Chapter Grayson
Grayson
The halls of the Guild are virtually abandoned as Grayson takes the stairs toward his last session of the day. Fatigue wears him down and reminds him that he’s been too long without Nix’s hand on his chest or the soft press of his daughters in his arms.
The door to Professor Kirwan’s room is closed, but she is no doubt tapping her foot impatiently on the other side, waiting eagerly to remind him that if a twelve-year-old can be on time, why can’t he?
He’s always had a good relationship with time—never too late or too early, and blessed with an inner clock that means he awakens before his alarm, if he needs to set one at all.
But since Time Studies had been added to his already overburdened schedule, Grayson has been dragging his feet.
He’d even taken to shaving a few minutes off here and there, escaping early when Professor Kirwan drops her guard, or claiming an appointment to cut their time short.
Grayson is as self-aware as a person can be, and he knows that, without a doubt, there are two reasons he hates every millisecond spent in her chaotic office. The first being that this Talent he has manifested is most assuredly not as mild as the name “Talent” would imply.
Sure, his precognition is mild and mostly limited to his family. It is usually beyond his current abilities to call upon at will, often appearing under pressure or when he’s drawing on The Plain in great waves.
While that’s admittedly embarrassing—as no one wants to fail at practice time and time again, most especially Grayson—it’s also exhausting.
He does not—cannot—call upon the full breadth of The Plain while practicing Time, because his Time is not a Talent as he and the Floridian allies have led the Guild to believe.
It is an Affinity.
Strong and sure, and becoming more and more accessible with practice. And certainly not its strongest when it comes to precognition. If his Time Affinity were an iceberg, precognition would be the tip—and the rest? Big enough to sink the Titanic at least ten times over.
What had once been snippets of past lives, where he could see history in the making and how his mates—and those close to them—had affected world events, now, he can dream full life experiences, often with emotions and physical sensations.
He can see the past, present, and sometimes, the future of his mates.
The eight (sometimes six, which is a story for another time) of them working and living together in the Goddess’s design in this timeline and others.
It’s taken some getting used to, that’s for sure. And while he can’t say he’s enjoyed being at school with humans half his age, his professors are enthusiastic, educated, and with only a few notable exceptions, dedicated to helping him master his magic.
But Time is something else altogether.
The discovery of a single significant manifestation of Time would set Grayson on a long flight to the Swiss Alps. Away from his family—or worse, moving the entire pack for the three years it would take to be evaluated, trained, and then put to work in the name of the government.
No, Grayson did not want to dedicate his life to government work.
He’d lived far too long with flexibility, art, and freedom to give it up now.
So hiding the strength and breadth of his gifts has been his only choice.
He is well aware that the political-cultural game he is playing is a tangled web, made even more complicated by the fact that he knew none of the rules, none of the other players’ skills, and that the stakes were fucking sky-high.
He was learning, though, that humans in general, and magic users in particular, approach magic differently than a Were might expect—aside from a few notable exceptions like Ignatius or Nimue.
For the most part, modern magic users don’t acknowledge that accessing The Plain is a gift from Them, boiling it down to science rather than magic.
They have long lost touch with the history of The Plain’s origins and therefore have a difficult time understanding Grayson’s inherent Were-ness, nor do they see the need to bother trying.
Magic serves them—not the other way around.
As Ignatius had said many times, Weres are the Goddess’s most beloved children. Each child knows of Them, whether they practice or not. And even if they do not, they instinctively feel a connection to Earth’s power.
It’s who they are.
The disconnect leaves Grayson navigating several layers of an unfamiliar culture.
That brings him to the other reason he hates these fifty-minute sessions: Dahlia Kirwan, Professor of Time at the Nashville Guild. The only wielder of a Time Affinity in all of the southern United States.
Enthusiastic, intense, and perceptive, there is something about Dahlia Kirwan that rubs Grayson the wrong way, no doubt about it.
“You’re late again, Grayson.”
He realizes the doorway to her office is open. He’d been so caught up in his dread that he’d been standing, hand poised to knock, for a few minutes—and that she’d finally grown tired of the delay.
Forceful in nature but not in stature, the small woman standing before him barely stands five feet tall, but what she lacks in height she makes up for in aura.
In her mid- to late-forties, she has pointed features, with a sharp nose, close-set black eyes, and a pursed mouth, which lend her a bird-like expression.
“Sorry, Professor Kirwan.” The urge to explain why he’s been dawdling is a strong one, but he shakes it off, biting his tongue.
“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” she asks, her eyes narrowed in question.
“Yes, Professor.”
She heaves a disappointed sigh, pursing her lips before closing the door.
“Now we only have forty-three minutes for our session. Shall we begin where we left off last time?”
Grayson drops his jacket and bag on the chair in front of her messy desk, used to the lack of niceties that he experiences in his other classes.
Flitting over to the table by the window, she gestures for him to take a seat across from her.
In the center of the table is a flat board with colored bulbs—ten rows of bulbs in every color of the rainbow, in different configurations.
No rhyme or reason, just a completely random arrangement every time he meets with her.
Grayson sees this board in his nightmares.
“Sit, please. We shall begin. You recall what you need to do?” she asks, in a tone designed for a child student, not a grown man.
It makes his wolf bristle, causing The Plain to buck and twist in his hold. He responds with his own tone, tinged with disrespect.
“Yes, I will try to tell you what the configuration will be before you press the button.”
“Exactly. This should be well within your capabilities.”
It should be—if her belief in his most basic Time Talent is to be believed—but it won’t be, not as long as Grayson has walled off his connection to The Plain.
About a month ago, while speaking with his Fire instructor about historical battle styles, he caught a glimpse of Dahlia speaking with the headmaster.
He’d had a flash of this exact test. He’d seen her shock and smug expression as he’d managed ten in a row of eight-light sequences.
He hadn’t needed precognition to know he’d be on a plane in the next twenty-four hours.
After a long conversation with Jay and Ignatius—and with Leo holding Gideon back from causing a federal incident—they decided there was only one way to make sure this went his way.
He needed to fake it.
Two bulbs here. One bulb in a three-light sequence there. Enough to warrant Ignatius’ official evaluation as a mild Time Talent, but not enough to draw any real attention. Nothing to warrant a long-haul flight or a life-long sentence as a government lackey.
She doesn’t wait for him to settle in. “Begin.”
Sequence after sequence, Grayson “fails” to predict the sequence accurately, resulting in his tutor becoming more and more frustrated.
After ten attempts, her jaw is set, her patchouli scent singed with anger. “Grayson. This is a particularly dismal performance. You must draw harder on your connection. Do you have the foci I gave you?”
When he looks up, her expression has shifted—not softer, but edged with a strange, hungry curiosity, as if she’s measuring how far she can push him.
The small brass crow ornament is in the pocket of his bag. Its steady gaze is similar to Dahlia Kirwan’s—a gift from his instructor to help him focus his access to The Plain. Something he most assuredly doesn’t need.
“It’s in my bag. I didn’t want to carry it,” he says with unexpected honesty. “Sorry, that sounded rude. It’s just so pretty, I uh… didn’t want to lose it.”
She frowns. “It isn’t doing us any good there. Fetch it, please.”
He’s never felt more like a sulking child than he does now, dragging his feet as he reaches into the side pocket of the bag to dig out the crow. It’s a cold weight in his palm, uncomfortable and heavier than something so small should be.
“Lovely. Let’s try again, shall we? This time, when you reach for your Time strand, pull it through the foci.”
Grayson will certainly not be doing that. “Sure.”
Despite his intentions to circumvent the magical object, in the second before he was expected to say the colors of the five bulbs and their locations, he feels a tingling in the back of his mind.
At the same time, the crow burns hot, and The Plain surges from his core—a thoroughbred restrained by a skipping rope.
“Blue, A3. Black, F6. Green, K5. Yellow, M12. Red—” The truth pours from him, and a single bulb closest to his hand pops.
The sequence lights up on the board in the exact pattern he’d mentioned.
He tips the crow onto the table, his stomach revolting at his slip. That was entirely correct—and way more than he’d ever revealed before.
Why?
He’d had a good grip on The Plain. When he looks inward, it’s swirling red and yellow, splashing green light over its banks.
Something doesn’t feel right.
At least Professor Kirwan is pleased. Triumph flashes across her face before she reins it in.
“Yes. Exactly that. I knew you were holding back. Well done.” She reaches into the sideboard and pulls out a replacement for the broken yellow bulb.
“Let’s try again. Six this time. I have a good feeling about this. ”
That sick feeling surges in his gut, making his skin crawl and his heart pound.
He’s saved by his phone ringing in his bag.
Despite the Guild’s strict rules, he would never silence the ringtone from his Pack Alpha.
Never. Even if it had taken an official visit from Antonio Costas and the Were Rights lawyer to explain why his pack obligations superseded his magical ones.
“Sorry, Professor. That’s my Pack Alpha.” Digging the phone out on the fourth ring, Grayson finally answers. “Jay?”
“Are you okay? Nix is freaking out. Says you have to come home right away.”
He’s speaking loudly, and even with her human ears, there’s no doubt his teacher can hear him.
As soon as he lets The Plain slip free, he feels Nix’s bond snap tight—furious and flaring. That’s not good. In the background, growls and sharp snaps echo, like Nix’s fury is leaking onto everyone else at home.
“Now?” Grayson asks, shrugging at his tutor’s disappointed frown. “I’ll catch an Uber—”
“Gideon is already waiting at the gate. See you in twenty,” Jay says, and then, lowering his voice so it’s almost just a breath, “Be careful, Gray.”
The hair on the back of Grayson’s neck stands straight up in warning. What could warrant his Pack Alpha sending Gideon? Surely not their calmest envoy, but certainly the most determined and, when necessary, the most creatively vicious.
He holds back a growl and barely keeps sparks from his fingertips.
“See you in twenty.” He slips his phone into his back pocket and throws his jacket over his arm, his bag already over his head and across his chest. “Sorry, Professor. My mate is unwell. I’ll see you next week?”
“This is very disappointing, Grayson. I don’t know how you expect to improve and be of service if you are not taking this seriously.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I’ll work extra hard next time. See you.” He escapes out the door with a sigh of relief, the foreboding and dread finally letting up.
“Grayson?” Dahlia calls when he’s no more than five steps away from the stairs and freedom.
“Professor?”
“You forgot your foci.” She gives him a small smile and tosses it to him across the distance.
He wants to let the gift fall to the floor with a thud, but he catches it by instinct, slipping it into his pocket.
Waving, he takes the stairs two at a time. When he looks back, he sees her standing, watching him—arms crossed and bird-like gaze like a cold caress.