “I didn’t hear about it.”

“No,” you say. “Not exactly.”

“May I join you?” Ezra asks and you scoot into the booth.

As he sits beside you, River bristles. 

“How’ve you been? In good health I hope,” Ezra says. You can hear contempt under his charm.

“We could use your help,” you jump in. “Ezra’s sentence was a thousand years and, well, you know how I feel about that. So I turned him.”

“You turned him? What, alone?” he scoffs.

“Yes but that’s not what matters. The Elders aren’t going to be happy about this,” you say.

“They don’t know?”

“It wasn’t a sanctioned transfiguration,” Ezra replies.”Now I will grant you that this is unorthodox but I submit that the utility of a familiar is at the discretion of his witch and so she was well within her rights to return me to my rightful form if that is her prerogative,.”

River scowls as he tries to follow Ezra’s twisting logic, a pedantic legal argument meant to confound the Elders. He’s not buying it if he’s even understanding. You decide to try a different tack. 

“River, Ezra’s important to me. I know I broke the law but he deserved better,” you say.

There’s a twitch in River’s brow as it dawns on him. 

“This is who you’re with?” he asks but it’s not a question.

You nod. All you want right now is to reach out and grasp Ezra’s hand but you don’t move.

“And you think I’m going to help you get away with this?”

Your heart sinks.

“You think I’m so in love with you that I’d– what, exactly?”

“River–” you start.

“Help you get a pardon so you can live happily ever after with a witch killer? So you can fuck your familiar? That’s sick, by the way,” he spits.

A wave of heat washes you from head to toe as disgust curls over River’s face.

“You don’t deserve your powers if you’re going to use them like that,” he says.

Ezra lunges for him, clattering the silverware on the table. Heads turn at the commotion. River flinches, instinctively raising his hands but he’s too slow.  Ezra from fists his collar in his hand. He’s a fearsome sight— teeth bared, nostrils flaring, the muscles of his arms and neck taught. His eyes are nearly black. It crosses your mind that Ezra didn’t use magic to kill but his bare hands. 

“Those are bold words,” he snarls. “They savor strongly of bitterness.”

Outside Rhea squawks and flaps, rapping at the glass with her long beak, trying to gain purchase with her claws. She’s even more frantic now that her witch in danger. 

“Get off of me,” River says, his voice surprisingly steady. 

“Once you make your redress,” Ezra replies.

There’s a cold confidence in River’s glare, probably because he knows that there are a dozen mortals staring. You glance around to see them gawk. An older man wearing a trucker hat looks on from his seat at the counter with an eyebrow raised, a trio of line cooks peek out the pass through window from the kitchen.

“Everything okay over here?” Zoe asks from a safe distance, one orange-rimmed coffee pot in her hand. She’s not sure where to look— at her would-be lover ready to strike or the wild bird that’s practically throwing itself against the window. 

“Ez,” you hiss. 

As much as you’d like to watch Ezra beat the shit out of this arrogant bastard, he’s causing a scene. And it won't help the two of you in the long run. It’s clear that River’s going straight to the Elders once he’s out of Ezra’s clutches. If he shows up with a black eye and broken nose, that’s not going to help your case. 

Ezra’s lips press into a line but does as he’s told, releasing River to plop down on the vinyl. 

“He was an animal before they turned him into a cat,” River says. “But at least he’s still obedient.”

-

Ezra’s still simmering with rage as he walks back towards the Page. He’d had half a mind to go after River once he stormed out of the diner but he needed to be there for you. 

You sat staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, and he knew that you were willing yourself not to cry. 

“Don’t listen to a word that’s come out of that rat bastard’s mouth,” he said and put a hand on your back. 

As soon as he touched you, your hands tightened into fists and you said, “Let’s go.” 

“If he had any idea what you were capable of, he wouldn’t be so loose with his tongue,” Ezra says once you’ve turned the corner out of the view of the curious patrons inside. “If this were my day I’d’ve called him out.”

He wishes he had throttled River when he had the chance. 

“You shouldn't have done that,” you say.

You’ve got your arms wrapped around yourself, brow pinched. You look so small, Ezra’s instincts war between pulling you into an embrace and hunting River down for treating you so callously. 

“I should listen to that slander with no reposte?” Ezra asks. “I’m still your protector.”

“You’re not doing a very good job of it. Don’t you understand?” You stop in your tracks. “He’s going straight to the Elders and now he’s going to tell them that you’re a—a menace.”

Your face falters and you turn away then you keep walking. 

It’s ugly, this part of him. Ezra’s always had that dark streak in him, the one that chose violence and revenge. With so many years in servitude, it’s only festered. He’s still a wild thing, dangerous especially to you. And you see it so plainly, the disgust on your face seeing him unable to control himself.

Shame snakes a sickening feeling up Ezra’s throat. A menace. That’s what he is, isn’t it? What he’s always been. There’s no hope in convincing the Elders to be lenient when he can’t control his anger. Had he really thought that they would believe he had reformed?

“You shouldn’t have breathed a word to him,” Ezra says. He can’t help his emotions from brimming over even when he knows that you’re right. “You should have come to me. This is not for you to negotiate on your own.”

“I had it under control,” you snap and it’s your final word, storming off down the sidewalk.

Ezra follows you silently a few steps behind letting the guilt simmer in his gut. 

“Hell’s bells. What happened?” Margot asks. She’s on the porch, clutching at the silver pendant around her neck. 

Before either of you can answer, a bird descends as if from thin air. This time an old brown owl swoops down from the heavens and lands in front of you at the top of the stairs. Ezra recognizes her as Esme’s familiar. 

The owl drops a small roll of paper from its beak and stares at you. Uneasily you approach the stairs and retrieve the page. As you read, the bird eyes Ezra and he swears it looks at him with derision. 

Your hands shake. Ezra wants to reach out for you but considering what you just said to him, he gives you space. After a long moment you lower the paper and look to Margot. 

“They’re coming,” you say. “Tonight.”

And with those words, the owl takes to the sky again. 

🐈‍⬛

You sit on the floor of the bedroom the two of you shared. The dresser drawers hang open like empty gaping mouths, their contents strewn about over  the quilt. All clothes waiting to be sorted. His clothes. 

You make two piles. One for things that need mending— shirts missing buttons, jeans with worn knees. The other for things that are ready to wear. It’s all done with as much detachment as you can muster, fighting the memories that bubble up as you fold each piece.

You’re not sure what inspired you to tackle this project today, still so deep in your grief. It’s something to do that isn’t just listening to the minutes move by. Maria would tell you to take as long as you need but everyone in Jackson’s grieving now and they’re busy mending the gate and replacing windows. Soon there will be newcomers with only the shirts on their backs and they’ll need something to wear. 

You used to tell Joel that very thing. 

“If you’re not going to wear a hat then give it to somebody else,” you’d say. 

“Fine. Get rid of it,” he told you, calling your bluff. 

“Just wear the damn thing!”

You empty pockets of all the things Joel left forgotten. Mostly screws and stubby pencils ground down almost to the eraser. A folded up scrap of paper with some diagram from one of the building projects, dimensions scribbled in his messy hand. It’s all rather ordinary and somehow that makes it worse. 

Tears come as the piles grow but you push on. You’re used to that by now. For the past few days you’ve done all sorts of things with hot, wet cheeks, it’s not even worth wiping them away. 

You remind yourself for the thousandth time that you ought to be grateful. The few years you’ve had with Joel were a miracle after all. What were the chances you’d both survive? Both find Jackson, find each other? You had something most people never get. And Joel wasn’t the only one that died that day. There are fresh graves for men much younger than him. Still, it doesn’t feel fair to lump your loss in with the rest. They died fighting. Joel was murdered. 

You throw shirts down onto the rug, the sleeves of Joel’s chambray button down fluttering into the heap as your vision blurs with yet another wave of anguish. Dutifully you strip each hanger and stack them away, working snaps and buttons open and then closed again. 

It’s not long before you find it– his favorite flannel shirt– and the ache in your chest ebbs again, heart straining against your ribs. The sensation is so familiar now, sometimes catching you unexpectedly, but always at a moment when you miss him most. 

You slide your arms carefully into one sleeve then the other. It hangs loose on your frame, warm as if it had just come off of his shoulders. The fabric is soft, a reminder of what life felt like— pressing your face against his broad back as you wrapped your arms around his middle. You try it now, lifting its front to your wet face one last time.

It smells like him. Musk and wood shavings, and something distinctly Joel that you can’t put your finger on. Behind your eyelids, you do your best to picture Joel as you breathe him in. The way he was, not wrapped up in a snow-soaked sheet. 

There are footsteps on the stairs and you recognize their rhythm immediately as Ellie’s. You wipe the snot from your nose on the shirt before she appears in the doorway. She takes in the scene around you but her eyes land on her shoes, red rimmed but refusing to well up again.

“What’re you doing?” she asks. Her voice has been much lower, not quite a whisper more a growl.

You want to scream at her, throw one of Joel’s work boots in her direction and shriek. Blame her, punish her for taking him away from you. Maybe not in the end but for all of those moments when his gaze clouded over as he quietly frowned out the back window towards the garage. 

But there’s another part of you that wants to hold her, to cradle Ellie in your arms and tell her that none of this is her fault, that you know your pain is nothing compared to hers. 

You’re too exhausted for either so you just sit there and stare up at her.

“I don’t know,” you say. 

It’s as honest an answer as any. You don’t have the heart to tell her that one day soon, someone else in the dining hall will be wearing Joel’s navy sweater with the patch on the elbow. You’re not even sure you have it in you to part with any of this. Not when you can still remember the way his body felt through  all of this fabric.

“I came to tell you I’m leaving,” Ellie says after a beat. “I’m going after them.”

You sigh. Tired, defeated. Oddly proud.

There’s no talking her out of it. It’s not like she’s ever been persuaded of anything in her life. But there’s a dull voice somewhere deep in the back of your brain that demands you say all of those grown up, level headed things. All those words Joel would want you to say. That it’s dangerous. That it won’t bring him back. That you don’t want to lose her too. 

You look down at the pile of clothes Joel used to fill. Socks you picked up off the floor with a sigh, t-shirts once damp with his sweat, pants you’d guide down his hips to the floor. All limp as his dead body. 

You scoop up one of Joel’s bulky sweaters and toss it to Ellie. She’s going to need it where she’s going.

“Bundle up.”

--

Thanks for reading and sorry.

Early 40s, divorced. Ex military. DIA. There’s much more to him than that, though. A little program hidden on his computer lets you track each keystroke he makes. 

You’ve learned all about him. Dave he prefers. There’s a lot that won’t make it into your report— where he shops online (Brooks Brothers), the take out he orders (one large pepperoni from Frankie’s Pizzeria),  the porn he watches (girl on girl). But there’s one thing your bosses will be interested in: Dave York is a contract killer. 

You could’ve ended this project by now. You’ve got plenty in your notes to make your customers happy yet you’re still logging onto his computer. It fascinates you that a man so normal, almost on the borderline of boring, could be so dangerous. 

You shovel some food into your mouth and go drag your mouse over your desk. You’ve been reviewing footage you recorded through his webcam today. A few lines of code and you were able to turn his laptop’s camera on without activating the tally light. He was smart enough to use unique, complicated passwords, two-factor authentication, and encrypted emails but he didn’t take the time to put a sticker over his webcam. 

You’ve found some interesting information this way— listened in on conversations, heard the things he only says into his burner phone. Tonight most of it is just Dave at the keyboard, his tie loosening over time. 

You scrub through the footage, Dave drinking coffee and typing in fast forward punctuated by stretches of his empty home office. Nothing exciting until—

You pause the video when you see it. Lomein hangs from your open mouth. He’s half naked, head thrown back, hand buried in his lap. His dick is engulfed in a big fist, a bead of precum frozen before it rolls over his fingers. 

It’s not the first time you’ve seen a mark in a compromising position. In this line of work, you’ve seen all the dark corners of people’s hard drives.  There’s worse than nudes and home made porn out there. Normally— if it’s not illegal, at least— you just scroll by. But Dave, it’s different when it comes to him. For some reason, seeing him in a compromising position has your blood rushing in your ears. He’s a killer. How many people have had the opportunity to see him in such a vulnerable state? 

He’s bare to the waist, his chest so smooth you wonder if he shaves it or if he’s naturally like that. His broad shoulders look perfect to grab onto if you were on top of him. Riding him. 

Of course you notice all of this after taking a good, long look at his cock. A clutch of dark curls trail down his soft belly to where it stands, drooling in his fist. You realize you’re salivating. 

Guilt pokes at you as you move the playhead back. It’s a violation. Then again, you’ve all but eviscerated Dave's privacy. You know exactly how much money is in his bank account, that his daughter Molly has a sleepover this weekend, that he’ll kill innocents.

He’s not a good person. You’re not either. 

You roll back the tape, finding the start of this, and hit play. Dave’s palm traces his bulge through his pajama pants. He’s watching porn, you can hear the over-exaggerated moans through the computer’s tinny speakers. 

It’s not the first time you’ve noticed that Dave is hot. After all, you have access to all of the pictures on his laptop. Including the selfies he takes after his runs, muscles glistening with sweat. He’s a bit clean cut for your tastes but right now, he’s something else altogether– the lust in his brown eyes, the control as he teases himself. You swallow hard. 

It’s a while before he actually takes his dick out of his pajama pants. You remind yourself repeatedly that you can stop, just click away and let him keep this moment to himself but you’re on the edge of your seat, already throbbing. He finally pulls down his waistband and you’re looking at his upright cock again. It’s thick, a flushed vein running up the underside. He squirts lube into his hand from a bottle that’s just out of frame and when he finally lets his fist move down his length, his eyes sink closed, savoring the sensation. 

He touches  himself with a practiced motion, gripping the shaft and pulling upwards, a twist of the wrist so that his palm caresses the tip before squeezing back down the length again. His strokes are agonizingly slow. He’s so methodical, patient, like in everything else you’ve discovered. 

You’re holding your breath, the suspense aching in your core. There’s plenty of time to study him— those full lips parted, muscles in his arm flexing. Every once in a while he grunts and loosens his grip, keeping himself from going over the edge. 

By now, your hand has found its way between your legs. Your fingers trace absentmindedly over the seam in your sleep shorts, already sticky and soaked through. You match Dave’s lazy pace, giving yourself the same pleasure he’s experiencing. 

Without taking your eyes off of the screen, you lean over to the set of drawers beside your desk and pull out your favorite vibrator. You shimmy out of your shorts and panties and drag the toy over your needy clit. 

You moan with him, watching Dave’s toned arm flex up and down. His bottom lip looks so thick, you want to rake your teeth across it. It’s almost grotesque the way his nostrils flare, the rhythmic grunts that leave him as his hand works faster. The muscles in his neck strain and you can tell he’s close. 

You are, too. You swivel your hips against the vibrator, speeding up the thrusts and strengthening its power. Fuck. What would it feel like to have Dave’s mouth on you? His cock in you? 

He can’t hold back any longer. Dave’s eyes squeeze shut and his jaw clenches and he makes a noise more animal than man. The eruption of cum is the last thing you see before you’re sent reeling, moaning out your own desperate cry as you pulse around your vibrator. 

You take deep breaths as you return to earth, hitting the spacebar to pause the video and blinking back to reality. Your heart rate slows and you wipe your hand across your face. That’s enough work for one night. That might be enough Dave for good. Tomorrow you’ll finalize your report and put him out of your mind. 

The vibrator is tossed carelessly onto the desk. You put your panties on but leave your shorts discarded on the floor amongst the rest of your laundry and then you put your computer to sleep. Without the light of the monitors, the room is cloaked in darkness and you drag yourself from your chair a few short paces to the bed. 

It’s still dark when you wake, an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. You strain your ears for noise, any sign of what woke you but there’s nothing. Then a creak. Your heart leaps into your throat. Someone’s here, in your apartment. 

You fumble for your backpack in the dim. Somewhere in the bottom there’s a can of pepper spray that you bought for a situation just like this but your hands are trembling and you can’t see a fucking thing. 

A figure appears behind the French door that separates your room from the kitchen and any drowsiness that was lingering evaporates immediately. It’s a man— broad body clothed entirely in black— and in his hand you make out the silhouette of a gun. The room’s too fucking tiny for there to be anywhere decent to hide. There’s no time to think. Your only choice is to brandish your bag as a weapon. He barges in and you swing for his face. 

“Fuck,” he grunts but it merely slows him for a moment, knocking hm off balance and his beanie off of his head. 

You scramble towards the front door but you’re tackled to the ground, wind knocked out of your lungs. As you gasp for air, you’re flipped onto your back and you find yourself face to face with your assailant. Even in the darkness, through your terror and disorientation, you recognize him. 

Dave York glares down at you, his angular face cast in shadows, a menacing snarl on his lips. The muzzle of his silencer is far too close to your face but there’s no shrinking from it with your head against the floor and Dave’s heavy hand on your middle. 

“You and I have a problem,” he growls. “You know why I’m here?”

You shake your head frantically, still barely able to fill your lungs. 

“Don’t play dumb, sweetheart. I know you’re not stupid,” he says. 

He pulls you to your feet as if you weigh nothing and hauls you towards your room. You’re thrown into your desk chair, head still spinning. Dave stands over you and clamps your wrist to the arm rest. 

“You know why you’re spying on me?” he asks, a cold threat in his words. 

You nod. 

“Then you know you don’t want me as your enemy.” You say nothing but a shiver runs down your spine. His eyes are nearly black, reflecting the dull light of the sleeping computer monitors. 

“I want your hard drives. Back ups, too. Everything you’ve got on me,” he demands. 

“Okay,” you manage. “Would you just get that gun out of my face?” 

“Get to it,” he says, and spins your chair so you’re facing the keyboard. 

The monitors come to life and, suddenly, you’re in deeper shit. You try to hit a shortcut on the keys to close the window that’s open but your fingers are trembling so hard, you miss. Dave sees it all. 

Something changes in him— a tightening in his jaw, a flaring of his nostrils— as he sees the evidence of your surveillance. His spent form, blissed out and covered in his own release hovers on screen. Right where you left him. 

Dave’s eyes narrow at the video then slide down to the toy sitting within arms reach and there’s no denying what he can see so plainly. 

He rounds on you with a wild look, flinging the chair back so its wheels hit your bed. 

“You get off on that?” he demands.

Your heart might have actually stopped for a minute.

“Answer me,” he demands.

“I– No,” you lie.

He appraises you with a deep scowl until a wicked grin spreads on his lips. 

“You’re a pretty little thing, huh?” he muses.

He drags the gun across your breast, your nipple hardening beneath the muzzle’s brush. You let out a whimper— out of fear or arousal, you’re not sure. You swear he growls under his breath. 

“You’re trouble though,” he says.

You swallow thickly, your entire body quivering. 

”Show me,” he says, depositing the gun on the desk and thrusting the toy towards you.

”What?” You ask.

”Show me how you touched yourself,” he tells you.

That’s what you thought he was saying. You stare at him dumbly, too shocked to even protest.

“You watched me. Only seems fair,” he says as if this is some bargain you’re cutting with the man holding the gun.  ”Do I have to make you?” 

He leans over you, his hand braced on the back of your chair, and presses the vibrator into the gusset of your panties. Rough and clicked onto the highest setting, you squirm and cry out. You’re already so overstimulated, it’s torture and bliss all at once. Your hips buck against the toy but Dave holds your thigh open.

”Okay! Stop! Fuck!” you whine, wrenching at his wrist until he lets up.

You try to catch your breath.

“Take these off,” he instructs, snapping the elastic of your panties against your waist with a thick finger.

You hiss and glare at him but you have no choice but to obey, sliding them down your legs. Dave watches, his eyes darkening once you’re revealed to him. He swears under his breath.

”Look at that mess,” he says.

Your whole body burns but the hunger in his gaze makes your fear take a back seat. Defiantly, you put your hand out for the vibrator. You open your legs wider so he can get a good look at you. There’s a tick in his jaw that gives you some satisfaction.

The vibrator purrs dully in your palm and you take your time bringing it to your clit. A low, long moan leaves you. You’re swollen but slick and even gentle strokes feel electric in your veins. 

There’s a tent already forming in Dave’s pants. He’s a killer, sure, but right now he’s horny.

Your head falls back as you continue. His gaze devours each part of you— where the toy glistens against you, your nipples rising and falling below your shirt, the crease in your brow as you keen. 

“You’re a filthy girl, huh?” he asks. 

You nod and a smile actually pulls at the corner of your lips. It shouldn’t turn you on so much to jerk off in front of a man that has seemingly no hesitations when it comes to killing you but somehow that fact has arousal mounting faster. Your eyes drift closed as you focus on the heady sensation of the friction on your overworked nerves. 

The sound of a metallic clink and soft zip distracts you from your reverie. When you look at Dave, you find his hand down the front of his pants, knuckles straining against the fabric of his black boxer briefs as he tugs at himself.

“Keep going,” he breathes and you realize you’re staring slack-jawed, desire flooding out any remnants of fear left within you. 

After a few blinks, you press the vibrator against your clit again. Your back arches and you give a luxurious sigh for his benefit. His fist tightens, muscles in his neck straining and, fuck, you have to grip the seat of your chair to keep yourself from falling out of it. 

With a grunt, Dave’s pushing his jeans out of the way, freeing his cock so he can work himself in the angles he likes, the same ones you watched through his webcam. The sound of his shallow breaths and slick strokes mix with the rumble of your toy and the creak of your chair as you writhe. It’s absolutely maddening. And then he starts babbling. Saying things like, “You like this, huh?” and “Say my name sweetheart.” You do it, panting out the word to a hum of approval. 

He crowds you and for a moment you prepare yourself for the chance he’s about to shove his dick down your throat. Instead he’s yanking up your shirt, exposing your tits to the cold air in the room. Dave fondles one and then the other, squeezing the tender flesh with a groan. His hand is much softer than you’d expect for a contract killer, his touch almost gentle as he teases your nipples with the pad of his thumb.

Dave’s expression nearly looks pained, a delicious frown over his plump bottom lip. It makes you mewl and your hips jump. 

“You close?” he asks. His voice is ragged. 

A breathless nod is all you can manage. 

“Good girl,” he rasps.

His words are enough to send you over the edge, with a wanton moan. It crashes over you with so much more intensity than the one that came before it. Your spine locks up, thighs shake as you clench around nothing. Your heart hammers in your chest and between your legs and it’s as if the room is spinning. You twitch in aftershocks, completely spent. 

The fog of pleasure has barely lifted when you glance up at Dave, fist still diligently pumping. There’s a fire in his eyes, that untamed excitement. 

“Give me one more,” he commands. 

“Can’t,” you plead. Need still bubbles at your core but your body is so exhausted from adrenaline and exertion, lust and release.

“You better,” he says. 

Dave grinds the vibrator mercilessly against you and you swear aloud. He lets up only for his hand to close around your throat. It’s an unbearable mixture of pleasure and dull ache— the bruising pressure on your clit, the muscles in your thighs taught and burning— underlined by that euphoria. He squeezes around your jaw just hard enough to see stars again. 

“That’s right,” he breathes against your cheek, his nose pressed into your temple.

Another orgasm comes almost immediately, pulsing at your core and squeezing through every fiber of your being. This time, you’re quiet, just a high pitched whine like a hurt animal though you’re anything but. 

Dave groans. You can hear his teeth gritted though your eyes are shut. He swears and his hot release paints your bare chest, thick and sticky. 

Everything stills as you both come down, all loosening muscles and shaky breaths. Dave remains close to you, stroking your cheek. His lips brush your hairline and you notice the smell of his cologne for the first time, something clean and masculine. 

Dread should come now. He’s had his fun, now he can do away with you — yet it doesn’t surface. 

Slowly Dave stands and tucks himself back into his pants. He almost looks ashamed of himself. You pull your shirt down, covering your stained breasts, and watch Dave smooth his hair. 

“So are we good?” you ask. 

“If you do what I said,” he answers. “You’re going to get rid of anything you have against me and you’re going to tell your bosses that all you found was a regular guy.”

“Alright, Dave,” you say. 

He scowls at you like he doesn’t like your tone. “When I say delete everything, I mean everything,” he says, eyes flitting towards the monitor. 

You steal a glance in that direction as well. Dave half naked, still frozen there looking absolutely ruined. 

“Understand?” he asks. 

“Yes.” 

“I’m going to know if you don’t because I’ll be watching you. And if you cross me, I’m going to come back here and I won’t be so nice to you next time,” Dave says. 

You wish that threat didn’t make your body light up like a Christmas tree. It’s absolutely reckless. There’s no chance in hell you’re letting go of that piece of treasure and if the consequence is Dave knocking on your door– or letting himself in– that’s a risk you’re willing to take.

It’s as if he knows. Dave scoffs to himself, then fishes his hat off of the floor along with your panties. 

“These are mine now,” he says.

And you’re almost sad to see him go.

comments and reblogs always appreciated! or scream at me in the ask box or dms!

"What's your name, sweetie?" The girl asks, just after she's applied the pinkest pink lipstick he's ever seen in his life.

"Dia-" He starts and stutters, almost slips and spills a name that doesn't belong out here. A name that's been buried in the dirt outside of this town.

"Dieter…it's Dieter Bravo"

"Dieter Bravo" She repeats so prettily, a gleaming smile up at him through the mirror and then she's reaching for him, hand taking his and pulling him to sit on the stool besides her.

"I think you're gonna be a star, Dieter. Lets get you ready"

And Dieters heart skips a beat. A giggling, joyful laugh bubbling up from his chest and he can't hold it in. He's going to do it, he's going to make it.

Everything's gonna be okay. More than okay.

Tagging some mutual creators:

@perotovar, @yopossum, @secretelephanttattoo, @beefrobeefcal, @bitchesuntitled

@sawymredfox, @moonlitbirdie, @almostfoxglove, @msjarvis, @jennaispunk

@galway-girlatwork, @arcanefox207, @sp00kymulderr, @maggiemayhemnj, @sixhours

@goodwithcheese, @jolapeno, @javierpena-inatacvest, @justagalwhowrites, @polaroidpascal

@tonysopranosrobe, @pedropeach, @strang3lov3, @hellfire-state-of-mind, @evolnoomym

@sp00kymulderr, @joelmillerisapunk, @probablyreadinsmut, @luxurychristmaspudding, @burntheedges

@lotusbxtch, @beardedjoel, @baronessvonglitter, @ishabull, @heartpatch

@rulexofxnines, @jessthebaker, @covetyou, @theetherealbloom, @quinnnfabrgay

@almostempty, @ace-turned-confused, @604to647, @the-mandawhor1an, @mysterious-moonstruck-musings

@punkshort, @for-a-longlongtime, @tinytinymenace, @wannab-urs, @sizzlingcloudmentality

@guiltyasdave, @qveerthe0ry, @pedgito, @magpiepills, @nerdieforpedro

You hang back when you find him beside the front window. Soft morning light falls over the angular planes of his face. There’s a divot in the center of his throat just visible above the collar of his olive sweatshirt that always catches your eye. You still haven’t quite gotten used to the fact that your old pal Ezra is so damn handsome. Not that you’re attracted to him. He’s just attractive. You’ve reminded yourself of the distinction between that many times over the past few weeks. 

But it’s not the cast of the sun that has you hesitating. Ezra’s talking to a customer, his crooked smile revealing the dimple in his cheek, with a tarot deck in his hands.

“And it was the exact image I’d seen when I took ayahuasca,” she says. “The four of cups.”

“Well, cards are certainly prophetic,” he says, his voice edging on a tease. 

You know her— Zoe’s a regular. She moved into town after backpacking through South America, and waitresses at the diner. She comes in to buy crystals from time to time and she’s good for business. Ever since the diner got written up as one of the “hidden gems of the Catskills,” she sends more and more of her customers over to the Page. 

She’s been stopping in even more recently, the shop’s newest doe-eyed employee obviously her motivation. Twice a week you find her in conversation with Ezra. In fact, she’s given up the pretense that she’s actually shopping for anything anymore. 

“Have you ever had your aura photographed?” she asks. 

“No. A picture of me is a rare thing, indeed,” he says. 

Zoe’s the exact kind of mortal Ezra detests– always talking about “getting into wicca” as if magic is a hobby she can try on– but she’s beautiful. She has hazel eyes and razor sharp cheekbones. Her slim arms are tattooed with delicate talismen and her haircuts seamlessly straddle the border between chic and edgy. 

“I know a place down in Woodstock where you can get it done. Next time I’m going, maybe you can tag along,” she offers. 

There’s a sparkle in Ezra’s eye that makes your chest tight.

You retreat to the stairs before you hear his answer. The sensation building in you is a stab, a flare of something bitter and dark. You’re not sure why you’re jealous because you don’t have feelings for Ezra. Okay, maybe a little crush. But you’ve got that in check. You’re not going to fall for your best friend just because he woke up with the most handsome face you’ve ever seen.

And you’re definitely not intimidated by Zoe’s waif-like frame and heavily lidded eyes. Next to her, you look like an ogre. But why would you need to compare yourself to her? And why shouldn’t Ezra get to bang a goddess when he has a mouth that should be sculpted in marble?  

You realize how ridiculous this train of thought is becoming so you shove it down as tightly as you can, actually shaking your head as though this insanity might tumble out of your ear.

“You okay?” 

Zoe’s standing in front of you at the register, the tarot deck set on the counter between you.

“You’re buying something,” you say, though it’s more of a question than a statement.

“This deck has a really good vibe,” she tells you. “Ezra picked it out.”

Hearing her say his name, you’re like a cat with its hair standing on end. 

“He’s got the same name as your cat. Isn’t that funny,” she notes.

“I see how you look at him,” you say. It’s not meant to come out as an accusation but there’s a bite to your words you weren’t expecting. You’re being ridiculous so you decide to prove to yourself once and for all that your feelings are strictly platonic. The faster you see Ezra with someone, the quicker this little crush will die. 

Luckily, Zoe doesn’t notice it. “That obvious, huh?”

“You should take him for a drink. He’d like that,” you say. Something like relief comes over you. Obviously you’re not jealous. If you were, you wouldn’t have tried to set him up.

“You think so?” she asks, glancing back towards the stairs. “I tried to give him my number but he told me he doesn’t have a phone.”

You try to keep yourself from laughing at what a devastating rejection that would be if it weren't true.

“He actually doesn’t,” you say.

“Really?” 

You shrug.

She nods. “That’s smart. The EMF really messes with your brainwaves.”

“Hm,” you say with a noncommittal nod. “Well, I’ll have him send you a letter or something.”

–

Ezra used to trot down the stairs of the bookstore. Now he has to duck to keep his head from smacking into the shelf that hangs over the doorframe. 

It’s taken some time to get used to his body again but after these few weeks, he’s navigating the world with ease. Ezra hasn’t felt this happy in hundreds of years. He’s doing magic for the first time in a long time and he spends his days working in the bookstore. It’s oddly enjoyable even despite the fact that it’s dull and full of silly mortals. Best of all, there’s you. 

He still can’t comprehend how lucky he is to be given this gift. To be yours. Even if he isn’t anymore, not beholden by the fetters of a familiar, he’ll never stop thinking of himself as belonging to you. 

You’re smiling at him as he comes to the counter and he has to resist the urge to nuzzle his head into your shoulder as he used to greet you. If there’s one thing he misses about being a cat, it’s your scratching behind his ears.

“I got you a date with her,” you say.

“The vegan?” Ezra asks.

“Yeah,” you say with a laugh. “The vegan that you shamelessly flirt with.”

Ezra furrows his brow. He was once quite the charmer but he hasn’t intended to do anything more than amuse himself. Over and over, this woman batted her eyelashes at him and Ezra carefully demurred each time. She was pretty. Perhaps some time ago he would have liked to bed her but he has no designs on her now, not when he falls asleep swimming in the scent of your skin each night.

”You shouldn’t have done that,“ he says.

”Why not? She’s so into you,” you reply.

Ezra says nothing because his answer would give it all away. Instead he grabs a handful of bookmarks decorated with pressed flowers and busies himself putting them on a table on the other side of the room. 

“You’ve been celibate for how long?” you go on, following behind.

“No need for reminders.” 

“We need to get you laid!” you say so helpfully. ”Are you blushing?”

If Ezra’s red in the face, it’s only because he’s realizing what a fool he’s being. You’re ready to send him off to another while he’s madly in love with you. He shouldn’t be surprised. He couldn’t expect that you were going to suddenly leap into his arms with any of the enthusiasm Zoe’s shown him. Maybe he thought there was some chance, some faint hope that you could belong just as much to him. 

But this makes your feelings so clear. You’re not interested. You’re ready to pawn him off on some ridiculous mortal.

”What’s wrong? She too young for you or something?” you tease. 

Zoe is, no doubt, attractive and she’d made it clear that she’s ready to take him to bed, both facts that should have elated him. The problem was, she wasn’t you. And you were someone he’d never have. 

“I can manage my own matchmaking,“ he grumbles. He moves on to a stack of books, straightening their spines though they’re hardly askew. Anything to keep himself from looking at you, being reminded that you’re off limits.

“Ez, she’s been throwing herself at you.“ 

”I suppose in my time I’ve learned to savor the hunt.“ 

“Oh please. You used to eat out of my hand. You should be thanking me,” you say. 

Thanking you for pushing him into the arms of another. His despair calcifies into a rotten resentment. You don’t want him, you never will. 

“I’d much prefer it if you didn’t involve yourself,” he says. It’s nearly impossible to keep the venom out of his voice.

You scoff. In the corner of his eye, you’re frowning. ”Okay. If I’d known you were going to be such a dick about it, I wouldn’t have bothered,” you say, and then you turn around shaking your head and walk away.

He watches you stomp into the next room, regret flooding him. He shouldn’t be so mean, not to you, but the damage has been done. There’s hardly time to think about it because Margot is breezing in from the back door with Percy riding high on her shoulder, the sound of her bracelets filling the store with their music. Ezra sets his features in as neutral an expression he can manage.

“Oh, Ezra, dear. Just who I was looking for,” she says. “Come here a minute.”

She sets a wide box that’s tied with a grosgrain ribbon on the counter.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Open it.” 

He looks from her to her familiar before he pulls the dark ribbon and lifts the lid. Inside is something he hasn’t seen in a dog’s age. The memories it brings back makes his lips tick up in an absent smile. 

“Robes,” he says. “How did you—?”

“We found a description in Goody Cartwright’s diary in the basement,” Margot said. “Dusted off the old sewing machine.”

Percival scampers down her arm to climb into the box. He crawls beneath a sleeve and lifts the hem in his paws, standing on his hind legs.

“I hope they turned out,” Margot says.  

“Mine were nearly identical,” Ezra says as he wistfully inspects the fabric.

He still remembers the feel of the homespun linen against his skin. His robes always smelled of woodsmoke from the moon revels. They had been stained with wine and goat’s milk, the bottom edge besotted with moss and rainwater.

“It was Percy’s idea,” she says.

The mouse ducks his head bashfully when Ezra looks up at him. 

Ezra swallows down the lump in his throat. He’s moved, jaw gripped as he tries to stop from shedding tears. Another gift he’s not worthy of, compounded by the fact that he’s just upset you again. You were doing for him what you’ve always done– taking care of him, showing him that you loved him. If only he could accept it’s not the way he wants it.

He sets his hand out on the countertop. 

“Percival,” he says. 

After some hesitation, Percy steps into Ezra’s palm. Ezra brings the mouse up so that he sits at eye level. 

“I deserve a much starker retribution from you, friend,” Ezra says. “I hope you’ll forgive my misdeeds.”

Percy cocks his head to the side. 

“He says he’ll think about it,” Margot tells him. 

Ezra grins. He offers a finger which Percy takes in his paw and they shake hands. 

“You can wear them this weekend. Sunday’s your first full moon since you turned,” Margot says. 

Ezra had forgotten all about the phases of the moon. How could he be expected to keep track of such things when there were so many new things to experience?

”We’ll celebrate,” Margot insists.

He wants to protest. Right now he doesn't feel much like frivolity, can’t imagine you’ll want to join in with any festivities when he’s been such a complete and total ass. But he knows he ought to learn his lesson and accept.

“I look forward to it,” he says.

Percy squeaks happily and Margot claps her hands together.

“Come on, Percy! There’s much to be done!” she says before disappearing into the back room.

-

The rest of the day is tense between you and Ezra, with few words exchanged. He’s lived with you long enough that it’s not your very first squabble but, in the past, it was much easier to stay out from underfoot. The apartment feels so much smaller now that he’s human, its walls crushing when there’s silence between you. It’s at its worst when you announce you’re going to bed. It feels cold, lacking an invitation, and so Ezra waits in the kitchen for a long while wondering if you want him beside you at all. 

Some time after you’ve turned off the light, he slinks in nervously. He might as well be sneaking into the bed, though for all intents and purposes, it’s become just as much his as it is yours. He’s shared it with you from that very first night. Neither of you raised the notion of his sleeping elsewhere so it became a habit. He wonders now, more strongly than ever, if he’s overstayed his welcome. 

You lay facing the window but he knows your breathing well enough to see you’re not yet sleeping. He lays on the cold sheets hating himself for loving you, for taking advantage of you, for disappointing you.  

“I shouldn’t have accused you of meddling,” he says quietly.

Ezra has accepted the fact that he’ll have to take this mortal out despite having no interest in her. There’s no good reason not to, as you so aptly showed him, and if he doesn’t you’ll want to know why.

At some point in the late afternoon he decided that he would make the best of it. He would stop kidding himself and accept that you had no romantic feelings for him and try to keep an open mind with Zoe. At the very worst, he’d finally get a long overdue fuck. How could a man mope over that? 

But seeing the slope of your shoulder in the moonlight, your eyelashes fluttering as you turn your face up to the ceiling, makes him realize just how impossible is the task that lies ahead of him. 

You sigh and turn over, sheets rustling with your movement. There’s just enough light in the room to shine in your sweet eyes as you look at him and tuck a hand under your pillow. 

“Ez, it’s okay. I know why you got upset,” you say. 

His heart skips a beat. Of course you know. He’s been so obvious, how could you not see it? He swallows hard, unsure of what he’ll say when you call him out. It feels like an age passes as he waits for you to say the words. 

“You haven’t been with anybody for a long time. If you’re not ready, I get it,” you say and you put a gentle hand over his. 

A little laugh escapes him. How absurdly wrong he’d been. He sinks deeper into his self pity. How could he ever imagine a creature as kind and beautiful as you would want him? A reprobate, hundreds of years old. A fucking cat.

“Yes, well, I suppose if she’s as smitten as you believe I’ve nothing to worry about,” he says. 

A smile cracks across your lips and your gaze melts over his face. You brush your palm across his cheek and Ezra can’t help but close his eyes and lean into the touch of your warm skin. 

“How could she not be?” you say.

Your gaze lingers on him, your expression difficult to read. There’s nothing but the sound of your soft breaths and the whisper of dry leaves outside the window. His heart aches, wishing he could curl himself around you and say the words that live on the tip of his tongue. But the moment passes as you pull your hand back to your side of the mattress and the gulf between you feels wider than ever. He lays awake for what feels like hours wishing he was still a cat so he could sleep in your embrace.

-

You lay on the couch with a book spread open on your lap but you haven’t been able to read a single page. Ezra’s out with Zoe which is fine. Totally fine. You made it happen after all, even gave him some cash for drinks and coaching on the dating scene. 

“I’m newly human but I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m well acquainted with the customs and mores of modern courtship,” he protested. 

“Do you even hear yourself right now?” you asked. 

For a moment, you almost fooled yourself into thinking he wasn’t interested in her. He’d been so prickly when you brought it up. There have been times when you wonder. You’ll catch him looking at you in a way that makes your heart flutter. Or his touch will remain just a moment longer than it needs to, days when you wake up and question if his morning wood is actually for you and not just a fact of human biology. But of course not. And that’s fine.

It’s been a while since you’ve had the apartment to yourself— certainly not in the weeks since Ezra became human— and you’ve had little down time. There’s always some new adventure to take him on. Not that you’re complaining. It’s been the most thrilling time of your life. 

This whole date situation is good, actually, because you could really use a night alone. At least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself. 

You poured yourself a glass of wine and lit some incense, cracked open the book. A good start. That’s about all you managed. You keep thinking about how it’s going with Ezra. What could they be talking about? Is he having fun? Maybe he’ll actually like her. Wouldn’t that be….something?

Things could never get romantic between the two of you anyway. You wouldn’t risk your friendship, so many years of trust and affection. It’s too precious to you. Besides, there must be something unethical about dating someone that’s been sworn to serve and protect you.

Not that you want to do that.

You snap the book shut and toss it on the coffee table, sitting up. You need to stop being weirdly obsessed with this date. Ezra is your friend, you remind yourself, and you’re excited for him. You just need something more engrossing. 

You put on a period piece. Nothing like a night in with ballgowns and wine. You put your feet up on the table and try to lose yourself in the movie. Ezra is such a pedant when it comes to historical dramas, always pointing out the inaccuracies, complaining about the costumes.

You wish he were here now groaning over the cut of a coat. You wish he was here instead of–

This isn’t working. You know what always clears your mind? A bath. 

The clawfoot tub is filled with oils and herbs, the little bathroom flickers in candle light. You slide deeper into the warm water, focus on the way your muscles unwind. You hadn’t even noticed you were so tense. This was a good call. There’s a knot in your shoulder you massage with your hand. Finally feeling serene, your wet fingers coming to slide across your chest. The water drips peacefully out of the faucet and your cheeks bloom with the alcohol and heat. Maybe Ezra should go on more dates, get the place to yourself more often.

You know what would really make you feel relaxed? Your fingers drift below the water, and skate down your belly and your eyes come to close. It’s been over a month since you got off– Connor (though most of the credit should really go to your passion elixir). It’s been impossible to rub one out with someone else in your bed. At least when Ezra was a cat, he spent a lot of time prowling the woods and being moody. Maybe he’d heard you back then, a thought that somehow equally horrifies and thrills you. 

You touch yourself with a slow, delicate hand and you’re lost in the idea of him watching you now. His chocolate eyes hungry but his body still, the only movement he allows is the rise and fall of his chest. How many times had he seen you, all of you, and not looked away? 

You shiver imagining him, urging you to show him how you take yourself apart. Studying, appreciating. Savoring. Throbbing at each twitch in your brow as you crest and your breath hitches. Even in the water you can feel yourself growing slick, a coil of need winding, and you bite down on your bottom lip. Your mind swirls, your body taught.

He’d be calling you dirty and pretty and good in his flowery prose, stroking your cheek with his knuckles and you unfurl a moan so loud because you don’t have to stay quiet, you’ve got the place to yourself.

Before you’ve even come down from your high, you're flooded with the sting of reality.

No matter how wrong or immoral or risky it is, there’s no denying it– your feelings for Ezra are anything but platonic. And he’s on a date with another woman.

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes with a groan. 

The thought of facing Ezra after this revelation makes your stomach turn. You can almost see him sauntering in, hair mussed, body slack from his sexual conquest. It burns a hole in your chest, a scream practically rising in your throat. And you’ll, what, go on living with him, smelling his musk on your sheets and not go completely insane?

You pull the plug from the drain. So much for the bath. It’s early yet but the only thing you can do to help yourself now is be unconscious. There’s no way you’re going to fall asleep with your thoughts racing so you brew up a sleeping draught in the kitchen. With any luck, you won’t have any dreams either.

-

Ezra’s side of the bed is empty and cold. Mid-morning sun glows on the walls of your bedroom and you’re just waking up, the effects of the potion still making your head groggy. But eventually it dawns on you. He’s not there. 

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. Your eyes sting with tears, your gut sinking with the weight of it. You imagine Ezra curled up in bed with her. Morning sex. Breakfast. You want to puke. 

After a long while pulling yourself together, you realize it’s better this way. The last thing you need is to wake up next to Ezra smelling like sex and the patchouli notes of Zoe’s perfume. 

You can’t sulk. You need to get up, get over it.

When you step out of your bedroom, you stop short at the discovery that Ezra’s asleep on the couch. So he didn’t spend the night. It does little to soothe your aching heart. In fact, it somehow feels worse. He looks so perfect, long legs bare and brow smooth, mouth turned down in a pout. It’s not fair you have to survive around a man so perfect.

You go into the bathroom and close the door a little too loud a little on purpose. 

Maybe there’s a potion for falling out of love.

-

Ezra’s dragged himself up by the time you step back into the living room, woken by the slam of the door. He had the damndest time sleeping on that couch. Never realized how lucky he’s been to share the bed. 

You stop outside the bathroom door, arms akimbo, and your oversized sleep shirt rides up your thighs. 

“Well?” you ask. 

Ezra can’t help but smirk at your down to business attitude.

Well indeed. 

Zoe had been fine company. Not hard to look at even if the conversation left a little to be desired. His favorite part of the evening came when Zoe brought up the shop and, in turn, you. It was difficult not to let his words run away from him.

Despite his best efforts, knowing that he should give over and accept this, his mind kept slipping back to his little mage. What you would look like in the little frock Zoe had chosen, the jokes that only you would understand. You’d helped him pick out clothes for the evening, a soft woolen sweater you swore wasn't too tight. All night, he kept remembering the drag of your eyes over his arms before you said, “You look really good.” He wants you to look at him like that all the time.

”She’s not intolerable for a mortal,“ he says. 

“‘Not intolerable.’ Sounds like Ezra for bangable,” you say. “So?”

Perhaps in another universe, Ezra would have had a splendid time, would have debauched himself. He’d left after only two drinks, a look of disappointment on Zoe’s face that he wouldn’t soon forget. Had he been a better man, he would’ve felt worse about it but he couldn’t care about anything but you. As he walked briskly from the bar, he resolved to tell you everything, that he couldn’t stand even the suggestion that he sleep with someone else when you consume him. Good sense be damned. What was the point of being human if he had to live like this?

But he came home to find the apartment dark, your bedroom door shut. He listened there before opening it ajar to see you sleeping peacefully. Reality sunk in, fast and hard. A confession could ruin everything. His home, the only family he knew, the people he loved. He couldn’t risk losing you. 

If he woke you, he’d have you face the question you’d just asked so he’d curled up under the throw blanket on the couch, as he had so many times before.

“I won't make a braggart of myself,” he says, sidestepping the question.

You roll your eyes and head back to your bedroom in a hurry. 

Ezra’s shoulders sag with a deep sigh.

-

Sunday morning in the shop is slower than usual. It’s maddening, leaving you with too much time to meditate on your sorrows as you hide behind the cash register. Every time your eyes land on Ezra, you’re treated to fresh torment. For some reason you can’t stop picturing him fucking her doggy style with wild thrusts of his hips.

“Tea, dear?” Margot asks. Her rings tink against a spoon as she stirs honey into her tea cup. Mint and ginger fills your nostrils. 

You merely grunt in reply but hear her setting another cup out for you. There’s a clink of porcelain and Margot clicks her tongue.

“Your bad mood is sullying the energy in here,” she tuts.

You turn to find her wicking spilled tea off of her hand.

“I’m not in a bad mood,” you say too quickly. 

What kind of mood are you supposed to be in when you realize you’re in love with your best friend who was, until recently, a cat, and said friend spent the night with another woman? When there’s a chance that this was all for naught when the Elders find out and turn you into a newt?

Margot scoffs and lights a stick of palo santo, wafting its smoke in your direction. 

“You’d better not bring that energy into the full moon,” she says. “I don’t need to feel all mopey for the next fortnight.”

You cross your arms. 

“Are you still mad at me?” you ask. Margot’s been welcoming to Ezra but you still feel her ambivalence towards you. It hangs in the air the same as your sour aura. 

“Mad at you,” she repeats, pouring another cup of tea. “Why? Because you implicated me and Percy in a crime that I’m concealing from the Elders? I should be, shouldn’t I?” 

You sink deeper into your frown. Margot hands you the teacup. 

“But I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time. Besides whatever bee is in your bonnet today,” she adds with an arched brow. “And that’s made me very happy.”

You look at her, your lip quivering. Margot’s been there for you longer than Ezra, taught you everything you know about magic and given you an unconditional love you can hardly fathom even in adulthood. You nearly spill your tea again, setting it aside so you can throw your arms around her.

She stumbles backwards with an “Oof” and chuckles into your ear. Her open palm warms your back.

“It’s all in the stars,” she says.

And, right now, you have to believe she’s right.

-

Through the long sleeves of your velvet dress, you feel the chill in the air. It’s much colder than the last time you were in these woods for the solstice. Of course, this is a much different kind of celebration. The fire is smaller, there’s less paraphernalia involved. It’s just the four of you— you and Ezra, Margot and Percy— but it feels more joyful. 

Margot leads you in a ritual to draw down the moon, then sets out an ornate jar of water to charge in its light. You and Ezra help her cast some spells. She swears the ones done under a full moon have the strongest effect. 

But mostly the night is for merry making. There’s wine and incense and apple cider caramels. Margot perches on a tree stump and plays a few songs on her concertina and Ezra insists that you dance with him.

You do, putting your hands into his and letting him spin you in circles. Margot’s words ring in your ears. You can be happy that he’s happy even if it makes your heart ache. At least now, safe from the rest of the world, hands clasped together, you can pretend. 

Ezra looks so handsome in his new robes, you almost wonder if there’s an enchantment on them. The white patch in his hair glows as if the moon came down and kissed him on the forehead. His cheeks are pink and he’s as breathless as you. 

You’re both laughing when the music ends and you let your hand stay in Ezra’s for a while, wanting the fantasy to last just a little bit longer. 

“Now I must insist on a dance with you,” he says to Margot. He holds out a hand to her but doesn’t let go of yours yet. 

“I’m playing the music!” she says. 

“There must be an incantation that will make that squeezebox play itself,” he says and he slips from your grip to pull her to her feet. 

Percy scrambles off of her lap and hops onto your knee as you flop down on the ground. 

“I’ll sing!” you say.

“Goodness no!” Margot says. 

You all laugh and Ezra releases her after a few twirls.

Since it’s his party, Ezra takes the liberty of sharing his favorite stories. He sits beside you on the ground, animatedly narrating his wildest adventures. You’re pretty sure half of them are pure fabrication but he’s having so much fun recounting them, you don’t question even the most outlandish of details. The fire warms your face. Though, considering how it’s dying down, it could just be his glow. Ezra loves being at the center of attention and you wonder the last time he had the chance to command so much of it. He hasn’t stopped smiling since the sun set, that gorgeous dimple growing deeper with each hour. You love seeing him like this, full of excitement and life. 

Eventually, the moon hangs full overhead and Percy curls up to sleep on Margot’s shoulder. The crackle of the fire slows and you throw your head back to look at the sky dotted with so many twinkling stars. For the first time since Ezra left for his date, you feel peaceful. He’s quiet now and you try to catch another glimpse of him in the dark only to find his dark eyes shining at you. He smiles tenderly, and your whole body warms with affection. You can almost believe it’s a look of longing.

Margot slaps her hands against her thighs and stands, breaking your gaze. 

“Well, I’d better go before I turn into a pumpkin,” she says. 

“Oh, come on. It’s early,” you say. 

“We’ll brew you something to wake you in the morning,” Ezra offers. 

“That’s alright. Enjoy,” she says. Before she heads back into the trees, she takes Ezra’s hand and gives it a squeeze and pats you on the shoulder. 

You’re quiet for a long time, watching the fire die down. It comes back to you, slowly at first, then a flood of emotion, the uncertainty of your future. This night has been a gift but, one way or another, you’re destined to lose Ezra. There’s a melancholy look on his face that hints he might be thinking about the same things. 

“Should we retire then?” he asks after a sigh. 

“Wait. I want to give you something,” you say. Margot arranged this whole evening and you feel like you’ve shown up to a party empty handed.

“You’ve given more than enough.”

“Well, apparently I’ve been putting off really bad vibes. So a protection spell.” You rise to your feet.

Ezra pulls himself up with your help and this time you don’t allow him to let go. You take both of his hands in yours, his rough fingers entwined in your own, and he watches you, with a fond curiosity on his face. He flusters you. His gaze is so intense, you have a hard time meeting his eye.

“Okay,” you say, shaking out your limbs. 

Magic tingles where your palms meet and you notice that his thumb traces yours gently. Having spent the night before without him seems to double the intimacy of the moment. He looks downright beautiful like this, the angles of his face outlined in fire and moonlight. It’s almost unbearable. 

“Ezra,” you start.

His lips part at the sound of his name.

“I protect you with my magic and my spirit,” you say.

He can surely feel it surrounding him like an embrace. It’s so intense, you can barely fill your lungs. His eyes are so soft, round and sweet. They glisten in the darkness. 

“And my heart,” you add, your voice breaking.

You put your palm against his cheek, the pad of your thumb tracing the hairline scar there, to seal the spell and he takes in a sharp little gasp at your touch. There’s a look in his eye, beseeching, and you feel the tug of his magic, drawing you in closer like a knot tightening between you. It’s a whisper, so faint you’re probably imagining it, but you follow it to him, to his lips. 

Before you even realize it, you’re kissing him. Tender and aching and it feels like relief to have his mouth on yours, to taste the wine on his tongue. His lips are soft and hesitant. Your body molds against him, it always does. You’ve been in his arms so many times before and yet it’s never felt more right than this very moment. 

Except that it’s wrong. There are all of those reasons why this can’t be, how awkward it will be when he stops you, when he goes back to sleeping on the couch. Suddenly you’re pulling away despite your body screaming for you to do anything else.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I shouldn’t have– Shit!” You swallow down a lump in your throat.

Ezra holds you firm by your elbows, pulling your hand away from your lips and shaking his head.

“Little mage, I have wanted nothing more for longer than you can know,” he says, his eyes crinkling with a smile.

You stare at him, wide eyed, mouth agape, trying to make sense of his words. Your heart flips and you let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

And then he kisses you again and again and again.

🐈‍⬛

She knew what was in the tall, rectangular box before she’d even unwrapped the damn thing, screeching and running around the living room in celebration. Sarah loved the doll, taking it everywhere with her, tucking it in bed beside her. Best money Joel had ever spent.

Except Felicity had a plethora of accessories and outfits, furniture and accouterments that all cost a handsome sum. More catalogues came, glossy pages with marker drawn circles around Felicity’s tea set and writing desk and pony. (“The doll has a pony?” “It’s in the books, Daddy!”) There were cookbooks and paper dolls and Sarah-sized colonial dresses that she desperately needed. It seemed that Joel was personally bankrolling the Pleasant Company.

And now he’d agreed to bring Sarah to Colonial Williamsburg. He really hadn’t had the heart to say no to her when she ask that they take a family trip there over winter break though he knew it would cost him an arm and a leg. 

“Wouldn’t you rather go to Disney World?” Tommy asked.

Joel shot him a look. Disney would’ve cost three times as much but it wasn’t about the money. He was proud of his little girl for being a bookworm, choosing museums and butter churns over roller coasters and Minnie Mouse. 

“It’s where Felicity’s from,” she insisted. 

Sarah leads Joel by the hand down Duke of Gloucester Street. The quaint little houses are all decorated for the season– around each doorway is an evergreen garlands accented with fat, red bows. There’s a chill in the air. He hadn’t considered the weather in Virginia when he’d planned this vacation. Sarah doesn’t seem to notice, excitedly pointing out the carolers on the corner and the horse drawn carriage conveying tourists down the sandy street. 

Sarah devours every little detail, listening with eyes like saucers as the interpreters dressed in old fashioned costumes drone on about milliners and beeswax candles. 

Joel’s mind just keeps slipping back to the fact that he and Tommy aren’t working right now. A whole week with no income.That’s going to hurt when the credit card bill comes in.

”D’you think they ever sniped a redcoat with one of those?” Tommy asks on a tour of the Governor’s Palace, nodding towards one of the many guns hanging on the ceiling.

Sarah shushes him.

”Hey,”Joel whispers to his brother. “Remind me when we’re back at the motel, I’ve got to call and get those tiles ordered for the duplex project.”

”C’mon man. You’re thinking about work now?” Tommy complains.

”Can’t lose another day. Order it now, it’ll be waiting for us when we’re back,” Joel explains. 

“Daddy! You’re not listening!” Sarah hisses.

“Sorry, babygirl,” he says, squeezing her hand in his.

He tries to pay attention, he really does. Joel’s never had much of a mind for history. Dates and places and stuffy old men. The buildings are interesting, at least. He amuses himself wondering what it would be like to build a house like they did in the olden days. A rough saw and a chisel and his bare hands. Like a pioneer on the homestead.

There’s a gift shop at the end of the tour. Of course. Joel lets out a sigh of resignation. Sarah knows better than to ask but she’s eyeing a tin whistle and a book about ghost sightings. 

“Pick one,” Joel offers, hoping she goes for the book. The last thing he needs is Tommy’s yammering and the squeal of Yankee Doodle for the rest of the trip.

Her brown eyes move between the two souvenirs, lips twisted in thought. 

“Shit. I’ll buy you both if your Dad’ll wear this,” Tommy says with a laugh. He’s holding up a little felt tricorn hat meant for elementary school kids.

”Really?” Sarah asks, all bright and giggling. 

Joel glowers.

Dinner is a fifteen dollar hamburger at one of the historical taverns. Sarah’s doll gets its own seat at the table, a paper napkin tucked into the collar of its dress. Joel’s able to pawn the hat off on Sarah but not before Tommy got a photo on his disposable camera. 

“That’s going on the fridge,” he chuckles. 

As Joel pays the bill (noting the price of Tommy’s three beers), there’s a rumble of drums. 

“What’s that?” Tommy asks, craning his neck towards the window. 

“The militia’s coming through,” the waitress says, clearing the dish from Sarah’s ice cream sundae (the historical accuracy of which is questionable). “They’ll march in for the fireworks.”

“Fireworks!” Sarah gasps. 

Joel sighs. He’s exhausted, out all day in the cold wrangling his brother and his daughter. His knees are aching and he’s ready to call it a day and go back to the motel. But Sarah is practically bouncing in her seat. 

Joel bundles himself up once again and the trio join the crowd that lines the street. A fife and drum corps in their scarlet uniforms march past followed by an officer on horseback. The sun has long set and the air nips at Joel’s throat. He wishes he had a scarf, could probably pick one up in yet another gift shop but it would surely cost a small fortune. He hopes these fireworks will be over soon so he can put his feet up. 

The little town looks quite festive in the night. Candles glow in every window and the street lamps cast a warm light over the tourists. A massive evergreen on the Palace Green twinkled with modern lights but it only adds to the atmosphere. 

Without warning, the first firework shoots into the sky, its bang makes Tommy jump. It bursts into a shower of silver. The other spectators cheer and more fireworks follow— red and blue, green and gold. 

Sarah’s gloved hand wraps around Joel’s. Her face is turned up to the sky, illuminated by the colorful fireworks. Her eyes round with wonder, sparkling pink and white from the cascade of sparks above. 

She’s having the time of her life. And she deserves it. Sarah’s a good kid. Polite, studious, thoughtful. Joel’s always been proud of her though he has no idea how she turned out so sweet considering he and Tommy have been the ones that raised her. This is what it’s all for, he reminds himself. The hard work and long hours, the never ending stress of bills for things he can’t afford. It’s all for her. 

She turns to find Joel watching her, his heart swollen in his chest. 

“Thanks, Daddy,” she says. She squeezes his hand and pulls her doll close to her chest.  

That thing was worth every penny. 

It’s enough not only to wake him but startle him out of the bed. What would normally be a swift leap off of the mattress, landing on his feet, is an inelegant tumble to the floor, knocking his head and pulling the sheets off with him. You’re actually shrieking. It’s not just some figment of his imagination. A string of creative expletives leave you as Ezra tries to untangle himself from the covers. When he finally rights himself, his heart beating like a rabbit, he finds you pressed against the headboard with a look of terror on your face. 

“What the fuck! What the fuck!” you shout, your heels digging in the mattress as you scoot away from him. 

“Easy! It’s me, little mage! It’s me!” he says, breathless. 

Your eyes somehow manage to grow even wider. 

“Ezra?” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “It worked.”

His head is spinning so quickly that your words take a moment to sink in. Another is spent in disbelief as he look down at his hands, outstretched in submission. Ten fingers. There are legs snarled in the bedsheets not covered in black fur but with wiry hairs. 

Ezra touches his nose, still bent from where he broke it in his youth. He feels the divot of the scar on his cheek, the whiskers on his upper lip. All as he was. 

He stares, speechless for once in his life. 

“Ez, it fucking worked!” you cry, tumbling across the bed and diving over the side. 

You clasp your hands on either side of his face, your eyes wild with delight, and your laughter is a mix of joy and relief. He joins you, it’s contagious, laughing and gripping into your shoulders. If he didn’t feel your palms against his cheeks, he’d think this was still a dream. 

Luckily he has the presence of mind not to plant a kiss on your mouth though with the amount of glee bouncing between the two of you, he doubts you’d protest. 

“We did it!” you say. 

“You did it,” Ezra corrects, marveling at you. 

You amaze him more each day. Not only did you do some incredible and complex magic but you foresaw it all. Beautiful, clever, talented. And now you’ve given him his greatest gift. He’s human once more. 

Your eyes dance across his face in turn, taking in the new details

“It’s really you,” you say. 

You stroke at his face with your thumb. It’s a light touch but to Ezra, the sensation is so powerful he’s afraid he’ll shatter into a thousand pieces. 

You smile softly and reach for his hair. “Your patch,” you say, twisting the white strands out of his forehead. 

“Oh, Ez!” you exclaim.  

Overwhelmed by it all, a dam bursts. Tears are slipping down his face without him even knowing. Centuries of them finally making their escape. 

You lean in, press your forehead against his as you have so many times before yet it’s so new. The bridge of your nose brushes against his, your lips hover so close he can feel your breath. You stroke behind his ear, fingers in his hair, a sensation that’s familiar, grounding. 

He’s so grateful for you, for your faith in him. 

You sniffle and he realizes that you’re just as emotional. Your cheeks glisten with tears when you pull away, still shaking your head in disbelief. 

“Thank you,” Ezra says. Chokes. He’s never done this properly though he’s tried to show it. It’s too difficult to put into words, even for someone as verbose as he is. He’s grateful with a depth he can’t find words for though he’s always considered himself a master of them. 

Tears well in your eyes again but these aren’t like the joyful ones you just shed. Your lips quiver. Ezra catches one as it slides down your cheek with his fingertips. He’s watched you cry so many times and he’s always wanted to do that. 

You throw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. It feels better than he’s ever imagined. You fit in his arms so perfectly, he could hold you for a thousand years. He inhales your scent, familiar to him but different now. His senses have dulled but drawn close, he loses himself in it. 

“Ezra,” you say after a long moment. “I just realized. You’re totally naked right now.”

Perhaps he should be embarrassed, worried that this is your first glimpse of him and you’ve seen all that there is to see. But he couldn’t care less. 

The two of you descend into giggles. 

—

“This is how I’m to make my debut in the world?” Ezra asks, stepping out of your bedroom.

He’s wearing the clothes you picked out for him, all that you could find that would encompass his broad frame. Your sweatpants are cinched tight around his slim waist, ending far above his ankles. Below that, his toes overhang the edge of your old flip flops. The outfit is finished with a big sweatshirt you bought several Halloweens ago– the words Witch, please emblazoned on the front in a cutesy font.

A startled snort leaves you and he scowls.

“I’m sorry,” you say, covering your smile with both hands. “You look–”

“Like a buffoon,” he says.

“Like you need to go shopping,” you correct.

You wait for Ezra outside of the dressing room, your back pressed against the door. The very first stop outside of the confines of your apartment is the local department store to get him something normal to wear. Ezra’s an oddity, everything from the way he speaks to his awkwardness adjusting to walking on two legs make him stick out. An ironic sweatshirt and sandals aren’t going to help him blend. 

The excitement is still buzzing through your veins. Every few minutes you want to open the changing room door and make sure that he’s still there, still human. A couple of times you even peek under the door just to see his feet haven’t turned back into paws. It’s really happening. You’re out in the world with Ezra. Ezra the human, a man. You changed him yourself, just as your dream had predicted, but you’re less fixated on the feat of magic and more on what he’s transformed into.

Ezra’s not at all who you were expecting under the fur. He’s remarkably handsome. Tall and broad shouldered. A strong nose accentuated by a dark mustache. His mouth is almost always set in a pout, full bottom lip turned out, jaw dotted with stubble. 

He’s not entirely unrecognizable. There’s something about the mirth in his smile that feels familiar, a slyness in his eye. 

Still It’s hard to believe that this is your Ezra, the little cat that curled up in your lap, tiptoed behind you on the back of the couch. He’s all man, big enough to swallow you up in his embrace. If you were strangers, you’d be too intimidated to even look him in the eye.

You giggle to yourself at how ridiculous that thought is. He’s Ezra. Your best friend. It doesn’t matter what he looks like. And if you told him he was good looking he’d never shut up about it. 

“What’s so funny?” he asks from the other side of the door, his voice muffled as he brings a shirt over his head.

“Just thinking about how my sweats fit you,” you say.

“Breathe a word of that to a soul—“ he grumbles. 

“Are you done yet?”

He sighs and you hear the latch on the door and there he is again. It knocks the air out of your lungs to be face to face with him once again, with that new face. Ezra stares back at you. His eyes are nothing like those sharp, golden eyes you’ve known for so many years. They’re deep brown, big and round— funny enough, more like a puppy dog than a cat. 

Your gaze falls down onto the outfit he’s chosen.

”What happened here?” You ask. 

His shirt is only half buttoned leaving a large swath of that golden chest in view, a constellation of freckles dotting his neck clavicle. You noticed them when he was sprawled out on your bedroom floor, tried to keep your focus on those instead of letting your eyes wander too much. 

”I’m afraid I haven’t gained mastery over my thumbs yet,” he admits sheepishly. 

“Let me.” You try to hide your grin.

You work the buttons, careful not to let your knuckles brush his front. His warmth radiates through the thin cotton and you’re suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing. It shouldn’t be so tense. This is the same Ezra after all, the cat you snuggled to sleep every night. Nothing’s changed between you and yet it’s definitely not the same. You feel him watching you and you swear he’s holding his breath. He shifts uncomfortably. 

”Are you sure these trousers are right?” He asks finally, palms grazing the fronts of his jeans. “They’re exceedingly restrictive.”

”When’s the last time you wore pants?” You ask him.

“When you tried to put me in that ridiculous cowboy get up,” he reminds you. 

“You were so cute!” you laugh, remembering how he flopped down on the floor in protest. 

He scoffs. 

“Come see yourself,” you say, motioning towards the trio full length mirrors at the end of the hall of dressing rooms. 

Ezra’s a sight to behold in his new outfit. A crisp white shirt tucked into a pair of dark jeans. If you squint you can see the man he once was in one of those romantic billowy shirts. 

“Looks good,” you say. 

Ezra’s furrowed brow smooths and he catches your eye in the mirror with a bashful smile. 

“You have a dimple,” you say. 

You keep noticing new things about him as the day goes on. There’s a little bald patch in his beard, wrinkles around his eyes when he laughs. 

“I suppose I forgot,” he says, blushing. “Am I not what you expected?” 

If you didn’t know him better, you’d think he sounded nervous. 

“I don’t know,” you say. He’s not what you pictured yet he’s exactly right in every way. He’s better than you pictured. He looks like that. How could you expect he was existing in your presence all this time?

You remind yourself quickly how wrong it is to be thinking of Ezra that way. He’s the closest thing you have to a brother. How many nights did you stay up pouring your heart out to him about life? It’s just the novelty, you assure yourself. Once you get used to him, it’ll be different. 

“I guess I thought you’d look like Ichabod Crane,” you tease. 

“Hilarious.”

––

“You should go to the Grand Canyon,” you say. 

All night, you’ve been brainstorming a list for Ezra, all of the things he can finally do now that he’s turned. The two of you already crossed off the first thing— eat dinner at a fancy restaurant— and you’re working on the second item— drinks at the local watering hole. 

It’s a busy Saturday night but you worked some magic to get a cozy table. The place is rustic by design, the kind of bar invented for the Brooklyn transplants that are renovating barns into Air BnBs. 

It’s chock full of mortals but Ezra couldn’t care less if he were surrounded by the witch hunters of Salem, just being out and about with you feels like a thrill. 

“What about having a human body is necessary to visit the Grand Canyon?” Ezra asks.  

The more drinks you had in you, the more esoteric the ideas became. 

“I don’t know. You could hike?” you say. 

“I think I had the advantage with four legs. I’ll pass,” he says. 

“I guess you’re right,” you say. Then you point an excited finger at him. “Learn to drive!”

He tilts his head, considering it but you’re already onto the next one. 

“Dancing!” 

“I’m not sure I know how it’s done these days,” he says. He’d enjoyed dancing when he was human the first time, mainly because it gave him ample opportunity to touch and flirt.  

“I don’t know. You just move,” you tell him. “Come on. I’ll dance with you right now.” You reach your hand out for him across the table to show that you really mean it. 

Ezra’s seen you dance hundreds of times. At witches gatherings, of course, but many more times in the kitchen, wearing your pajamas and singing off key, you scooping him up and rocking him to the beat. You might not be a good dancer, he’s not one to judge, but he’s always loved watching your hips find a rhythm. 

He’s still unsteady on his feet with less than 24 hours on his new legs and yet he couldn’t care less if he looks a fool if it means he can dance with you. The two of you are sure to draw attention— no one else is dancing despite the fact that the music’s so loud he has to shout to be heard. That doesn’t bother him. Let these mortals see you with him for once. Let him pretend for a moment that you’re his. 

He takes your hand, his heart speeding up in anticipation of your body being close, when your face falls. Your gaze is somewhere past him and you pull out of his grasp. 

“Oh, fuck,” you say. 

Ezra looks over his shoulder to see a familiar face. A lanky guy carrying a guitar case stops in his tracks when he spies you. The last time Ezra saw this mortal he had his paws all over you. 

“Shit. I completely forgot. Connor’s playing a gig here tonight. He invited me,” you groan. 

This fuck. Ezra’s joyous mood is jolted by the memory of Connor slobbering over your neck, the sounds of the two of you on the couch that he tried desperately to block out, the jealousy that sickened him. Here was one of the mortals that had touched and tasted you in the way Ezra had only dreamed interrupting his first chance to truly be close to you. 

But his lips crack into a wicked smile as Connor’s face twists in disappointment. Ezra knows how it looks to him. You’re here at his show where he hoped to woo you with song and you’re cozied up to another man. How many times had Ezra himself been forced to endure such humiliation?

 “Hey,” you say with unconvincing friendliness, selling it by standing up to offer a hug when Connor finally works up the nerve to come by. 

He keeps a wary eye on Ezra who in turn sits up straighter, chest out. He makes himself larger the same way he would passing one of the strays in the graveyard. It’s been hard to adjust to his new body, constantly bumping into things because he’s bigger, off balance without a tail. But right now, he couldn’t be more pleased with his new form. 

“Who’s your friend?” Connor asks without exchanging any pleasantries. He’s not masking his annoyance very well. 

“Oh. This is—“

“Ezra,” Ezra offers. 

“Hey,” Connor says dismissively. 

“He’s a friend of mine,” you add quickly. “Wanted to tag along to your show.”

“I hear you’re quite the talent,” he says. 

There’s a twitch in Connor’s brow as you kick Ezra under the table. 

“I guess you need to go set up,” you encourage, so ready to be rid of him. 

Ezra has other plans. 

“You must have time for a drink first. What’ll it be?” He asks. He can feel your eyes on him, trying to figure out his ulterior motive. 

“IPA,” Connor answers after a moment’s hesitation. 

Ezra’s powers tingle as he waves over the waitress. 

Connor finds a chair and joins you at the little table. The beer sets his mind at ease as you bullshit about how Ezra is an old friend, trying to save this guy’s pride. It seems like he buys it. Like all mortals, he’s a bit dim. 

He’s ridiculous, too. Talks a lot without asking you questions. Thinks he’s terribly interesting when he’s no different from the other mortal men that have shared your bed.  

“Isn’t your cat’s name Ezra?” Connor finally realizes after droning on about David Bowie as if he were the one that heard an original pressing of Ziggy Stardust. 

You stutter for a moment but you don’t have to come up with an answer because Ezra chimes in.

“Now, what was it you were attempting to elucidate with regards to psychedelic rock?” Ezra asks. 

You stifle a laugh, choking down some of your drink to hide it. This time, beneath the table you’re pressing your knee into his. 

“Uh,” Connor says, trying to gather his thoughts. “Yeah.”

He clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair then reaches for his beer again. 

“Well a lot of people think it starts with The Beatles but actually,” Connor lifts his drink to his lips in a theatrical pause, taking a swig, but his expression contorts in confusion, then disgust. He spits the beer back into his glass and with it comes a spider, it’s spindly legs thrashing about wildly. “Ah! Fuck!” he sputters. 

In his fright, Connor’s arms flail cartoonishly. The glass flies from his grasp and hits the table top, spilling its contents in all directions. You cry out, jumping up to avoid getting a lap full of IPA. The spider spins in the slippery puddle, trying to scurry every which way. Connor tries to distance himself from the arachnid but he legs of his chair catch and he topples over backwards onto the floor.

All conversation dies away around you as the other patrons have turned to watch the chaotic scene– Connor’s feet pointed up towards the ceiling, the floor beneath the table pooling with spilled beer. Ezra sits cool as a cucumber, his side of the table miraculously dry.

”Careful there, Connor,” he says. “Just a pretty little spider.”

You shoot him a look and he shrugs innocently. Your eyes say behave but it’s contradicted by a budding smile. 

“You good?” you ask.

Connor lays there wincing, probably much more embarrassed than he is bruised. Ezra offers a hand to help him up, all friendly smiles. Connor scowls but he has no choice but to accept, letting himself be hoisted to his feet by the other man. The crowd loses interest as Connor dusts himself off. 

“What a tumult,” Ezra says with a laugh. He slaps Connor on the shoulder so hard that he stumbles forward.

The waitress comes over with a bar rag and a judgemental look. 

“Did you hurt yourself?” You ask.

”I’m fine,” Connor answers a little too quickly. He flattens his ruffled hair. “Listen, maybe I should just go warm up.” He motions towards the little platform that serves as the stage.

”A wise idea,” Ezra says and Connor darts away.

”You’re bad,” you say but you’re practically bursting with laughter.

Ezra considers continuing his mischief while Connor’s performing— make him play the wrong notes or break a guitar string— but he doesn’t have to. Connor’s eyes keep finding you as he sings his whiney little songs and each time, Ezra’s right there. Leaning in close to talk to you over the music, making little quips that have you close to spitting out your drink. Right now, you couldn’t care less about this mortal, busy trying to convince Ezra that karaoke should be added to his adventure list. 

“Let’s go,” you say after draining your glass. 

“But your friend’s not done,” he teases. 

“I think we’ve heard enough,” you say. 

You offer Connor a sad little wave as you get up from the table, taking Ezra’s hand in yours to lead him through the throng of people crowding the bar. 

He watches Connor’s face fall as his eyes follow you to the exit. It’s a silly little revenge but to Ezra it’s delicious, a comeuppance for every mortal that’s been in your bed. Maybe Connor thinks you’re taking Ezra home to do the same to him. Good. It’s so delightful that Ezra doesn’t even care that it isn’t true.

––

“What have I unleashed on the world?” you ask with laughter, crossing the threshold of your apartment.

“I have no idea to what you are referring,” Ezra says but there’s a smirk on his lips. 

“You’ve gone from hairballs in shoes to public humiliation.” You should be more sympathetic to poor Connor but you can’t stop giggling. Every time you recall the sight of him flying backwards, flapping his arms, you’re in stitches again.

“Just a little harmless magic to warm up my powers,” he replies. “Not to worry, little mage, I’m sure he’ll still be more than happy to accept a booty call.” 

You shake your head. Between the awful conversation, the spew of spider, and the wailing of his songs, you have no interest in revisiting things with Connor.

In the kitchen you pour two glasses of water, adding a few drops of a tincture you keep handy for hangovers. You’re still a little tipsy, will probably wake up with a headache in the morning, but you don’t care. You can’t remember the last time you had so much fun with another witch. Not that it should surprise you. It’s Ezra after all.

”You know, you can’t fuck with these mortals too much. You do that to the wrong guy and they’ll start hunting us again,” you warn. You hand Ezra one of the glasses and flop down on the couch beside him. 

“But it’s alright to toy with their emotions?” Ezra retorts. “How many hearts have you broken?”

You scoff in mock offense but you know he’s right. You’ve never let yourself get attached to any mortals. Somewhere, deep down, you knew you’d never have a serious relationship with one of them so there was no fear of falling in love, no worry about their feelings, no risk of getting hurt.

Now that you’ve stopped moving, fatigue sets in. You rest your head on Ezra’s shoulder. You’re starting to get used to the fact that you can actually do that but it hasn’t gotten old yet. An absent grin plays on your lips. 

“Did you have a good first human day?” you ask. 

You feel his chuckle under your cheek. 

“I did indeed,” he says. 

Your smile widens. Ezra’s arm wraps around your shoulders, his fingers gently grazing circles over your sleeve, and you nuzzle further into his chest. 

“Thank you, little mage,” he says. 

”Mm,” is all you manage.

Your heavy eyelids begin to drift closed. It’s so cozy, you imagine yourself as a little cat in Ezra’s arms. You wonder if this is how it felt for him, cuddled in your lap, getting scritches under his chin, and you swear you’re purring. No, you’ve fallen asleep and started snoring. 

You force yourself awake with a groan. Ezra’s sitting contentedly beside you, watching you shift and stretch.

“I’ve got to sleep,” you yawn and manage to drag yourself onto your feet. 

Ezra doesn’t move, just nods and says, “Good night.”

“Are you staying up?” you ask. He must be exhausted after such a roller coaster of a day. 

“I think I’ll sleep here,” he tells you. 

You falter just outside of your bedroom. 

“You don’t have to,” you say. 

“I should,” he says. 

“Oh. Okay.” You’re not sure why it hurts. “Well, then you take the bed. I'll sleep out here,” you offer. 

“It’s your bed,” he says. 

A pang of guilt punches you in the gut. How many times had you reminded him of that?

“It’s alright. I’ve slept here on numerous occasions,” he assures you. 

You linger for a moment, trying to come up with some good reason why he shouldn’t stay on the couch. It shouldn’t be important to you. He might want his own space, some privacy after all these years, yet it feels like you’re losing something. 

“Let me get some sheets—“

“I know where the linens are,” he says. Obviously. He lives here too. 

Eventually you have to stop standing there like a weirdo and go to the bedroom. Door open or closed? You leave it somewhere in between. 

“G’night,” you say. 

You lay in bed listening to Ezra in the linen closet, then shucking his jeans and settling on the sofa. Suddenly you’re wide awake and sober as a judge, ruminating on what this means for the future. The two of you can only slip further and further away. He wants his own place to sleep, he’ll want his own place to live. It’s only natural. He’s not yours anymore. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?

You roll over, pulling the covers up to your ears. Then off. You punch your pillow into shape. You strain your ears, listening for Ezra's breathing in the next room. Is he sleeping? You lean off the side of your bed, peering into the darkness and do your best to make out his form in the shadows. 

Soon Ezra will have his own life, his own friends. He’s always been his own person. At least that’s what you’ve always said. How long have you been deluding yourself?

You shift again, grabbing your pillow and squeezing it in your arms to mimic his cat’s body. No luck. Nothing’s the same as Ezra. The occasions when you’ve fallen asleep without him clutched to you have been few and far between. Loneliness aches in your chest. This wasn’t something you’d thought through before you cast your spell. 

Finally you throw back the sheets and march into the living room.

Ezra lays on the little couch as best he can, bare to the waist clad only in the boxers you made him buy. One of his long legs is sprawled over the side of the couch, the other tucked under his body. His eyes are wide open, staring up at the ceiling, an arm folded beneath his head. 

“I can’t sleep,” you say.

“Likewise,” he says.

“This is ridiculous. Ez, you’ve always slept with me,” you complain.

“That was different,” he says, sitting up on an elbow.

“Well–” You want to tell him that nothing’s changed but it doesn’t really feel like the truth. Everything’s felt different today. You throw up your hands. “This is weird.”

He looks at you for a long time, the swell of his bottom lip turning into a deep frown.

“Just. Come on,” you say.

You leave the door open for him as you go back to your room and climb into bed. It’s his turn to hesitate, loitering in the doorway. Moonlight catches on the slope of his shoulder and the angle of his nose, glints in his unsure eyes. You sit with your arms crossed until finally he relents. 

It’s certainly not the same as it was to have your cat beside you. Ezra occupies a large part of your double bed but he leaves a wide swath of mattress between you, keeping his limbs close to his body. Your instincts tell you to reach out for him but you don’t want to overstep this new boundary. 

Despite the awkwardness, the delicate balance neither of you want to upset, feeling his warmth on the sheets, you’re finally able to breathe a sigh and sink into your pillow at last. His warm eyes gaze at you, giving you a long, slow blink.

“Better?” he asks. 

“Mhm,” you answer. 

And soon you’re both fast asleep. 

––

Ezra’s cock greets him in the morning like an old friend. 

He can feel your breasts warm against his back, your arm curled around his waist the same as always. Despite his efforts to keep his distance, you found each other in the night, sleeping the only way you know how. His body responded in kind.

This was what he feared, why he tried– briefly– to be good and sleep on the couch. Though to say that you’d twisted his arm was a lie. He’d given in far too quickly because he wanted you too much.

He can’t keep thinking about you like this if he wants to stay close to you, if he plans on surviving as a human. But all he wants to do is crawl down the bed, bury his face between your thighs, and make you his. 

Before he does something rash, he slips away from you. You’re fast asleep thanks to the drinks and the late night. As Ezra rolls off the mattress, you let out a complaint, a little whimper that goes straight to his groin. He freezes, cock aching, and watches you roll over. You’re beautiful bathed in morning light, the sheets laying gently across your curves. If only he could run his hand over their outline. 

His movements are not exactly cat-like as he creeps into the bathroom, the old wooden floors protesting with each step. As soon as the lock clicks he’s divesting himself of these ridiculous underthings. And there he is, that old menace. His length glistens with leaking precum, tip flushed red, begging to be touched. Ezra grips the base carefully but it still elicits a groan. He’s too sensitive— hundreds of years of pent up desire and a night beside you have him dizzy. 

He gives himself an experimental stroke and it’s like lightning. His knees buckle and he has to hold himself up with his palm against the back of the door. With a silent curse and a steadying breath, Ezra spits into his fist and goes again. Slow, gentle. He knows he won’t last but he’s afraid his new body won’t be able to take the rapture. It’s divine torture, his mind soon swimming in pleasure. 

Every dream he’s had, each time you danced under the moon or came out of the shower skin beaded with water, it all rushes past his eyes a cacophony of obscenities. Thank the stars you can’t see him like this, more animalistic than when he was one. Repulsive. Fucking his fist as he thinks of you, the only witch that’s ever cared for him. Defiling you in his mind. 

He promises his guilty conscience that he’ll never do this again. He just needs it this once as his muscles strain and tighten. It’s bliss and agony all at once and he’s so close to breaking, he can hardly bear it.

“Ezra?” he hears you from the bedroom. Your voice is still rough and husky from sleep and it’s more than enough to push him over the edge. 

His head falls back, eyes squeezed shut, and he chokes down the growl that’s erupted from his chest. His hips jump and his hand is coated in hot release. 

“Ez?” you call out. 

Ezra swallows dryly, inhales as deeply as he can manage. 

“Just a moment,” he manages to croak out as his forehead comes to rest against the cool wood of the bathroom door. 

“Oh,” you say with relief. “You weren’t there. I thought-— I was afraid maybe the spell went wrong.”

“Not to worry, little mage,” he says. “I’m still under your spell.”

—

The two of you spend the day in the basement, doing magic together. Ezra shows off the spells that were something of a specialty for him. Mostly, they’re party tricks. (“This one used to send the mortals frothing,” he says as he changes a glass of water into wine.)

The only blemish on an otherwise perfect day came when you offered helpfully, “You know, if we can clean out the spare room down here, you could have a place of your own.”

It stung though Ezra knew you would expect him to leave the nest eventually. Maybe you’d heard what he’d been doing behind the bathroom door and were hinting he find somewhere else to abuse himself.

It feels good to be doing magic again, even better to share with you. He’s a little rusty, working a muscle that’s been comatose for years. You don’t seem to mind. You’re impressed, just as giddy as he is,  though you’re not amused when he turns a bowl of pasta noodles into worms.

“If you ever do that to me, I’ll turn you back,” you swear.

You’re particularly fascinated with a piece of magic Ezra shows you where he ignites a flame in his hand. 

“Show me again,” you say.

He strikes his thumb against his fingertips as though they were flint on steel and the fire sparks. You watch with a furrowed brow, rehearsing the motion with your own hand.

“You can do it with a candle. It’s quite the same,” he explains. The flame glows orange, hovering in his palm until he snuffs it in his fist.

You hold your hand forward and mimic his motion to no avail. 

“It’s not a snap,” he says in reply to your frustrated groan. “Observe.” He demonstrates again, slower this time.

“That’s what I did,” you complain.

After a few more attempts you shake your head.

“I can’t do it.”

“You turned a cat into a man. This is well within your abilities,” he assures you.

You thrust your hand towards him. “Show me.”

“Very well,” he says. 

It’s not like your touch is new to him and still he swoons as he cups your hand in his. Maybe it’s because yours is so much smaller, almost delicate. It’s the intimacy of this moment, the magic, that has his heart hammering. Your powers vibrate beneath your skin, heating you from within.

You don’t have to stand so close but you slot yourself against him, your shoulders against his chest.

“Relax,” he whispers into the shell of your ear. He can’t help himself, resting his other hand on your hip. 

You take a deep breath and he marvels at how easily you unwind in his arms. If you turn towards him, your lips will brush.

”Focus,” he says as if his own head isn’t swimming.

You nod and Ezra guides your thumb across your fingers. 

The fire doesn’t just spark to life in your hand but it ignites as if it were fed by kerosene, flaring wildly. It burns so hot he can feel it radiating through your fingers. You let out a delighted squeal, your smile brighter than the flame itself. 

“Holy shit!” You turn to share your joy with Ezra, so close your noses touch as you move. You giggle. 

He can’t help but grin himself. You are truly amazing. 

It all shatters in an instant. You hear the jingle of the shop door above and the fire in your fist fizzles to ash. You freeze except for your eyes that grow wide with horror. Footsteps cross overhead, the floorboards creaking. The bookstore is closed just as it is every Halloween week. There are no customers coming in. There’s only one person that could be here. 

Ezra hears Margot call out your name and his stomach drops.

”Are you down there?” she says. She’s just at the top of the stairs where you left the door propped open.

”Uh huh,” you answer. You still haven’t moved an inch, just stand there dumbly.

You’d talked briefly about how the two of you would break the news to Aunt Margot but you hadn’t come to a decision. You still had time to figure it out and you were both so giddy that you couldn’t imagine a world where she was anything but delighted to see what he’d become. Suddenly it’s an incredible risk and neither of you are prepared.

“”I just kept thinking about you here all alone. I left as soon as I could,” she says. “Everybody was asking about–“ her eyes finally land on Ezra and she stiffens ”–you.”

“Aunt Margot–” you try.

Percy, who’s just peeked his head out of her breast pocket, lets out a squeal.

“What have you done?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. 

He’s not sure how she knows– Margot is perceptive in ways neither you or Ezra could anticipate– but she doesn’t need to be told.  

She stares at the man before her and he’s brought back to the look on Cee’s face years upon years ago when he stood over Damon’s limp body.

It’s a punch in his gut delivered by himself long ago, it all slips away. The party is over, the jig is up. The past two days evaporate like one of his dreams. Those sweet mornings waking up beside you, the swell of your touch, the thought of a future. He’d really believed it could go on like that forever. 

You look as terrified as your aunt but you swallow it down and say, “I turned him back.”

“That’s not possible,” Margot says. 

“I’m afraid it is,” Ezra says. His words don’t hold any of their usual cool confidence. 

“Is this why you stayed home?”

“No—“ you try.  

“You lied to me,” Margot says. “And you had no right to do this.”

“We had no intention of doing this before you departed,” Ezra begins.

“The laws have changed,” you snap.  Ezra wraps his hand around yours, not sure if he’s protecting you or grounding you before you lose your cool. 

“Well, they’re still laws. And shame on you, Ezra, for letting her do that,” Margot snipes. 

“I talked him into it,” you say. 

“Oh, yes, I’m sure it took a lot of convincing,” she replies with an eye roll. “Have you lost your mind?” 

“It’s unjust what they did to him,” you argue. 

“He was convicted of killing another witch. I’m sorry, Ezra, but that is no petty crime.”

“That other witch was a child abuser!” you snap. 

Ezra clenches his jaw. You’re the only other person he’s told about Cee and now seems like an inopportune moment to start pouring out his guts. Margo’s sharp eyes look to him for confirmation, her frown softening with surprise.

”I make no excuse for my transgressions,” he says.

“You should turn yourself in to the elders before they find out on their own,” Margot says. 

”No,” you say. 

”She’s right,” Ezra says, his eyes cast to the floor. 

“No,” you say once more. ”Ezra served his time. And he should never have been such an inhumane punishment.”

Margot hears none of it, shaking her head with her eyes screwed shut.  “The elders will take your powers for this. Or worse. They’ll make you both into cats. And you did this all under my roof. Did you think this through at all?”

Reality sinks in the pit of Ezra’s stomach. He’s put you in danger but Margot too. She’s always been good to him, one of the few people he enjoys and he’s gotten her mixed up in a crime. 

”You weren’t even here,” you say, your voice wavering. Clearly the guilt is creeping through your veins as well. 

”Go upstairs, dear. I need to speak to Ezra alone,“ she demands. 

”No,” you say with indignation.

“It’s alright,” Ezra tells you.

You look between the two of them. Margot stares at him as if you’ve already left the room and you have no choice but to obey. 

Margot says nothing, shooting daggers at Ezra for an excruciating amount of time. At last, she puts her hand to her brow in exasperation and does her best to collect her emotions. 

”Let me get a look at you,” Margot says when she stands tall again. 

Ezra steps forward, presenting himself with a slight bow as he was accustomed to do. He has many years on her but he currently feels like a boy caught by the schoolmarm, about to get his knuckles rapped. 

She takes his hand, turns it over in her own, inspecting the magic you’ve done. Margot lets out an indignant scoff. 

“How did she do it?” Margot asks, her voice half suspicion, half wonder.

“A potion. A spell. It was by her own hand,” he explains. “She foresaw it in a dream.” 

Margot fingertips brush her lips, the whirl of thoughts racing through her mind plain on her face. 

“You know what kind of witch has the powers to cast a spell like that?” he asks.

Her answer is a nod and a sigh, her shoulders straightening. Still lost in thought, Ezra fills the silence with his plea.

“Margot, I have served your family for two centuries but I have never cared for another witch as deeply as I do your niece,” he admits. “I’m well aware that what we’ve done is bold and rash. Foolish, even. But I promise you that I will not let any harm come to her so long as I’m living.”

His heart beats so hard, he’s afraid it might leap from his chest.

Margot looks into his eyes and there’s a momentary prickle along his scalp. Her lips quirk and her expression softens and Ezra feels too vulnerable. He’s let her see too much of the truth. If he could, he’d climb out of his own skin. The moment passes as Margot masks her sympathy, raising her chin and crossing her arms in a way that reminds him of you.

“Fine. This isn’t an endorsement,” she says. “But you can tell her I’m not going to rat you out.”

“Thank you,” he says. He knows that he’s been given yet another gift he doesn’t deserve. Hopefully Margot can sense his gratitude as she did his conviction. He heads after you, towards the back door of the shop but is stopped by the sound of his name. Turning, he sees Margot with her keen eye on him.

“Be careful,” she warns.

He’s not sure what she’s referring to but he knows she’s right.

🐈‍⬛

“What happened?” her expression immediately clouds with concern. 

“This is exactly why I don’t date witches. I told you that I didn't want to be set up with him.” you rant, blowing past her into what was once the dining room. 

There’s still a turned leg table at its center, now piled with goods for sale. Percy winds his way between beeswax candles and hand-poured soaps.  

“Oh yes I really forced him on you,” she says with sarcasm. “I recall the two of you were practically necking in front of the whole coven last night.”

You’re not sure if it’s the idea that you almost fucked River or the term necking that grosses you out more but you cringe.

“He’s so backwards. Guys like him make me ashamed to be a witch,” you say. 

“How can you say such a thing? Ashamed to be a witch! Do I need to remind you just how lucky you are? After what we’ve been through? Our kind was almost wiped off the face of the earth. By mortals like your little boyfriends,” she says. 

“I’m so tired of hearing that. It’s a shitty excuse. Mortals killed witches hundreds of years ago so we get a free pass to do whatever we want. To treat our familiars like slaves,” you reply. 

She scoffs. “Percy do you hear that?”

He squeaks indignantly. 

“He’s offended by that,” she tells you. 

“He should be. It’s worse than offensive. It’s evil!” you say. Your voice echoes so loudly it rattles the antique silvered mirror hanging over the mantle. 

Margot gathers Percy in her palm calmly stroking his white fur, her eyebrow arched in a way that tells you she’s trying to be patient. You shouldn’t take out it on her. She’s never been anything but good to her familiar. 

“Do you know what he said about Ezra?” You can feel tears begin to bite at your eyes. 

She frowns when she reaches into your mind to hear it herself. 

“His family’s always held onto the old ways," she says, shaking her head in disappointment. 

“Don’t make excuses for him,” you snap. 

She tucks Percy into the pocket of her cardigan and places a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

“He’s an idiot and I’m proud of you. And you should be proud of yourself too. All of you,” she says. 

–

The basement of the Arcane Page might be described as spooky, what with its cobwebs and dusty, amber jars. Apothecary shelves stocked with potions, rare ingredients, and animal bones meet the low ceilings. Disused broomsticks sit in the corner along with willow branches and a black goat’s horn. There are all manner of spell books down here along with hand written notes from your ancestors. At the center of the room there’s a wide oak table carved with runes and spells. It smells like ink and dried leaves and magic. 

The warm sunset streams through the egress windows catching the dust that floats in the air. Margot didn’t have to be a mind reader to know you wanted to be alone and so she didn’t put up a fight when you offered to close up on your own. After you closed the register and locked the front door, you ventured down to the part of the shop meant only for witches. 

Your plan was just to have some quiet before venturing upstairs where Ezra would be waiting. For all you knew he was still huddled under the bed. You could abhor River but only one of you had actually hurt your familiar. You couldn’t bring yourself to face Ezra knowing you were just as bad as the rest of them. 

You start opening old books. Spell books and ancient texts. You’re looking for something, what it is you can’t be certain. All you know is that you felt drawn down here, your fingers itching for the parchment pages. 

When you were a young witch, you came here often. There were spell books that had become your favorites, embellished with intricate illustrations. You memorized charms for changing the color of your hair and shuffled a dog-eared set of tarot cards. This was where you cast some of your very first spells. Magic made the world feel full of wonder yet it gave you some control, an order to things that would otherwise be chaos. 

That’s gone now. All of it mixed up— pride and shame, power and weakness, love and loss. 

You pull a large volume from the shelf, its soft leather cover embossed with constellations. heavy and thick, You need both hands to carry it to the table where it lands with a thud and a gasp of dust escapes into the air. 

You turn it open, the aged glue of its spine cracking. You run your fingers over the delicate pages, so thin you can practically see through them. They’re covered in a careful hand and you can’t help but wonder about the witches that set these spells down, what advice they’d have for you. 

The magic in here is convoluted, singular spells that spill over pages and pages with diagrams and celestial calendars. Some are written in verse so dense you can barely make out their meaning. They remind you of the cadence of Ezra’s voice. 

These are not small acts of witchcraft. There are instructions for summoning beasts and recipes for potions that restore youth to be brewed specially on the solstice. Some of it feels dangerous— curses against unfaithful lovers, spells to wake the dead and use them for your bidding. 

You read through them all with mild curiosity. You have no reason to reanimate a dead horse or brew a cure for quinsy— whatever that is— though it would be amusing to cast a perpetual dancing spell on River if you didn’t think it would kill him. 

You chuckle to yourself as you imagine him dancing uncontrollably, his limbs uncontrollable, as you turn the page. And there you see it. 

What you didn’t know what you were looking for has found you.  

–

You barge into the apartment with a wild look in your eye. Ezra’s still curled up in your spot on the bed. He’s been there most of the afternoon, letting bad memories flood his mind. 

After the elders turned him, Ezra promised himself that he would be better. He’d been selfish and dishonest. Quick to anger. It was out of necessity, he’d told himself, but obviously it had only brought him suffering. He would change. But had he? He’d let you care for him, had loved you and fantasized about you, and he’d hurt you.  

You’re calling his name, breathless from running up the stairs, with a leather bound book under your arm. 

Ezra lingers in the bedroom door, guilt still festering. 

“Look,” you say, setting the tome open on the little breakfast table with a thud. It seems as though you’ve forgotten everything, a whirl of urgency about you. 

Ezra hops up and seats himself in front of the weathered pages. He takes in the verses there, the drawing scratched with quill and ink. It’s complicated and obscure, laborious instructions that must be followed to the letter. Behind him you’re nearly bouncing with untamed energy. 

“What are you showing me?” he asks. He knows. The spell is exact but its outcome is clear. 

“It’s a transfiguration spell,” you explain. 

“That much is clear but—“

“I want to do it,” you say. There’s a determination in your words, a fiery assuredness that makes Ezra’s heart pick up. “I want to turn you back into a human.”

“That’s impossible.”

“No. It’s all right here. And it says under the moon of All Hallow’s Eve. That’s just in a few weeks,” you add excitedly. 

“Little mage, I needn’t explain why this is folly,” he says.

It pains him to say it and not just because being human again would be the greatest gift. Your expression is a mix of frustration and heartbreak. 

“You propose to defy the Elders’ judgment. They won’t take kindly to that,” he says. 

“Fuck them,” you hiss. “The laws have changed. If you were convicted now, they’d take your powers but they wouldn’t make you live like this.”

“They’ll take yours if you do something so foolish,” he says. It comes out harsh but he’s angry that you’d risk your powers for him. That he wants so badly to accept. 

“You don’t deserve to be a fucking cat. You should get a normal life,” you say, your body sagging onto the sofa like it can’t stand the weight of it all anymore. 

“That’s quite a touching sentiment.” Ezra tries to couch the words in sarcasm but his voice breaks. He jumps down from the table and situates himself on the cushion beside you. 

“Why didn’t you tell them?” you ask, defeated. Tearful eyes look towards the ceiling before falling onto him. “When they put you on trial. Why didn’t you tell the elders what he’d done?”

Ezra’s head sinks between his shoulders. 

Damon was the kind of witch that only used his powers to numb himself to the rest of the world. He brewed potions that made him neglectful of his daughter one moment, belligerent towards her the next. Ezra had never considered himself a do-gooder. He saw the girl with bruises and said nothing. He was so disinterested in the goings on, he’d never even bothered to learn her name until his trial. Largely, he ignored them until the night he took Damon’s life. 

Ezra hadn’t meant to engage him. It was a snide remark he made that pulled Damon’s attention away from berating Cee. Soon the two of them came to blows, Damon throwing the first punch with an accusation. Ezra was scrappy but there was a point when Damon had him pinned down and he thought his time was up. So when he was able to break free, Ezra made sure he wouldn’t be bested. 

“You can’t understand how precarious it was for us then,” he says. “A hundred years of witch hunts. The life of a witch, even one as detestable as Damon was precious.”

Maybe if they’d known how Damon treated one of their kind, they would have shown Ezra leniency. But the real reason he accepted his punishment was because he knew it had been his own fault. Had he intervened earlier, gotten the Elders involved, it wouldn’t have ended in murder. You might think him a hero, but when the Elders made Ezra her familiar, Cee made it clear that she did not. 

You sigh, a slight shake of your head, and you sink back into the sofa. 

“You are a more than capable witch but this is ancient magic. It took the powers of no less than three elders to change me,” Ezra says as if it’s any consolation. 

“Maybe Margot—“ 

“You’d both risk your powers,” he stops you. “No, little mage. It’s impossible.”

—

“I’m not coming,” you say. 

Aunt Margot is loading a carpet bag into the trunk of her station wagon. Nearly a month has passed since the equinox. Halloween is two days away which means it’s time for your annual trip to Salem where the coven will be gathered through Samhain. The celebrations will be days long, singing and food, apple bobbing and fortune telling. Your little gathering doesn't compare. 

Last night you couldn’t bring yourself to pack.

“What do you mean?” She asks.

”I’m sorry,” you say with a shrug. 

You’ve been waffling on this decision for weeks but you’ve made up your mind. Even if it disappoints Aunt Margot.

”But everyone will miss you. And Simone’s making her gumbo,” she says.

”I know,” you say. 

As Margot babbles out more reasons why you really shouldn’t stay home (“The spirit walk just won’t be the same without you”), Ezra snakes between your legs. You were nervous of how she’d take this news and Ezra promised to be moral support. 

She throws out her hands with a pout. “I can’t stand thinking about you alone for All Hallows Eve,” she says. 

“I won’t be alone,” you say, picking Ezra up and scratching under his chin.  

“I will miss the gumbo,” he tells her. 

“No Ezra,” she contemplates. “Maybe I can actually win at Scrabble.” 

“Perchance,” he says, and you know she’s mentally tabulating the word score. 

“Is this because of River?” She narrows her eyes. 

It’s not. While you certainly won’t miss him, you wouldn’t let some dickwad keep you from having a good time. It’s all of them, really. Esme and the rest of them. Knowing how they think of Ezra, how they think of you, it makes you want to scream. You can’t subject him to their scorn and disdain, you won’t. You’d rather spend All Hallows Eve at home. 

And then there’s that little part of you. The one that knows it’s preposterous and downright idiotic yet still hopes that you can put the Halloween moon to good use. Ezra shut that down fast but, oh, how good would it feel for the funny little witch to give them all the middle finger? . 

“I’m just not in the spirit,” you say. 

“Well it won’t feel like All Hallows Eve without you,” she sighs. 

“I know,” you say. There’s a lump in your throat. You’ve never been apart from her for Samhain. There are countless warm memories of Halloweens past. When Margot got you your very first cauldron. The taste of pumpkin pie. The year of the freak snowstorm. 

With another sigh and the jingle of her bracelets, Margot pulls you into an embrace. The smell of vetiver hangs off her hair and you breathe it in deeply. 

“I’ll light a candle for you,” she promises. 

“Thanks,” you say. 

“And I’m going to jinx River’s socks. They’ll be damp for a month,” she says. 

You laugh. 

The horn of her car beeps and you break the hug to see Percy appear at the top of the steering wheel. 

“He’s worried about the traffic on the Thruway,” she tells you. “I’m coming!”

“Take care of her,” she says to Ezra, petting along his jaw

He nods. 

When Margot’s tail lights disappear down the street, you sit beside Ezra on the front steps. 

“You could go,” he says. 

“I made the right choice,” you say, stroking down the shiny fur on his back. 

“So what now?” he asks. 

“I don’t know. I've always wanted to go trick or treating,” you say. 

“That’s blasphemy, little mage,” Ezra quips. 

— 

Ezra holds you in his arms. Human arms. Your skin is warm against his as you lay tangled together. The morning light catches on the prism beads you have hanging in your bedroom window, little rainbows dancing across the walls and rumpled bedspread.  His lips brush across your forehead, leaving a ghost of a kiss at your hairline. You sigh dreamily and your fingertips graze his bare chest. You‘re just barely awake when you turn your face up to him, your eyes warm like you missed him while you were sleeping. He greets you with a kiss, your lips opening to him with a low hum. His fingers tangle with yours as the grasp the spindles in the headboard. 

His name comes out of you in a gasp of breath. 

He’s had these dreams for years but they’ve been happening almost every night since you showed him that spell. Sometimes passionate– your thighs opening as he explores your body— but just as often innocuous. Picking flowers in the meadow by his boyhood home. Bringing you tea as you read on the porch swing. 

Each dream is so alluring, even the most banal, he wakes up with the words on the tip of his tongue, ready to ask you to risk it all and turn him. 

You haven’t brought it up again in the weeks since you set that spellbook in front of him. Maybe you thought better of it. Maybe you were just angry. You told him about your spat with River and, while it touched him that you’d come to his defense, he knew it was an impulsive choice. 

Either way, it’s for the best.

It wouldn’t end well. Of course, you’d be putting yourself at risk. He’d made that very clear to you. There are a thousand other reasons why it shouldn’t be done. He’s probably forgotten how to be human and what he would do with himself in this day and age, he has no idea. The only job experience he’s had in the past two hundred years is rat catching.

The logistics of being a human matter little to him, though. His real concern is with you.

He’ll no longer be your companion. You won’t scratch behind his ears, invite him to lay in your lap. You’ll probably expect him to move on and live the life he’s always wanted. He can’t think of one that doesn’t involve you.

At least as a cat, he never has to know if you’d choose another man over him.

He’s laying awake, pondering this once again, when your eyes crack open. Warm mid morning light pours in through the lace curtains, bathing you in a honeyed glow. With Margot out of town and the store closed, the two of you had been on your own, spending the previous dsy together. A walk in the woods, a visit to the coffee shop where other patrons greeted Ezra with friendly scritches. You bailed on plans with the mortal Connor to watch movies and snuggle Ezra on the couch. It should have been enough, that’s what he thought when the credits rolled and you were snoring on the couch, your fingers buried in his scruff. He could share a lifetime of this with you and be grateful for it. But he was greedy. 

”Happy Halloween,” you say. 

You pull him close and he nuzzles into your warm skin. 

“You were in my dream,” you say. Your voice is still rough from sleep, still somewhere far away like you haven’t fully regained consciousness. 

Ezra’s cheeks heat under his fur. It’s not just the raspiness of your throat but his shame. If only you knew what he’d been dreaming about. 

“I was doing that spell. To change you,” you say. 

“I would’ve hoped for something more scintillating.” He plays it off as a joke. 

You huff a laugh and rest your wrist across your forehead, eyes cast towards the ceiling. “Right when you turned I woke up,” you say. 

Ezra doesn’t want to admit it— that he was thinking about that very spell, that he wants your dream to be a premonition. Witches have been known to have those. No, that’s wishful thinking. 

He gets to his feet and stretches out. 

“What a pity you missed my face. I can’t quite remember my own countenance,” he says. 

You sigh with exasperation. “I think it’s a sign,” you say.

“Our dreams are just that,” he tells you.

“Not this one. It wasn’t just a dream,” you insist. You sit up on your elbows meeting his eye with eagerness. “I can do it.”

“I told you—“

“Ezra, I want to do it,” you say with finality. “I want you to be human again.”

He grits his teeth. If he was capable of crying, he might after hearing your words, seeing that resolution in your expression. It takes all of his strength to not just give in and say yes. You know the reasons why it shouldn’t be done and he can’t tell you the ones that make him hesitant.

“You would turn me knowing how much more capable I am of violence? I might be declawed but I will be far more dangerous as man than beast.,” he asks. It still weighs on him even though it’s been weeks since the equinox and it seems you’ve all but forgotten it.

“I trust you,” you say. There’s a tenderness in your eyes that makes Ezra’s heart swell. 

He knows you mean it. You shouldn’t. He doesn’t deserve to be trusted, to be loved by you. He was never a good man, never stood up for anyone else. And it’s that very reason that’s had his mind in knots. He’s selfish. He wants this chance. 

Maybe, maybe you’ll give him the same look as a human and he can love you back the way he’s always wanted. 

“Besides, I know how to defend myself,” you say with a grin. 

That’s his little mage. 

“Very well,” he says. “I’m ready.”

–

You light the final candles on the oak table. The basement is illuminated by the dim glow of candles. You’ve spent the whole day down here with Ezra readying everything for the moon of All Hallows Eve.

Luckily Aunt Margot will be gone for the week so you don’t have to worry about interruptions. You’re not sure how she’ll react but right now, frankly, you don’t care. This is the right thing to do, you keep telling yourself. It’s justice. It’s not about the thrill you feel now, butterflies in your belly. 

You’ve daydreamed about it and after last night’s dream, your imagination feels closer than ever There’s no good picture in your mind of what Ezra will be like but his looks aren’t important. You can’t wait to do normal things with him. What will it be like to get a coffee with Ezra? To do rituals together at Ostara. To hear his old stories again, made new by his facial expressions. 

He’s quiet, nervous you’re sure, beside your cauldron. His golden eyes flit from the flames to the spellbook to the darkened window. Your excitement cools and suddenly you’re worried that your enthusiasm got the better of you. Had you pressured him into agreeing to this? He’s still your familiar after all, bound to serve you.

You kneel at the edge of the table.

“Are you sure you want to do this? We don’t have to,” you say.

“As long as you’re certain you’re willing to take on the risks,” he tells you.

You nod.

“Very well,” he says.

You look at one another for a long time, both knowing that this will be the last time things are the same. You memorize everything about him, his elegant face, the whiskers beside his little black nose, the streak of white fur above his eye. This is your Ezra, will always be even if he doesn’t exist in this form. You wish you could thank him for everything he’s done for you but the words are stuck in your throat. It won’t do to start crying now when you need to focus and recite the incantation clearly.

“I love you, Ezra,” you manage.

He responds with a long, slow blink and you kiss his forehead.

The potion is murky and thick as you ladle it into a dish. Ezra recoils when you place it in front of him. 

“Smells like piss,” he says with a wince before lapping it up. A shiver runs over his body, down the length of his tail. “Tastes like it.”

He leaps onto the table and settles at the center of the carved pentagram.

“Work your magic, little mage,” he says.

This is it. It’s all laid out just like your dream but you’re still anxious. There’s no room for error.

With a deep breath, you straighten your back and begin to say the words. You read them countless times throughout the day, memorizing each verse so that it can flow from your heart to your tongue. As each one leaves your mouth, you visualize them on the page. Magic begins to stir in you, a tingle beneath your skin.

Ezra lays on his belly, his eyes drifting close, paws outstretched towards you. 

You shut your eyes tight and focus your energy, like a beam of pure magic directed towards him and say the words again.You think about him, really envision his details down to the hair. Memories flood you. Ezra rubbing up on the old books in the store. His soft purrs against your chest when your heart felt heavy. The time he slipped on the edge of the tub and fell into your bath. The love you feel for him radiates in your chest all the way to your fingertips.

You’re squeezing all of it palms, every drop of energy within you aimed at Ezra. A vibration, an earthquake. 

You say the words a final time. 

Lightheaded. Breathless. Exhausted. 

Your eyes flutter open.

Ezra lays on the table just as you left him. Unchanged.

“No.” The word slips from your mouth nothing more than a whisper.

Ezra blinks, looking down at his black paws.

You see his shoulders sag and a long moment passes as he gathers himself before looking at you.

It doesn’t make sense. You did everything right, just as you’d seen in your sleep. You’ve never cast with such fervor. 

“Okay,” you say, swallowing hard around a sob. “We’ll do it again. The moon will be higher.” You can hear your own desperation, voice shaking as you try not to lose faith.

Ezra slowly sits himself up.

“Maybe you need more potion,” you suggest.

“No, little mage,” he says, resigned. 

“Ez–” You’ve failed him. Your chest burns, tears brim in your eyes.It feels like you might collapse from the exertion and sheer heartbreak that’s overwhelming you.

“It’s alright. I’ve been a cat for more than a few years. And so I shall remain,” he says.

🐈‍⬛

Part 4