Chapter 7
LEARNING CURVE… WITH DISTRACTIONS
MURIEL
Muriel sat across from Brandon at the small table, cradling her mug. She’d been so focused on his lips that his words took a moment to register.
“Really? Who?”
“His name is Armand Castellano. He's a scholar—over a thousand years old. If anyone has knowledge of ancient magical texts, it's him.”
A thousand years. The number made her dizzy. Her mother's book was old, she knew that much. The pages—what little she’d seen of them—were yellowed and brittle, the binding worn from centuries of use. And the magic that radiated from it was nothing like she’d ever felt before.
“He specializes in paranormal folklore and comparative religions,” Brandon continued. “Ancient magic, lost practices, that sort of thing. The book would fascinate him.”
Muriel's fingers tightened on the mug. It was tempting, but she had no idea how it would react to anyone besides her. It had shied away from Brandon that first day but seemed to be less bristly now that they were sharing his space.
“I don't know,” she said slowly. “It was hidden for a reason.”
“I understand.” Brandon's voice was gentle. “But if the Collectors are hunting you for it, don't you want to know why? What makes it so valuable that they'd kill for it?”
Yes, yes, she did. The not-knowing was almost worse than the threat of danger.
“Do you think he would...” She hesitated. “Would he try to take it from me?”
“No.” Brandon's response was immediate and certain. “Armand is a scholar, not a collector. He'd want to study it, understand it, but he wouldn't try to claim it.”
Well, that soothed her fear somewhat, but still. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course. There's no rush.” Brandon's expression softened. “In the meantime, we should continue your training. The more control you have, the safer you'll be.”
She nodded, glad he wasn’t pressuring her to make a decision. “Sounds good.”
Living with Brandon was easier than it should have been.
He was kind and thoughtful and when they weren’t training, he gave her plenty of space to wander around and explore.
The hardest thing about being around him was not allowing herself to get too close.
The arrangement was only temporary, and it was best to remember that.
Over the next few days, they fell into a nice, comfortable rhythm.
Mornings, Muriel would rise early and make breakfast. Nothing fancy—scrambled eggs and toast, oatmeal with fruit, once a batch of pancakes that came out slightly lopsided but tasty.
Brandon accepted whatever she made with genuine appreciation.
She enjoyed those quiet morning moments, before the shop opened, when everything was peaceful.
More than once, she caught herself sneaking glimpses of him over the rim of her mug, committing the angles of his classically sculpted face to memory, and coveting the stark contrast of those thick, black lashes framing his incredibly blue eyes.
Then she'd help in the shop while he handled customers.
She learned the inventory system, how books were organized by subject and magical tradition.
She shelved returns and dusted artifacts, all while learning so much about the magical world.
The work was soothing. Being surrounded by so much accumulated knowledge and old magic felt right in a way she couldn't quite explain.
It was like she was finally in a place she was meant to be.
The multitude of plants that Brandon kept bringing in helped too. He claimed they were to help with her training—and they were—but she suspected he was trying to make her feel more at ease as well.
Besides Jessie, no one had ever cared enough to do anything like that. She began to think Ryssa had had a point about indiscriminately painting all mages with the same brush.
Equally intriguing were the customers. Most were human, browsing the occult section with the kind of earnest curiosity that suggested they had no idea real magic existed. But others made her magical senses prickle with awareness. Vampires. Shifters. Even a demon—to whom she gave a wide berth.
She remarked on it once after seeing one patron flicker from corporeal to opaque several times.
“Mythic has a large supernatural community,” Brandon explained. “Every species has its own form of magic. The shop is neutral ground—everyone's welcome here.”
“Everyone?” she asked doubtfully.
“Let me rephrase: we do not discriminate on the basis of race, gender, or species. However, the building is warded against anyone with bad intentions. They can’t get in.” He met her gaze. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you were safe here.”
Through it all, the bond thrummed between them.
She was becoming accustomed to the presence of his magic and learning how to read it on those rare occasions when he let his guard down.
Like the frisson of pleasure he experienced from that first sip of tea in the morning.
And his discipline and determination when they were training.
Sometimes, she thought she even managed to catch a sliver of desire, though it was usually gone before she could be certain.
She tried not to think too hard about that last one.
Their training sessions had been short and basic to begin with, easy to fit in between customers and tasks.
Some they did together; others, she could practice on her own.
Most of the exercises were designed for focus and control, like making only one bud blossom out of a dozen or calling water from the air to mist the leaves of a single plant but not those around it.
Through each, Brandon’s magic was like a guiding hand, leading her down the right path.
On the third day, the nature of the training changed.
“Your magic responds to strong emotions,” Brandon explained, gesturing to the ever-growing collection of plants.
The lemon tree—which he’d named Beatrice—had grown noticeably in the past few days, courtesy of her repeated practice.
“Fear, anger, joy—any intense feeling can trigger an uncontrolled surge. That's what's been happening to you.”
Muriel nodded slowly. He’d told her as much the first day, and he’d been right.
Every surge had been preceded by some emotional spike.
Happiness, when she discovered Brandon’s gift in the mailbox.
Fear, when she thought of Silas Corvus or the hunters she’d seen in those visions.
Lust, conjured by steamy dreams about a certain blue-eyed mage.
Most recently, stabs of jealousy, when that red haired, curvy woman came into The Glas Tann and eye-effed Brandon.
Some of that iced mocha latte the woman had been holding might have ended up on her low-cut white silk cami while Brandon was busy helping another customer. Oops.
“So I need to learn to repress my emotions? Go cold?”
“Exactly the opposite. Forcefully suppressing that much magic is as dangerous as letting it flow unchecked. If you let it build up too much, you become a powder keg ready to blow. The trick is to acknowledge everything you’re feeling but separate the emotion from the power.”
“That sounds impossible.”
“It's not. It just takes practice.” He moved closer, and her awareness of him sharpened immediately—the warmth of his body, the scent of cedar and sandalwood and ozone and amber, the brush of his magic against hers.
“We'll start simple. I want you to connect with the lemon tree just like you've been doing but this time, I'm going to try to trigger an emotional response.”
Her pulse quickened. “What kind of emotional response?”
“We'll start with something easy. Happy memories. I'll ask you questions, get you talking about good things from your past. Your job is to hold the connection to the lemon tree stable while allowing whatever you’re feeling to flow right past you.”
That didn't sound too difficult. “Okay.”
“Close your eyes. Focus on the tree.”
She did, sinking into the familiar meditation. Reaching for her magic, she extended it toward the lemon tree. Brandon’s magic twined through hers, a steady, supportive guide. The plant's energy sparked with recognition, welcoming her touch.
“Good,” Brandon murmured. “Now tell me about your favorite place as a child.”
That was easy enough. “There was a small clearing in the woods, beside a stream. It was very peaceful. Massive towering trees let in shafts of sunlight as easily as they did moonlight.”
“Describe it to me.”
Immersing herself in the memory, she could feel the warmth of the sun on her face and the mounds of soft moss beneath her.
Hear the quiet buzz of insects and the chatter of squirrels.
Only this time, it was so much better, because Brandon was there too.
Laying beside her, his magic swirling with hers…
“Muriel,” Brandon said quietly. “Open your eyes.”
She did, surprised to see that three new branches had sprouted on the lemon tree, complete with leaves and fragrant white buds.
“Those came out just in the last thirty seconds. Did you picture something particularly pleasurable?”
A blush heated her cheeks. “Uh, yes.” She couldn’t tell him she hadn’t lost the grip on her magic until he’d entered the picture.
“No worries. It takes time. Let’s try again.”
They practiced for an hour, continuing with happy memories that made her magic want to bloom outward.
Then mildly annoying topics—like the time the wolves trampled her favorite patch of wildflowers or her mother’s refusal to let her attend the class field trip—that made her power want to snap and crackle.
Each time, she'd lose focus, and the plants would respond.
Overgrowth from happiness. Withering from irritation.
Gradually, painfully, she learned to create separation. To feel the emotion without letting it bleed into the magic.