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alchemistc · 6 months ago

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goon | bucktommy | chapter three

check out the hockey glossary here (updated for chapter two)

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two

read Chapter Three on ao3

Tommy's got a plan for the break. It's the same plan as he has every year: spend six days losing every bit of conditioning he's managed to gain over the course of the season by slowly becoming one with his couch, catch up on all the shitty shows he's been neglecting, eat his weight in potato chips and ice cream. Then he'll have one day before practice starts up again where he does weight training so long he wants to throw up, and back to the grind. The usual.

He gets the text as he's rebuilding his nest on the couch, three quarters of the way through day three, and for a long long moment he considers ignoring it.

His phone vibrates on the table again, and Tommy stares apologetically at the movie already queued up to play.

Drinks at Rare Bird tonight. says the text from Chimney, and then, below it, See you at eight. Love Actually can wait

Not a question mark to be found, and he's about to point that out when another text comes in, this time from Ravi.

You have to come tonight

No additional context, again. He's - not exactly unfamiliar with becoming the anchor for an anxious kid trying to find his place - a little mentorship, a little wing-manning, a lot like the guy who'll sit there and just be steady and quiet when someone is overwhelmed and needs a focus point. Panikkar is calm on the surface and an absolute nightmare right under it, a stunning swan with little webbed feet kicking up a storm underneath where all his vulnerabilities are laid bare. Tommy's used to cracking a terrible joke just to force someone so breathless with laughter they forget they'd been holding it, and he's used to that person immediately finding themselves at ease around him.

He has no fucking clue how the front office had known to look for someone to fill that role on the team, but it's become very clear over the course of the last month or so that this in one of the hand-wavey intangibles he's been brought in for.

And Greenway getting traded two days before the All-Star break had fundamentally changed something in the locker room.

There’s always a clique situation in a league like this — D-Pairs like Buckley and Diaz spending so much time together they have their own language that’s incomprehensible to anyone who hasn’t known them as long as they’ve known each other; stars like McKinley and all the guys he’s convinced the front office to sign because he can make them fit the play style they’re going for; the group of guys that jump between third and fourth lines with their heads on a swivel for the first opportunity to take a stab at more minutes; the boys living in their buddies basement apartment and the ones who own a McMansion somewhere in a gated community half an hour away from the rink.

Greenway had made the cliques circle in, shore up for the storm. And Tommy’s an easy-going guy, gets along well with everyone, but — something had lifted, the day they got the news, some tension easing, the groups getting a little less exclusive even just in the single game they’d played after he was gone. There’s no one for Tommy to say “I told you so” to, but he’d patted himself on the back for knowing it, anyway.

Tommy's trying to convince himself not to cave to Ravi and Chim when another text comes in, this one from Diaz.

We're taking bets on which turn Buck's gonna eat shit on this year, you in?

Christ, they live eat and breathe the game.

Tommy's not any better.

Twenty bucks says he beefs it on the third turn, Tommy sends back, before turning off the television and heading towards the shower.

---

There’s a certain artistry to meeting up for drinks with teammates. The dynamics of running into fans has changed, over the years. The social media boom had made it a nightmare for a few years, and Tommy’d spent about five of them walking and talking the faces of the league through panic attacks and generalized anxiety like he was a damn therapist, before he’d discovered that just telling them to go to fucking therapy was enough.

He’d seen a switch after finally escaping the Edmonton bubble, in a world that had spent eight months dialed in to social issues and gained a startling awareness of personal space, so it was a little easier, now, to roll into a bar and meet up with three or four guys without crowds of people demanding selfies. Tommy wasn’t likely to be on anyone’s radar, but he tended to be noticed out in public when he was out with everyone’s favorite.

Today he rolls up with Eddie Diaz in the passenger seat of his truck and hands his keys to the valet. The kid is still sporting a face full of acne, a foot shorter than Tommy and eyeing Diaz curiously as he swivels out of his seat, and Tommy has a moment where he’s sure the kid is gonna forget himself and gush about everyone’s second-favorite d-man in this town, but when his eyes go wide his gaze flicks from Diaz back to Tommy, and Tommy feels completely out of his depth.

“I — sorry, this is so rude, dude, but — you’re my sisters favorite player, man. She’s like, obsessed with you.”

Tommy’s brows go up, and he can feel Eddie’s eyes on the back of his neck as he points at his own chest. “Me?”

“Yeah, man — I mean she sorta hated you when you were with the Kings, but in a weird, like, ero —.” He pauses, and Tommy is grateful for the both of them. “Anyway. She was super excited when we signed you. We were at the St. Louis game. Fucking epic, man.”

Tommy — flounders. It’s been years since he’s gotten anything more than a look of recognition and a glance behind him to see if anyone else has tagged along with him. When Diaz rounds the hood of the truck and smacks a hand firmly down on Tommy’s shoulder, the kid smiles and redirects his gaze straight to Tommy. Which is weird as fuck. What the hell is in the water in this state?

“Thanks,” Tommy says, and Eddie grins charmingly at the kid.

“That’s Kinard, for you. Fuckin’ epic.”

The kid does something complicated with his face, like he’s realized some sort of gaffe, and turns an apologetic look on Eddie. “You’re also, like — I mean you’re great, Mr. Diaz.”

Tommy can’t hide the snort that escapes when Diaz’s face twitches, like he’s trying his very hardest not to react to the name. The kid looks like he’d like the ground to open him up and swallow him whole, so Tommy reaches into his back pocket, pulls a twenty from his wallet, and slaps it in the kids hand before he can say anything else. “Just in case your shift ends before we’re back,” he says, when the kid opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, and Tommy makes a mental note to ask the manager for his name, maybe send the kid a couple tickets to their next home game. Not that the seats need filling, in Denver, but — yeah, he’s a little flattered and it’s always fun to make someone’s day with shit like that.

Tommy shoots the kid finger guns as they say their goodbyes, about half to make the kid feel less self-conscious and half because he’s never been able to break the habit when he’s feeling a little overwhelmed himself. “Tell your sister I said hi,” Tommy says, and it’s Eddie’s turn to snort as they swing through the doors in search of the rest of their party.

---

Ravi’s hands go up the moment he spots them being led through the crowd by the hostess, and he does a celebratory little dance in his seat before he seems to realize his fingers are covered in nacho cheese. Chimney rolls his eyes from Ravi’s left as he reaches for one of the linen napkins on the table, and the woman sitting next to Chimney smiles.

He’d forgotten Chimney was engaged. The last time he’d spent any length of time with Chim, he’d been seeing a girl who didn’t know a single true thing about him.

She’s pretty — long dark hair and deep brown eyes, a quirk to her lips as she smiles at him that feels vaguely familiar, though he can’t quite place it. When he leans in to shake her hand, she introduces herself as Maddie Buckley.

Which he’d known, in the abstract. Of course he’d known, he’s heard Chim and Buck chirping at each other good naturedly for weeks now, really leaning into the idea that they’re soon to be brothers.

She tilts her head to the side, eyes on him as he settles in next to Ravi, Eddie pulling out the chair to his left, and Tommy recognizes that mannerism too — sitting in the locker room after optionals, Buckley already done with his after-practice workout and parked on the bench a few feet away from Tommy (who’d spent the same half hour on the ice taking passes on the move, trying like hell to find a rhythm that could help him keep up with Panikkar) plying him for stories about the year he’d played for the Hershey Bears.

They’re well situated to watch the skills competition, tucked into a corner with a television hanging overhead in every direction, all of them tuned into the pre-show, and as a server comes by to grab their drink orders Tommy stares around the table at the piles and piles of starters laid out and covering most of the available surface area. Chimney clocks his raised brow.

“Listen, there are only so many times a year I’m not under constant threat of death and dismemberment from my future brother-in-law if I so much as think of junk food. Ravi and I are going to enjoy this while we can.”

Maddie tsks. “He’s not that bad,” she intones, although she’s smiling like she’s conjuring a fond memory of her brother being an absolute terror. And it’s not that he hasn’t heard these stories before — Buckley’s sort of renowned for the health-nut thing around the league — but Tommy had also downed three cream cheese pastries with his coffee on the walk back to their hotel rooms, back in Utah, and Buckley hadn’t said a word.

“It’s the silent judging that really gets to you,” Eddie throws in, head tilted up towards one of the TV’s, where they’re showing highlights from the last few All Star competitions.

“He’s never silently judged me in his life,” Ravi contradicts, digging deep into the nachos in search of the strip of chicken buried under the pile. “He’s very loud about it. Whoever gave that man an iPad and Karen Wilson’s spreadsheets should be drawn and quartered.”

“Oooh, are we talking shit about Buckley?” comes a voice from his left, and Lucy Donato sneaks past him to snag a chip from Ravi’s plate.

Donato is technically the most decorated athlete of the lot of them — three golds and a bronze in women’s hockey, Tommy doesn’t have a fucking clue why she’s been an equipment manager for the team for going on four years now but the team loves her, and she seems to enjoy the work. Maybe it’s the roar of the crowd, maybe it’s the camaraderie, maybe the fact that she’d grown up with four brothers factors into it and she’s just happy to have that lovingly antagonistic relationship with the boys again.

“Is this is a safe space to remind everyone that it is not my fault Taylor Kelly wrote that tell-all article for the Athletic?”

At Tommy’s side, Eddie makes a face. “We don’t have to talk about her.”

He’s used to being a little out of the loop, when it comes to the intricacies of team dynamics — every team has groupings of people who live in each others pockets for eight to ten months out of the year, and know a little too much about one another. Tommy’s used to being a witness to it from the outside, to being the aloof mysterious one someone is always bound and determined to crack.

“We could talk about Marisol, if you want,” Lucy says, licking cheese off her finger as she settles into the seat to Ravi’s right, and Eddie shoots her a warning look. “How about Kim?”

“Okay,” Chim interrupts when Eddie opens his mouth to retort. “Hen’s late, but we are still taking bets. Tommy’s got the third turn, my lovely future wife and Eddie are both naïve optimists who think he’s going to learn from last years embarrassment and make it all the way to the end without letting the pressure get to him, I’m going first turn when he tries to build momentum. Ravi, Donato?”

Tommy lets the conversation wash over him. When his drink comes, he doesn’t even get a chance to sip at it before Donato is leaning over the table to steal his spear of cherries. Hen gives the bar-food laden table a raised brow when she arrives with her wife and jumps right into giving Panikkar shit about the condo he’s trying to purchase in one of the nearly-gentrified neighborhoods downtown. When the pre-show ends fifteen minutes later they all turn their attention to the televisions overhead, and Tommy sips at his Old Fashioned, wishing he’d ordered a beer instead.

There’s an element to nights like these that always make Tommy a little wistful. There’s so much history between them all, so much love. Tommy’s not lacking for friends, but he’s never really been a part of something like this. Like family.

When the server comes around to check in about another round, Tommy asks for the beer menu and orders himself an IPA. Anything to keep him from getting too loose-lipped as they cheer on Buckley and McKinley in their skills events.

Buckley eats shit around the third turn in the speed skate, and in his pocket Tommy’s phone buzzes with Venmo notifications as rest of the table grumbles and pays up.

He’s halfway through his second beer, two rounds into the precision shot competition, when Donato rounds on him.

“So. Kinard.”

“Donato.”

Her gaze is assessing, like she’s trying to pin him down, and Tommy has played this game for too many years to do anything but take a steady sip of his beer. “Thoughts on upcoming theme nights?”

Tommy doesn’t particularly pay attention to those. After the shitstorm of the commissioner banning Pride gear, confirming to Tommy that he’d been right, all those years ago, to lean into the toxicity, he’d stopped caring what sweater the equipment team left in his locker for warmups and just tried his best to keep his head down. He spends a long moment holding eye contact, unsure what exactly the line of questioning is about, before Eddie chimes in on his left.

“You do this every time,” he says, finger out, head tipped warningly, and Lucy shrugs, arms up in a gesture of surrender.

“Just trying to take the pulse of things, Jesus. I’m the one that has to deal with it if one of you fucknuts gets too enthusiastic and tapes his stick up in rainbow colors and he throws a tantrum about it.”

Hen and Karen both swivel their eyes to meet his, and the table goes uncomfortably still. He’d been leaning into the misogyny, the last time he’d played for a team Hen worked for, and he’s still not sure if she’d ever noticed how lackluster the comments had been, how close he’d been to finally breaking free of a truly mindbogglingly shitty coaching staff. They’d ended on friendly terms, but other than a few polite questions about her wife, they’ve never really talked about any of that.

Maddie, shockingly, is the one who breaks through the tension. “You went to the Pride parade in Nashville last summer, didn’t you? Buck always makes a note of the guys that do.”

He’d been terrified out of his fucking mind that someone would come to the outlandish (correct) conclusion that he was there as more than an ally, but Tommy didn’t shit where he ate, and Josi drew plenty more attention than he did, anyway.

Tommy nods. “I can tape my own stick and everything,” he says to Donato, brow raised, and she just nods back, apparently satisfied. It’s a relief, even if Karen Wilson has a curious eye on the finger he’s been nervously tapping against his beer since the original question had been posed. He keeps up the tapping for a few more beats.

“Always good to have another ally in the mix,” Hen says, doing something under the table that makes Karen glance away, and Tommy shifts the nerves into pressing his heel firmly into the floor beneath him. He feels like they’re all talking in riddles, trying to piece him together with faulty information, and for a moment, in this little bubble with people who seem to genuinely care for each other, he thinks it’d be easy to just let the cat out of the bag, say the words he’s had on the tip of his tongue for a decade, and in his heart for at least three.

Beside him, Eddie takes another pull off his beer, leans in to Tommy’s side. “Come watch the game at my place tomorrow? Just me and Chris, the rest of these idiots are doing brunch before coaches shindig.”

Tommy sort of desperately wants to tell him that he has a date with his television that he’s already skipped once, but — well, he likes Eddie, and it’d be nice to finally meet his kid. “Will Christopher snitch on us if I bring pizza?”

Eddie grins. “He absolutely will, but Buck’s wrath isn’t enough to stop me. Is it enough to stop you?”

Possibly, Tommy thinks, but instead of admitting that he just asks Eddie to text him his son’s toppings preferences.

---

On the bedside table, his phone lights up, and Tommy turns to grab it, keying in his passcode and frowning at the name on his notifications.

He swipes into his messages and stares at the text for a long, long minute.

Tommy’s never actually come out to anyone in his life. Never said the words, never had them asked — but there are a few people that have figured it out on their own, a few people who have done the work of supporting him while keeping it under wraps.

Sid’s sent him a picture. Not the usual one where it’s mostly his ass in a mirror followed by the number of squats he’s been doing daily. This is a terrible quality photo, shitty lighting in a dark bar, half the screen taken over by a hairy arm because of the angle the camera is tipped at. It’s four in the morning in Tampa, and Sidney motherfucking Crosby has just sent him a selfie of himself with his arm tossed over Evan Buckley’s shoulders.

Both of them are grinning, faces cast in shadow, eyes towards the camera, and Tommy taps into the picture so he can zoom in, stare at the smile lines around his eyes, the edges of a grin — Sid’s smug look like he knows exactly what Tommy had been thinking when he’d asked him to reach out to Buck.

He stares at it until another text comes in.

You should reconsider how off-limits this one is, he won’t shut up about you. Your name has lost all meaning to me.

Tommy swallows. Breathes through his nose, in-out-in-out. Slides his gaze back to the wide smile and rosy cheeks of Evan Buckley, one more time.

Go to bed, old man, he shoots back and closes out the thread.

He stares at the background on his phone: the crest of the hiking trail he’d found, two weeks ago, on a recommendation from Diaz, which he’d hit right at sunset, pinks and oranges and purples bleeding in to the chilly grey-blue sky.

His phone buzzes with another notification, this time from Buck. Tommy considers ignoring it, letting it sit unread at the very least until the morning. His phone buzzes a second time, and then a third.

The first is another picture — better angle, better lighting, better quality in general, exact same pose, including Sid’s knowing eyebrow and the soft sparkle of Buck’s eyes.

You can fly a helicopter? the first text reads, and then, all caps, YOU FLEW CROSBY IN A HELICOPTER ONCE????

Like an idiot, Tommy taps into the picture, presses down, saves it to his phone, and flips back into the thread just in time for another text.

You bet on me falling :(

You WON on me falling :( :(

He should absolutely put his phone down and go the fuck to sleep, but on the off chance that Buckley is stlll hanging out with Crosby, he doesn’t want to ignore Buck. That’d just be rude.

Used the winnings to buy a kid and his sister a suite for the next home game, he shoots back, and ignores the little thrill that shoots down his spine when three dots immediately appear right beneath his text.

That’s annoyingly sweet

Tommy breathes deep. Four-o-nine AM in Tampa. They’ve got a game that starts in less than twelve hours, there. He sends back: Selfish. The sister is apparently my biggest fan.

I’M your biggest fan, comes the text, followed by typing dots. They disappear, then reappear, then disappear again. Tommy doesn’t mean to time it, but thirty seven seconds later they appear again.

Let me know where they’re sitting. I’ll have someone send them your sweater.

then

You wanna sign it first?

Tommy takes a deep breath, and presses the call button.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #tevan fic #bucktommy hockey au #things are cooking things are brewing #we are in the ramp up to playoffs now folks

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totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus · 2 months ago

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Fic: Something to Sink Your Teeth Into 26/?

Pairing: Buck/Tommy

Vampire/Witch!AU

Read on AO3 (current chapter)

Read on AO3 (from beginning)

“Now,” Evan barked, leaping to his feet and closing the ledger with a resounding snap. “Now, we have to go. Now!” He rushed over and grabbed Tommy’s hand, as though he was going to physically drag him to the motel room door.

Tommy knew better than to argue with anyone who had that tone in their voice. “What’s going on?” he asked, yanking the door open and quickly glancing around to confirm they were alone before leading Evan outside.

“There’s a locator on this,” Evan hissed, glaring at the ledger like it had done him some personal injury. “I couldn’t tell before—it must’ve activated when I took it out of Greenway’s house. Maybe when I broke the locking hex. But someone’s using it; I can feel it now.”

Tommy jerked the keys out of his pocket, bracing himself for the short run to where the car was parked in the last, fading shreds of sunlight. “Can you block it?”

“Yeah, I can shut it down, but we need to get moving. They can scry our location or—”

Evan broke off with a startled cry, nearly dropping the ledger. The concrete walkway underneath them started to glow with the white light of witch magic. It traced itself in glowing lines around them, forming some kind of sigil about four feet in diameter. The air all around Tommy seemed to grow heavier, pressing down on him and his witch, heavy with the staticky charge of powerful magic. Tommy tried to pull Evan out of the circumference, and found to his shock that it was like running against a concrete wall. He snarled, his fangs dropping…

Only to realize that no sound came out of his mouth.

Evan’s hand tightened on his, and he whirled to see his witch’s mouth working like he was shouting something…but Tommy couldn’t hear him. They were silenced.

Trapped in the boundaries of the spell, and silenced so Evan couldn’t cast. Tommy whirled around, and threw himself at the invisible wall that seemed to have sprung up around. He struck out as hard as he could, gritting his teeth when his fist slammed into what felt like solid rock. Sparks of white exploded outwards where his knuckles struck, and a shock of electricity raced up his arm. He narrowed his eyes and struck again, throwing all his strength behind it, trying to generate more force than the spell could handle.

He was only able to throw himself against the barrier holding them a couple of times before Evan grabbed his shoulder, pulling him forcefully back. At the same moment, the scent of fresh blood—witch blood, Evan’s blood hit his nose. He whipped around to find Evan staring at him with a determined look, his blue eyes hard as flint. He’d ripped the makeshift bandage off his wrist and dug his blunt nails into the still-fresh bite marks Tommy had left, tearing the wounds open enough that they were bleeding freely again. His fingers were covered with blood.

“Trust. Me,” Evan mouthed, exaggerating the words.

Then he dropped to his knees and started smearing his bloodied fingers on the concrete, painting a curved sigil that Tommy thought looked vaguely familiar. He was almost certain he’d seen it somewhere before. When he was done, he pressed his palm down over it, a look of fierce concentration on his face. Tommy felt his eyes go wide, shock racing through him as white light exploded outwards from Evan’s palm, the sigil he’d sketched in his own blood glowing with it as well. The magic raced out and upwards, sparking out in jagged, lightning bolt-like patterns all around them, as though the barrier was cracking. Evan nodded at him gravely.

Tommy did trust his witch. Implicitly. He whirled around and drove his fist into the invisible wall around them one more time, throwing his whole weight, all of his strength, behind the blow. The glowing cracks formed by Evan’s magic spread, multiplied, and then Tommy felt the spell holding them shatter. The sigil that had sprung up underneath them sputtered like a candleflame in a strong wind, before blinking out of existence.

Tommy wasted no time, reaching back to grab Evan’s hand and drag him towards the car. He’d barely made it two steps before he heard a shouted spellword that had become entirely too familiar in the last few days. Evan suddenly yanked hard on his arm, swinging them around so that he was now in front of Tommy, one hand thrown forward, a spell already falling from his lips.

The bolt of fire that had been aimed with deadly accuracy at Tommy’s head broke harmlessly over Evan’s closed fist, the same way the burst of power Athena Grant’s familiar had hurled at Evan did. Tommy’s gaze snapped to the direction it had come from, a low growl rumbling in his chest when three figures seemed to melt out of the deepening shadows directly across the parking lot from them. He was certain they hadn’t been there a moment before.

Or at least, they had not been visible.

His eyes darted around, searching for the witches’ familiars. There were no obvious animals present—but he couldn’t rule out that they were simply small or hiding. Evan took a step back towards Tommy, exhaling shakily as he made a sharp gesture—almost like he was pulling something up from the ground—and chanted another short phrase. Another barrier shimmered into place around them…but this time there was no oppressive weight, no suffocating silence. Evan’s magic swirled around him, warm and protective, his power settling over them with the solid surety of a shield wall. He could feel the power of the spell, the crackling electricity of it making his teeth ache, prickling over the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck.

“Evan,” he said, squeezing his witch’s hand in warning.

“I’m all right,” Evan said through gritted teeth. “I can’t—I don’t think I can just teleport us out this time, though. Tommy, we can’t hurt them.”

Tommy clenched his fist by his side. Yeah. Yeah, just straight up killing representatives of the SoCal high coven would have much worse consequences for him and Evan than killing the vampires who had attacked them. He had no doubt that Ortiz would want revenge for her coven members, to not appear weak if nothing else. But the life of an enforcer in a vampire coven was expected to end violently. Ortiz would have thought he and Evan were weak if they hadn’t responded to being attacked with deadly force. The high coven, though, would take it personally if they took out these witches. It could even come back on Howie and his coven if Grant admitted that Tommy and Evan were helping them.

Fuck.

“I know,” Tommy said, squaring his shoulders as he reluctantly let go of Evan’s hand. “We don’t have to do this! Whatever you think you’re here for, you’ve been misinformed!” Tommy called, his voice echoing through the empty parking lot. Theirs was the only vehicle parked on this end of the motel…and even if there were people in a lot of the other rooms, he doubted anyone in this neighborhood would investigate the sounds of a fight or get the cops involved unless there were gunshots. Let the high coven worry about maintaining secrecy.

He didn’t think it would work. Nothing in his life was ever that easy…but he had to try. Evan seemed stronger than he’d been during their confrontation at the office building, but his witch had to be reaching the end of his limits. As he expected, the lead witch, a severe-looking Hispanic woman, barely flicked her eyes towards him before zeroing in on Evan.

“You know how to cast with runes,” she said, a faint hint of surprise in her voice. Tommy tensed, not liking the consideration in her tone. The interest.

It wasn’t surprising, really. Witches could not cast without the structure of a spell—the easiest way to neutralize them was to silence them. With a spell or a gag or—vampires like Gerrard’s preferred method—by simply ripping their tongue out. But there were ways to cast without a voice. After all, it wasn’t like no witch had ever been born deaf, or mute, or lost their voice through injury or sickness. Tommy knew even less about casting with runes than he did about typical spellcasting…he just knew it was possible. And extremely unusual for a witch to be able to do both; runes were an entirely separate spellcasting language to learn.

Though if Evan’s familiar really had lived through the Annihilation, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that he knew it.

“Who are you?” the woman demanded. “You’re banished; I could feel that the moment we saw you. Yet, you accomplished a teleportation spell. You know runecasting. That shield won’t hold for long…but I’ll admit it’ll hold longer than most. The only registered banishments in the last three years are all either women or much older than you. Who. Are. You?”

He felt Evan stiffen behind him, his witch’s hand coming to rest between his shoulder blades and clenching in the fabric of his torn shirt. “It doesn’t matter who I am. We’re all getting played, and we’re running out of time to stop a coven war from blowing up.”

The woman raised a disbelieving eyebrow, and the other two witches spread out slightly, their hands glowing with the white light of magic. “Ah, yes, the word of a couple of murderers—a banished witch and a vampire, no less. Very trustworthy.”

Evan bristled. “We didn’t kill Jonah Greenway. He tried to kill me. He’s responsible for over a dozen witches’ deaths! I can prove it!”

The woman pulled up short at that. “Proof? What proof do you think we could possibly take from you?”

Evan stepped out from around Tommy, the shield shifting with him. Tommy barely resisted the urge to pull his witch back, his fangs aching in his mouth, his eyes burning with scarlet light now. Still, he’d back Evan’s play…if there was a way to get out of this without bloodshed, they had to take it. His witch held the ledger up.

“You tracked this here, right? I tripped some kind of alarm on it. You know the spell originated at Greenway’s house. You saw what we did to those vampires. Why do you think they were there, if we killed Greenway? Wouldn’t they be on our side? There’s mimic bursts recorded on the pages—witches have been going missing for months here, haven’t they? Let any of their covens listen to the mimics, and I guarantee they’ll identify them. Greenway was selling us out to vampires.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed and one of her companions, a tall, dark-haired man with pale skin and a linebacker’s build, shifted from foot to foot, clearly agitated. “Catherine,” he snapped. “He’s working with a fucking vampire.”

“Doesn’t mean what he’s saying isn’t true,” Tommy called out, giving in to his instincts and stepping closer to Evan. “I’ve seen too damn many coven wars in my time—I don’t want one here anymore than you do.”

“Thomas Kinard,” the woman, Catherine apparently, said. “I heard an interesting rumor that you’ve been disavowed by your coven. Gabriel Alonzo’s at least reasonable, for a vampire. Why would he kick his best asset out of his coven, if you’re not helping to drive up tensions in the city?”

Tommy lifted his chin. “If you know who I am, surely you know how I operate. I’m not interested in a coven war. Neither is he.” He jerked his head towards Evan, a spike of worry unfurling in his belly when he noted the beads of sweat that were starting to stand out on his witch’s forehead. “Neither are you, I’d hope.”

“Take the ledger to the high coven,” Evan added earnestly. “Greenway’s coven leader can confirm the magic in it is his.”

“Olivia Ortiz is behind everything,” Tommy said. “Someone was making payments to Greenway regularly. There are people trying to decipher Greenway’s records, but I think when they do you’re going to be able to trace the money back to Ortiz. And I’ll bet anything the dates line up pretty closely to when each of your missing witches disappeared. She’s been pumping up her ranks with witch blood.”

The woman was considering their words, he could tell. Doubt was creeping into the edges of her icy expression. Her two companions—the linebacker and a delicate-looking Black woman with dozens of long, thin braids—were growing more agitated by the second, exchanging loaded looks the longer he and Evan talked.

“Just listen,” Evan pleaded. “We don’t want to hurt anyone.”

The woman sighed heavily, seeming to come to a decision. She held out one hand. “Throw the book,” she ordered imperiously.

“Del Marco!” the other woman cried.

“This whole situation stinks, Peterson,” the lead witch said with cold determination. “Something’s wrong. You know that.”

Evan relaxed ever so slightly, glancing at Tommy out of the corner of his eye. “Stay behind me,” his witch said softly. “I don’t like how twitchy the big guy looks.” He held the book up higher, winding up to throw it over to the high coven representative.

The linebacker grimaced, and Tommy heard him swear softly under his breath. He shot another significant look at his companion. Tommy realized what was going to happen a fraction of a second too late.

“Sorry Del Marco,” the linebacker said, with what sounded like genuine regret. Then he gestured sharply with one hand, chanting a spellword as he did so, and a bolt of power shot towards her. The lead witch went flying, a cry of pain and surprise echoing in the lot.

* * *

Evan watched in shocked horror as one of the witches—an enforcer for the fucking Southern California high coven—turned on his superior and could only think: they might be in real trouble, here.

The thought skipped through Evan’s head, frantic as a moth fluttering against a light bulb, there and gone as he poured more power into the shield spell surrounding him and Tommy. His vampire’s solid presence at his back helped him ground himself, ignore the way his grip on his magic was starting to feel a little bit shaky, the way his head was starting to ache and his breath was starting to come a bit faster.

Even on his best day, with a fully functional coven bond and all the time in the world to rest and prepare, he would not have been a match for three high coven enforcers for very long. Longer than most, sure, but he’d eventually be forced to retreat. Now? With the only places he could even conceive of as a safe destination miles and miles away, already having cast multiple powerful spells, having used rune magic for the first time in what had to be two years…he wasn’t entirely sure that attempting to teleport himself and his vampire to safety wouldn’t kill him.

It would at least hurt him very, very much.

His concentration flickered, his barrier shimmering weaker for a bare instant before instincts Sally had drilled into him snapped him back to the present. “Hey! What the hell are you doing?!” he shouted, shoving the ledger back in his pocket and starting forward.

The other woman, the one the lead witch had called Peterson, snapped towards him, her hands raised defensively. Evan planted himself squarely in front of Tommy, bracing himself as she shouted her own spell and arcs of white lightning shot across the parking lot at them. He grunted as they struck his barrier, the force of it like a physical blow, and stumbled back a half step before he regained his footing, calling up more power for the barrier.

“Can you keep most of their spells off me?” Tommy suddenly hissed, close to his ear. He spared a glance over his shoulder to find his vampire glaring at the linebacker, his fangs glistening in the light cast by the few broken streetlights in the parking lot, and his eyes gleaming solidly crimson.

Too far away. Tommy was fucking fast, but they were on the other side of the parking lot from the witches, and Evan didn’t think even his vampire would be able to dodge everything they could throw at him. At least behind the barrier they were safe for the moment. But they were also sitting ducks, and the barrier wouldn’t hold forever. Evan took a deep breath, shoving the pain and the weakness starting to steal through his limbs down deep. “A little longer,” he prayed. “Just a little longer, please.”

“Nothing will touch you,” he swore grimly. Despite the dire situation, a fierce, proud grin twisted his vampire’s lips.

“I’m going for him first,” Tommy said, all the warning Evan got before his vampire bounded away from him, bolting across the cracked asphalt almost faster than Evan’s eye could follow.

He saw when the two witches realized Tommy was on the move. The linebacker had been stalking toward where Del Marco was sprawled across the concrete in a groaning heap, his hands glowing with power. With a snarl, he wheeled toward Tommy, and Evan forced himself to concentrate on the one called Peterson, summoned a volley of fire which aimed more to distract than harm. She stumbled backward in surprise when flames erupted at her feet, her own barrier shimmering into place around her body.

Almost at the same moment, Tommy crashed into the other one with a growl that Evan heard even from yards away. They went rolling, and he saw a burst of white light between them before Tommy flew back. His vampire hit the ground hard, but rolled with the momentum, coming up in a predatory crouch he held for a bare second before launching himself at the man again.

Del Marco was trying to get to her knees, blood streaming down the side of her face as she shook her head dizzily. Peterson whirled on her and Evan groaned out loud before doing the only thing he could think to. He split his focus, throwing his hand out towards Del Marco and calling up a shield that would have had Sally making him run laps around the coven to repent. The shaky, flickering barrier held against another of Peterson’s lightning onslaughts, though, even though it made Evan’s head swim to hold the two shields in place.

“Get up!” he screamed at Del Marco, taking a few hurried steps towards the witch even as Tommy threw himself at the linebacker again. Just a heartbeat too slow as another flare of magic erupted around the man, a whirl of wind whipping up around him that threw Tommy back yet again. “Get up, you have to get up!”

“Maddox…wha—” Del Marco started, shaking her head dizzily.

There was a sudden commotion to Evan’s left, a scuffle of bodies and a loud snarl. When Evan looked, he was horrified to see a familiar who had taken the shape of a large German Shepard running down one that had the form of a gray and white cat. Above them, Evan could barely make out a small sparrow, flitting back and forth and shrieking angrily. The dog pounced on the cat right in front of Evan, its teeth tearing into the cat’s sides with a savagery that was sickening to watch.

Across the parking lot, Del Marco screamed, collapsing back to her hands and knees as the bond she had with her familiar flooded with the cat’s pain.

Peterson started chanting, her face twisted in anger as she raised her hands above her head. A cold chill raced up Evan’s spine when he recognized the spell.

Tommy was thrown back from the linebacker again, this time with so much force that his head cracked against the asphalt loud enough that Evan heard it above the cries of pain coming from Del Marco’s familiar.

Linebacker advanced on Del Marco again, a crazed sort of determination settling on his face. Tommy rolled dizzily to his knees. Above Peterson’s head a cloud of mist began to form, the white glow of her magic swirling in the center and growing brighter, brighter, brighter…bright as daylight. Bright as sunlight.

Evan could fire off a spell at her, but Del Marco and her familiar would be dead before he and Tommy could recover. He could attack the linebacker, but his vampire would be left defenseless under a beam of false sunlight and fire. His magic was a sputtering force within him, coming to the end of his reserves, his body starting to betray him as his hands shook and his breath came in short, sharp pants. He couldn’t teleport. Even if he wanted to let Del Marco die to save his vampire, he was too far away. There was…there was…

There was only one choice.

Trust your magic, little love. You must always have perfect trust in your magic, or you are lost.

Sally’s remembered words echoed in his head, her most important lesson when she taught him the only spell that could save them all. Evan breathed once, twice. He closed his eyes. And chanted his spell as he stepped forward in perfect trust. He turned once and pulled. Turned twice and pulled. Turned three times and pulled.

When he opened his eyes, Del Marco and her familiar were crumpled on the ground in front of him. Tommy stood beside him, looking around in shock and confusion. Peterson and the linebacker were whipping this way and that, searching the parking lot with frantic eyes. Their voices echoed weirdly, as though coming from very far underwater. Everything felt like it was very far underwater, a strange, bluish haze enveloping the parking lot where they were standing. The air was cold as a winter morning, and Evan shivered at the familiar feeling.

“Evan,” Tommy said, and then let out a startled cry when Peterson walked right through him, her body rippling through Tommy’s like a ghost. “Evan, where are we? What’d you do?”

Evan swallowed, trying to breathe through the way his head was spinning. He wiped his nose with one hand and was unsurprised when his fingers came away with a small smear of blood. He looked over at his vampire and shrugged apologetically.

“Only thing I could think of,” he said quietly. “Welcome to the between.”

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