Chapter 11
Glitter, Glue, and Gemling Disease
Bringing the amulet with him, Rowan peers into the tray. “My magic has always looked like that.”
Ansel doesn’t like it. “Do you feel all right?”
Rowan shoots him a look. “I feel fine. My magic is just a little thicker.”
“Have you been checked for Gemling Disease?”
“I’m not sick,” Rowan insists.
“It’s fatal unless treated,” Ansel says to me. “You might want to have your mate looked at.”
“Would you stop?” Rowan snaps. “I’m fine. It’s been like this since I learned how to draw it in college.”
Like a dog on a bone, Ansel says, “Maybe you’ve had Gemling Disease since college.”
“It will kill you in a year,” Rowan argues. “It’s been ten. It’s not that.”
Ansel peers into the tray. “If this is normal, your magic is very odd.”
“It’s not completely normal.” Rowan meets my eyes. “Now it shimmers.”
“It’s the wrong color,” Ansel says. “Why is it purple?”
“It’s not purple. It’s blue.”
“It’s the purplest blue I’ve ever seen.”
“Probably because of the pixie dust.”
“All that gold should make it green.”
“You’re getting distracted,” Rowan says, growing frustrated. “We need to figure out how to separate Kit’s magic from mine, not discuss color theory.”
Ansel lets out a mirthless laugh. “You’re not separating that. I don’t know what a usual shifter bond looks like, but it couldn’t be any more permanent than what I’m seeing here.”
“Could we filter out Kit’s magic somehow?” Rowan ponders.
“You mean like dialysis, but for magic?”
“What’s dialysis?” I ask.
“Human medical thing,” Ansel says. “When their kidneys fail, they hook them up to a machine that filters their blood—cleans it, basically. My great uncle had to do it.”
“What do you think?” Rowan asks. “Is there some way we could tackle it like that?”
Ansel scrunches his nose as he thinks. “Normal mage magic? We might be able to come up with something. Your sticky-as-tar magic? Not a chance. Even if we managed to accomplish it, it’s so thick, we’d probably end up filtering out vital components, and who knows what that might do to you.”
I stay quiet while they discuss it, feeling ill. Is Rowan sick? Surely he would know—and if he is, surely he would tell me.
As I stand here, my phone begins vibrating in my pocket.
It’s another call with Vermont’s area code, maybe Russell again. I let the phone call go to voicemail. A minute later, my phone pings with a message notification. As Rowan and Ansel argue, I bring it to my ear.
“Kit, listen,” Russell says urgently when I click it. “It’s about your magic. I have something I need to tell—”
I delete it and then block the number.
“Anything important?” Rowan asks, noticing the look on my face.
I shake my head, not wanting to interrupt their discussion.
“I wonder if Kit’s magic altered the viscosity of yours,” Ansel ponders. “You know, all those pixie dust particles acting as a thickening agent. You said it’s always thick, but has it always been this goopy?”
“You’re really stuck on this, aren’t you?” Rowan says.
“Anything would stick to this.” Ansel pokes the magic with his wand again. “Look at it.”
Rowan rolls his eyes.
“I wonder what Kit’s magic looks like now that you’re bonded?” Ansel says. “I should have kept the pendant Russell was filling.”
“Do you want to draw more?” I ask.
“No,” Rowan says sternly.
Ansel, however, looks torn. I have no doubt the desire to discover how Rowan’s magic is affecting mine is burning inside him like an angry fire. But finally, he shakes his head. “Probably shouldn’t.”
“If you can’t manipulate our magic, I think we’re done for the day.” Rowan ends the draw.
“Let me keep that.” Ansel extends his hand toward the partially filled amulet. “I’ll study it and see what I can figure out.”
“It doesn’t sound like there’s much point. We’re not separating our magic anytime soon.”
“Yes, but I want to figure out what’s wrong with you.”
Less than impressed, Rowan sets the amulet on the workbench. “Knock yourself out—but don’t even think about charging me a consulting fee.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Ansel continues to study Rowan’s magic through the magnifying glass. Absently, he says, “I’m going to put it under a microscope.”
“How very human of you.” Rowan gestures for me to head toward the door. “Thank you for your help.”
Ansel mumbles an absent goodbye, engrossed in his project.
Rosalie is helping several customers when we emerge from the workshop, so we wave and then head outside.
I’m not sure what to say to Rowan now that we’re alone. I think he knew this first experiment didn’t have a high chance of success, but I don’t think either of us realized that our magic merged quite so thoroughly. That’s not what has me worried now, though.
“You aren’t sick, are you?” I ask. “You’d tell me, right?”
“I swear I’m not. My magic has always been like that.”
“Why, though?”
“Everyone’s a little bit different, Kit. Different genetic makeup. It probably has something to do with heritage. Perhaps if we were to draw Ash or Gideon’s magic, we would see theirs is a little thicker, too.”
“Does anyone draw high fae magic?”
“I don’t believe so. Their supply isn’t limited like mages, or at least the threshold is so high they rarely reach its limit, so there’s no need.”
“Maybe we just think the Neilfellows are high fae. Perhaps your magic looks weird because you’re actually a leprechaun.”
Rowan laughs, genuinely amused by the idea. “Ash would die.”
“Just a minute. Could that be it? Is there a different fae race in the Neilfellow line, changing your magic?” When Rowan looks like he’s going to protest, I quickly add, “Not recently. Several generations back. So far back that it’s not noticeable in the way the magic behaves, but enough that it might change the look of it? ”
Rowan furrows his brow, allowing himself to contemplate it. “I suppose.”
“Any idea what kind of magic is purple?”
“No idea.”
“Maybe there’s something about extracted magic in the library?”
“I’d have better luck in the college library.” He gives me an apologetic look. “Would you mind if I drove to Albany on Wednesday? I would like to look into this. It might help us figure out how to break the bond.”
“Sure,” I say, disappointed that we have to spend our only day off apart.
Rowan wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close to his side. “We’re going to figure all this out.”
“I know.”
And I believe it. Things are just a little messy right now.
We walk in silence until we’re almost to the tea shop. Rowan releases me and rolls his shoulders several times.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sore because you picked me up earlier?” I ask. “Am I too heavy for that nonsense?”
“You’re not,” he laughs as if it’s absurd.
“Maybe you’re too old for that nonsense.”
He flashes me a wry look. “My muscles are just stiff. I suspect it’s because I lived as an owl for so long. It’s been bothering me on and off since the reversal.”
I narrow my eyes. “You swear you’re not sick?”
He smiles, leaning down to meet me at eye level. “I swear.”
I search for signs of bluffing, but there are none.
“Okay,” I say, relaxing. “Maybe you need physical therapy or something.”
“I’ll look into it.”
He’s not going to look into it.
“Let’s get you home,” he says. “Your mom won’t be happy with me if you’re late for dinner.”
Nodding, I let him drop the subject. But I can’t shake this weird feeling that something is off.
I just can’t figure out what it is.