The Hot Guy Problem
Evening finds me in my kitchen making pasta, because despite everything, despite the shadow king trapped in my living room and the impending sense of doom hanging over my entire existence, I still have to eat.
I renewed the runes earlier. Added more magic to the bindings.
Reinforced every weak point I could find.
Brian helped, which was unexpected and oddly touching.
He knew a surprising amount about protective crystals and herbs from his time in the cult.
Apparently High Priestess Magdalene was very into warding off negative energy, which makes sense when you’re running a doomsday commune.
He also knew a lot about chakra realignment.
That was not at all relevant to binding a shadow king, but he explained it anyway with such enthusiasm that I didn’t have the heart to stop him.
Something about the root chakra and grounding energy and the importance of breathing through your solar plexus.
I just nodded and let him talk.
He bounced off about an hour ago with promises to bring more herbs and crystals to work tomorrow. His exact words were, “Don’t worry, Felix! We’ve got this! High Priestess Magdalene always said that teamwork makes the dream work!”
I’m fairly certain High Priestess Magdalene never said that, but I appreciated the sentiment.
Now he’s gone and I’m alone with a pot of boiling water and the uncomfortable realisation that I’ve dragged someone else into this mess.
Guilt tries to surface. I squish it down immediately.
I’m an emo. A goth. Guilt is neither edgy nor dark. Guilt is for people who wear pastel colours and believe in the inherent goodness of humanity. I believe in black eyeliner and the inevitability of disappointment.
The pasta water bubbles. I dump in the penne and stir it with more force than necessary.
Then I realise something else.
It’s been quiet from the living room. Suspiciously quiet. No crashing. No reality-tearing sounds. No ominous thuds or temperature drops or whispered threats carried on shadows.
Just silence.
That’s somehow worse than the noise.
I turn off the heat under the pasta and walk slowly toward the living room. My heart is doing something uncomfortable in my chest. My hands are clenched into fists at my sides.
I push open the door.
And stop.
Dis has materialised.
He’s sitting, eyes closed, cross-legged on the floor, back leaning against the invisible wall of the summoning circle. The shadows around him have coalesced into something solid. Something shaped like a person.
He has long, dark hair that falls past his shoulders in waves that look like they belong in a shampoo commercial. Sharp cheekbones. A jaw that could cut glass. Aquiline nose. Long legs, a trim waist, and broad shoulders.
I know he’s possibly older than the stars, but he looks my age. Definitely no older than thirty. Extremely age appropriate.
He’s wearing clothes that look medieval, princely, all dark fabric and intricate embroidery that seems to shift and move in the ugly light of my bare, pathetic lightbulb.
He even has knee-high leather boots. Everything perfectly tailored, perfectly arranged, perfectly designed to make him look like he stepped out of a throne room.
He’s still shadowy. Wispy at the edges. Shadows coil around him like living things, curling over his shoulders and through his hair and around his wrists. He and his clothes seem made of darker shadows pressed into the shape of something almost human.
But he’s here. Solid. Real.
And very, very hot.
No.
No, absolutely not.
I was braced for a lot of things. Rage. Violence. Attempts to manipulate me or threaten me, or tear through the bindings with brute force.
I was not braced for him to be attractive.
This is a problem. This is a significant problem.
Because I have a documented history of losing my cool around hot guys.
It’s the only time I do. Put me in front of an angry mob or a dangerous situation or literally anything else and I’m fine.
Put me in front of someone with good bone structure and I become a complete disaster.
Dis’s eyes open. Those burning sapphire-blue eyes that have been glaring at me from the darkness for the past how ever many hours. Now blazing at me from the most attractive face I’ve ever had the misfortune to be subjected to.
The glowing, supernatural eyes really complement the whole aesthetic he has going on, and it’s deeply unfair. No one, absolutely no one, should be allowed to be this good-looking. Let alone your mortal enemy.
He looks at me. Really looks at me. Taking in my ripped jeans and my oversized jumper and my hair that I haven’t brushed since this morning, and my absent eyeliner. My ugly but comfortable boots.
“Little witch,” he says.
His voice is different now that he has a proper form. Deeper. A low, gravelly rumble that seems to vibrate through the floorboards and straight into my chest. It’s the kind of voice that demands attention. Commands it.
I hate how much I like it.
“Disney,” I weakly manage to retort.
His right eye twitches. He is trying to rise above the insult. For some reason it makes him even hotter.
“You’re sitting down,” I say, because apparently that’s what my brain has decided is the most important observation to make right now.
“I am.”
“Why?”
“I was tired of standing.”
“You’ve been floating eyes and shadows for a full day. You weren’t standing.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. It might be amusement. “Then perhaps I was tired of floating.”
We stare at each other across my living room.
The summoning circle glows faintly between us.
The air smells like smoke and magic and something else I can’t quite identify.
Something that might be sandalwood or might be ancient libraries or might just be the particular scent of a shadow being. It’s disgustingly good, whatever it is.
“You’ve materialised,” my brain decides to say, but at least it is a slightly more sensible comment.
“I have.”
“Decided to stop sulking?”
“I was not.” He shifts slightly, the shadows around him rippling. “I was not sulking.”
I smirk. “You were sulking.”
“No.”
“Yes you were. Dis, the mighty once king of the Shadow Realm, was sulking.”
“I was not sulking, Little Witch. I was angry. I have been pulled from my realm, bound against my will, and trapped in a circle in what I can only assume is the human equivalent of a particularly depressing hovel. Angry was appropriate.”
I should be offended. I am offended. This is my flat and it is not a hovel. It’s small and temporary and mostly empty because everything I owned burned down, but it’s mine. And if it is a hovel, well then whose fault is that?
“It’s not a hovel,” I say.
Dis looks around the room with the kind of polite skepticism that feels worse than outright insult. “If you say so.”
My hands clench tighter. I force myself to breathe. To stay calm. To not react to the fact that he’s sitting there looking like a dark prince from a horny dream while casually insulting my living space.
“Why did you choose to materialise now?” I ask.
“I was bored.”
“Bored.”
“Exceedingly.” He leans his head back against the invisible barrier. The movement is lazy. Casual. Like he has all the time in the world. “I have been considering my situation. The bindings you have placed are competent. Irritatingly so. Brute force will not break them. Not quickly.”
My heart does a complicated thing. Relief and terror mixing together in a way that makes my chest tight.
“Good,” I manage.
“But here is what you have failed to consider, Little Witch.” His eyes fix on me with an intensity that makes me want to step backwards. I hold my ground. “I am immortal. I have existed for longer than your language has words to describe. I have patience that spans centuries.”
He pauses. Lets that sink in.
“You,” he continues, very quietly, very calmly, “are human. A creature formed from carbon, the dust of long-dead stars. Despite this interesting origin, your species has only a flicker of time. You, Little Witch, are a candle that will gutter and die while I am still sitting here, waiting.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Because he’s right. I’m twenty-six. I’ll be lucky to see eighty. That’s barely fifty years. Fifty years is nothing to someone who has existed for millennia.
I could die of old age and Dis would still be sitting in this circle. And it will be far easier for him to escape my magic once I’m dead. Or too old and weak to maintain it.
The thought makes something cold settle in my stomach. But I don’t let it show on my face. I’ve had a lifetime of practice in hiding fear.
“You ordered my flicker of time to be made even shorter,” I say. My voice comes out steady. Hard. “You ordered my flat to be burnt down. You used me as bait. You were willing to kill me without a second thought. You need to pay for that.”
Silence falls between us. Heavy. Weighted with things I don’t have words for.
Dis is very still. The shadows around him have stopped moving.
“I aggrieved you,” he says finally.
It’s not a question. Just a statement. An acknowledgment of fact.
I nod. “Yes.”
More silence. He studies me with those impossible blue eyes. I study him back. Try not to think about the way the shadows curl around his wrists like jewellery. Try not to notice the way his hair falls across his face.
Try very hard not to acknowledge how attractive he is. Because it’s irrelevant. He’s still the asshole who ordered my death. I may have a history of ignoring all the flaws and red flags of any man who is easy on the eye. But not this time. These flaws and this red flag are not dismissible.
Even though the eye candy is really, really damn sweet.
“Release me from this circle,” Dis says. “And we shall duel. It is the honourable thing to do.”
I stare at him. “What?” My brain is still stuck on drinking down the sweet candy.
“A duel. You and I. Magic against magic. If you believe I have wronged you, then face me properly. Not like this. Not with me trapped and helpless.”
Reality comes crashing in. I shake my head to clear it. This asshole wants me to fight him. He’s claiming he’s helpless. “You’re not helpless.”
“I am significantly less powerful than I would prefer to be.”
“That’s kind of the point.”
“It is cowardly.”
The word stings. Which is probably intentional. Dis doesn’t seem like the kind of being who says things accidentally.
“I’m not fighting you,” I say.
“Why not? You are clearly angry. Clearly seeking retribution. Face me properly.”
“So you can kill me the moment I drop the bindings? Absolutely not.”
“I give you my word I will not kill you until after we have duelled.”
“Oh, well, in that case.” I cross my arms. “Still no.”
His eyes narrow. “You would keep me trapped rather than face me fairly?”
“Yes. Obviously yes. I’m not an idiot.”
“Are you not?”
“I’m leaving now,” I say, because I can feel my composure starting to crack, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me lose it. “Enjoy your evening. Try not to destroy anything else.”
I turn and walk back toward the kitchen.
“Little witch,” Dis calls after me.
I don’t stop. I don’t turn around. I just keep walking until I’m back in my tiny kitchen with the pasta that’s probably overcooked by now and my hands that are definitely shaking.
I grip the edge of the counter and breathe.
Dis is hot. Dis is sitting in my living room being devastatingly attractive while making reasonable-sounding arguments that are absolutely designed to get me to release him so he can kill me.
This is a lot.
This is so much more than I was prepared for.
I pour myself a glass of wine. Then another. Then I plate up the pasta and eat it standing at the counter because I cannot go back into the living room right now.
From the other room, I can hear nothing. No sounds. No movement.
Just the weight of knowing he’s there. Waiting. Patient. Willing to sit in that circle for decades if necessary.
The pasta tastes like cardboard. I eat it anyway.
I’m in so much trouble.