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“I think you two are being too overly critical?—”
“Overly critical?” Ingrid folded her arms over her chest. “Grey, come down here.”
He swallowed, pushing off the railing and sliding down the metal ladder’s frame. Dust stirred up at his feet the moment his shoes hit the floorboards, each following step a complaint on his way to stand next to them both.
Ingrid gripped his arm, shoving his hair away from his left eye for Atticus, who turned his head away like he’d been slapped—all lightheartedness gone from his expression, traded for a wince of pain. Pain because of the milky iris staring back at him, even though Grey couldn’t see through it. He felt his hair fall back into place, mostly obscuring it from view again.
“Do you really want to lure those kids into a false sense of security?” she asked, her forehead wrinkling. “Think about how so many of us have died at the hands of other mancers or tortured because they despise our abilities—us. This boy shouldn’t have had some sick, twisted individual cheer over beating his magic and robbing him of part of his sight.”
Grey’s head dipped, and he tugged his sleeves down over his hands, feeling awkwardly embarrassed about the entire situation. Ingrid sighed, Grey’s ear perking at the scrape of her boots against the floor just outside of his periphery. Her steps dampened as she moved further into the hovel of an apartment.
“Grey,” Atticus breathed. “You know I didn’t mean any harm?—”
“I know.” He lifted his chin, locking gazes with those twinkling, hopeful eyes set into such a rugged frame of a face—rugged with spots from age and sun exposure instead of the many fights he used to tell Grey stories about.
A small smirk returned, and he reached for Grey’s shoulder. The warm, strong weight that followed anchored him in the midst of that deep, haunting ache. “I’m honestly surprised you haven’t up and left us by now. A bright young thing like you shouldn’t be hold up with a couple of old maids.”
Grey huffed a short laugh. “Forty-something isn’t that old?—”
“Please, forty-nine is practically fifty. I’ve lived well over two of your lives.” His fingers pressed into his muscle. “When I was twenty-one, I was itching to see the world, and you’re just sitting up there night and day with your drawings and journaled musings.”
He pushed Atticus’s hand away, shaking his head. “And I’m fine with that.”
“What are you going to do when you finally feel your Calling?”
He snorted. “Ingrid said not everyone has a Calling. I think I would’ve run into it by now.”
“There’s still time, and I don’t want you to be afraid when it keeps you up at night and tries to drag you outside this wreck of a town.” Atticus waved his finger in front of Grey’s nose.
He bit back a bemused smirk. “I’m not nearly as adventurous as you, Uncle Atti.”
“You never know, my boy. You never know.”
* * *
Warmth settled in Grey’s belly as he sank into his mattress after dinner, curled up with his journal and a chewed-up pen. His drawing from earlier puffed up the prior pages from where he pasted it inside like a captured memory, where it pushed back with each word pressed into its conjoined piece.
Every inked letter soothed him closer toward sleep, along with the soft humming drifting from the neighbor’s window. He yawned and stretched as he set his flimsy, leather-bound notebook to the side and huddled into the blankets. His eyes closed, and the world vanished for a fraction of a second.
In a blink, the apartment was dark, the melodic notes climbing through the window had ceased, and pale light spilled over the floorboards, licking at the railing. He turned over, half-sitting up to bask in the presence of the moon’s waxing state. Grey’s head dropped back down to the pillow before he rolled over to his back, sucking in a deep, calming breath and closing his eyes.
But this time, sleep didn’t take him.
Instead, the image of his drawing seared into his eyelids, taunting him. Grimacing, he threw back the covers and sat up, rubbing at his face. Each movement turned into a jolt, demanding he keep going, like some restless creature had slunk under his skin. He pulled on his worn, faded hoodie over his rumpled black shirt. Muddied boots were tugged over slim, ripped, dark jeans. His hands absently shoved item after item into his bag—a lantern, a compass, a knife, a small collection of coins he’d saved from the artwork he’d been commissioned for. Then his fingers twitched as he reached for his journal, resting next to his small heap of art supplies.
That alarm pulsed through him, snapping at him to hurry like a rabid dog on his heels. Grey scooped it up, dumped it into his bag, and bundled up his supplies to tuck them inside as well. He scurried over to the ladder, quietly crawling down until a creak sounded at the bottom.
“No Calling, hm?”
Grey spun around, eyes wide as he caught Atticus lingering at the edge of the hall, leaning against the corner. A soft, tired smile tipped up the corner of his mouth. Grey swallowed.
But Atticus started for the kitchen, plucking open the cabinets and wrapping homemade protein bars and dried fruit in cheesecloth. “You should probably take some food with you just in case you’re traveling out of the way for a few days.” He slid the care package across the counter in offering as Grey finally moved from the other end of the small living room. The padded, quiet tap of cabinets closing again gave him pause with his bag dipping off his shoulder.
“I don’t want to inconvenience you two?—”
“Please, Grey, like you’ve ever done that.” Atticus turned back around and rested his forearms against the smooth granite. “We had the choice to dump you in the arms of someone else, and we chose to keep you. You’ll always be our son—nephew, whatever you want to call it. Blood or no blood, you’re always welcome here. We will always take care of you.”
Grey fought against the pressure pricking at the backs of his eyes, opting for a nod instead of a thank you for fear of his voice cracking. He collected the dry goods as Atticus rounded the counter and pulled him into a hug. The faint notes of cloves made his heart squeeze before anticipating that final pat on the back.
