A man in his early thirties with meticulously styled honey-blond hair sits across from me, a magazine open on his lap that he’s clearly not reading. He’s handsome in that catalog-model way, everything about him deliberate from the precisely rolled sleeves of his crisp white shirt to the polished tan loafersand gaudy ring with a blue stone that probably cost more than everything I own combined.
“Do you play professionally?” he asks, nodding down to the cases before I can put my headphones in.
“Just a hobby,” I mumble. “Ignore me, that wasn’t my finest moment.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” he says. “You’re very spirited.”
“Is that a euphemism for clumsy?”
“Not at all. I’ve always appreciated your spirit, Dodger.”
The embarrassment fades as my heart clenches in my chest and suspicion sets in. I didn’t give him my name. “How do you—”
The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out something that catches the light, an antique pocket watch on a chain, ornate and familiar. My mouth goes dry. I know that watch. I’ve seen it before. It belongs to Asher Rowan.
“How?” The word escapes me as a whisper.
The man—Rowan?—leans closer, his voice barely audible over the bland lobby music. Speaking too low for my bodyguard to overhear. “This is my specialty.” He motions to himself and mouths the word ‘glamor’ with a self-satisfied smirk.
It’s Asher Rowan, no doubt about it. This version of him is blond and a few decades younger, but the pristine appearance and smug superiority are the same.
I open my mouth, ready to call out to Harper, who has his back to us as he finishes the checkout process. Rowan’s finger shoots up to his lips in a shushing gesture.
“This is a friendly visit. I even brought you a gift.” Rowan places a manila folder on the glass-topped table between us. “Information I think you’ll find... enlightening.”
I glare at him, about to tell him exactly where he can shove this gift of his. Harper’s gotta be almost done… then again, wedid change rooms multiple times and he broke down one door. Guess I shouldn’t expect him anytime soon.
But then something strange happens. The blue stone on Rowan’s ring dims, its vibrant color fading to a dull gray before my eyes.
Rowan notices it too. His smile falters as he glances down at the ring. “Ah,” he murmurs. “How inconvenient.”
His handsome facade begins to crumble. A softening around the jawline, a slight dulling of the too-bright blue eyes. The honey-blond hair darkens in patches and his frame expands, like he’s going from thirty-something to sixty in seconds.
“Looks like your little trick is running out of power,” I say.
“Good help is so hard to find these days,” he remarks, voice strained.
“Help? You bought a glamour? I thought this was your craft.”
Rowan brings a hand up to his temple, concentrating hard. Color appears in his hair again, but it’s gone a second later. He’s trying to maintain the illusion, but it’s slipping away.
The Rowan who appears before me now isn’t quite the one I’m familiar with. There are strands of silver eclipsing the black color in his hair. His face looks heavier, etched with wrinkles and lines that weren’t there before.
“This, this is what you really look like?” I whisper. This is his craft, but he isn’t very good at it. Not enough to change his whole appearance. He had to buy the power to look like a completely different person, but the glamor he purchased in the ring just ran out of juice. No, his meager skills are only capable of hiding his blemishes and signs of old age.
With the stronger magic gone, Rowan activates his own skills and hides all his superficial flaws. The grey in his hair changes to black. The lines around his eyes disappear. He doesn’t seem as powerful as he usually does. Only an aging manwho erases his imperfections and can’t handle his true self being revealed.
“This, this isn’t…” Rowan seems genuinely flustered, his composure cracking along with his appearance. He stands abruptly, the magazine in his lap slides to the floor, but he doesn’t stoop to retrieve it. “Some truths are better left hidden, but I believe you deserve to know this one.”
Then he’s gone, striding away. I sit frozen for a moment, processing what just happened. The folder still sits on the table.
Against my better judgment, I reach for it.
Inside are newspaper clippings, police reports, and photographs. The first article headline jumps out at me:“Werewolf Couple Killed in Necromancer Attack.”
The photograph below shows a crime scene cordoned off with police tape. Police reports detail how a necromancer summoned a beast in an attack that resulted in three casualties: two werewolves and the necromancer himself.
And then I see the names. The accused perpetrator isn’t a surprise, the unknown necromancer that the city wasn’t able to identify but I still recognize him. My brother, Jonathan Williamson. He was blamed for the lethal necromancer attack five years ago that changed the city, but Rowan found me before I could dig further into the incident, so the other names are new. James Harper and Elaine Harper, werewolves killed while defending their territory from a supernatural threat.
