The neighborhood of Willowsnest had been built to resemble an Old World village, but the cookie-cutter nature of each identical stone cottage screamed 'modern prefab suburb' to anyone with eyes.
"Is that a castle?" Armin asked as Sorrel turned his truck down Mule Lane. Sorrel grunted, taking in the stone monstrosity sitting at the far end of the block. The damn thing was a landmark and a nuisance.
"Just the walls," Sorrel said. "There's a park inside and a grove of willow trees. I think the city planner wanted it to be a play area for kids, but some dryads moved in and took over the place. And you know dryads. Where they go, nymphs follow. They made my teenage years hell."
"I bet," Armin replied with a smirk. Sorrel wanted to smirk back, seeing the giant folded into the passenger seat. The ogre had been determined to let Sorrel drive them, even going so far as to forsake the other vehicles in the Clan's driveway that were twice the size of Sorrel's old pickup.
"Okay," he said as he pulled into his parent's driveway and killed the engine. "Fair warning. My mom is a troll and my dad is a cherub. Try not to let them steamroll you." After a moment of thought, he added, "And ignore them if they ask any questions you don't want to answer. They can be intrusive. It's well-meaning, but dad is an career angel and mom is a cop. It's in their nature to meddle."
Sorrel didn't wait around for him to comment, jumping out of the truck and making it halfway up the driveway before Armin could unfold himself from his seat. The truck bounced as the ogre's weight left it and Sorrel made a note to get something sturdier. He doubted his pickup would survive more than a week of carrying around a giant—assuming Armin actually stuck around, of course.
The front door opened as it always did before he could within ten feet. Sorrel slowed to a hesitant stop as his father stepped out to meet him—something he never did. He usually just used his magic to open the door and waited for Sorrel in the kitchen with a pot of tea already brewed and a plate of muffins.
A knot of concern began to form in the pit of Sorrel's stomach.
Ezra Grum was four foot tall and often mistaken for a truant teenager. His agelessness had kicked in around the time he turned seventeen, freezing him in a body only beginning to shake off puberty. It didn't help he was always half dressed like a wannabe rock star. Or maybe he was going for a hipster gangster look.
Sorrel never knew for sure, but he did know no beanie could hide his dad's shiny golden curls and no amount of eyeliner would distract an onlooker from the elongated lion tattooed down the right side of his face and neck. It was part of a three piece set, but the ox down his left leg and the eagle down his spine were easier to hide. Or it would be, if his father ever deigned to wear a shirt.
"Hey," Sorrel greeted, uncertain of why his dad was standing in the doorway like a gatekeeper with his arms crossed in disapproval. Armin's murmured, "Hello," behind him gave him a clue of what might be different.
Hoping it wouldn't turn into a big thing, Sorrel absentmindedly waved at Armin and said, "Dad, this is Armin, Ogre Chief of the Maple Clan. Armin, this is Ezra Grum who I think might be my father, but I dunno because I've never known my dad to meet me at the door like I'm a stranger."
"I don't know, either," Ezra said in a rough, unhappy voice. "I've never had a son who gave up on his mate before."
Sorrel clenched his jaw. It was an old fight he'd hoped he wouldn't have to rehash, but he supposed it was inevitable with Armin's introduction into his life. "Ten years, dad. You need to let it go. Unless you want to stick a love spell on him—"
"I offered," Ezra interjected.
"Unless you want to break the law and lose your wings," Sorrel soldiered on. "It was never going to happen. He knew what he wanted out of life and it wasn't me. Get over it. I have."
Ezra's eyes flickered to Armin for the first time and his tone turned to ice. "So I see. An ogre. Really, love?"
Sorrel snorted. "Isn't that what grandpa said when you brought home a troll as your wife?"
"That was different," he muttered, but Sorrel could hear the first notes of uncertainty in his voice.
"Not your life, not your choice," he reminded him. "Can we please just go inside and pretend this conversation didn't just happen before you could even say two words to my... uh..." Sorrel stuttered to a stop as it hit him hard.
Armin was his mate. What did that mean for his bond with Alabaster? Was it just gone or...
"Now you're getting it," Ezra said gently. "There are repercussions to breaking a mate bond, especially between two mages. Armin, please accept my apologies for my rudeness, but my idiot son doesn't always see the bigger picture. I needed him to stop reacting and think for a minute. Please come inside and get settled in the living room. I'll fetch some tea. Blue ochre for you, I think, and some nice Berryblend for Sorrel."
Armin hesitated, but Ezra was in full hospitality mode now. In no time at all, they were ushered inside and made comfortable on the overstuffed sectional taking up most of the front room. Sorrel barely noticed as his father brought in their best set of elven teaware and pulled Armin into an inconsequential conversation about gardening. It was background noise while Sorrel tried to work out exactly what his father had meant.
As far as he'd acknowledged, his bond with Alabaster had never been given a chance to form, but he knew matebonds didn't work that way. There were nine layers of weaving to a mating. Meeting was the first weave and acknowledgment was second. Intimacy wove the third through sixth layers. The seventh layer was emotional connectivity, followed by spiritual connectivity for the eighth layer. The last layer was the bonding done by ceremony.
He and Alabaster had only gone up to level three, perhaps four in their bonding. There'd been a few stolen kisses and one night of heavy petting before things fell apart. He'd never learned what the man looked like fully naked and he'd always considered the lack something of a mercy. What fantasy he'd conjured in the months after their parting had always remained just that—a fantasy. It'd made it easier to imagine a pot-belly and man boobs when he hit the anger phase of mourning.
He'd never cared about the remnants of their fledgling bond once he reached the acceptance phase. But, for all his mourning, the bond hadn't actually died. He'd just buried it. Some part of him had always known, yet he felt too heartbroken to care about the implications. There had to be more to the situation than he realized or his father wouldn't be so upset.
What had he said? Something about the bond being between mages, but he couldn't figure out the importance. A bond was a bond. Wasn't it? Unless...
"That fucker," Sorrel snarled. Next to him, Armin startled, almost spilling his tea, and his father rolled his eyes at his outburst. But he couldn't help it. If what he thought was true, he had every right to be pissed. "Tell me he hasn't been siphoning me through the bond."
"Ding, ding, ding," Ezra said as he sipped at his tea. "Give the boy a prize. Why do you think that prick led you on for so long when he already had his mind set on marrying a high society witch? I tried to tell you, but what was it...?" His voice transformed into a perfect imitation of Sorrel's as he said, "Ten years, dad. You need to let it go." His voice fluctuated back to normal. "Ha! Maybe that will teach you to listen to your old man once in a while."
"You could have told me," he replied.
"I wanted to, but the Order forbade it. Free will and all that. The best I could do was try to get you to think about the bond and hope you'd realize it on your own. Alas, you didn't want to dwell on it."
"So what happens now?" he asked. He glanced over at Armin, wondering how he was handling all this, but the ogre just looked intrigued as he listened to their conversation.
Ezra shrugged and offered him a comforting smile. "You do what you've been doing. You live your life. Bond with your ogre here if that is your wish. The closer you get to him, the more your old bond will unravel. Without it, your former mate won't be able to siphon your power without your knowledge anymore." Ezra's smile took on a feral quality as he added, "Of course, that means he'll have to rely on the limits of his own power again."
A lump formed in Sorrel's throat, but he had to ask. "And how powerful is that?"
Ezra rolled his eyes and set his empty cup on the low coffee table, then relaxed back into the couch cushions. He seemed to be in nirvana as he answered. "He'll be lucky to levitate a pencil without passing out."
"Oh, shit," Armin muttered. Sorrel echoed him for a slightly different reason. Neither of them knew Alabaster like he did. Even the possibility of losing status in his Assembly—an inevitable outcome if he became powerless—would drive Alabaster into an unpredictable rage. There was no way of telling how he'd lash out.
"Speaking of passing out," Armin said as Sorrel silently panicked. "Sorrel suffered from a Thaumaturgical Fever last night after dealing with the Vortex on Third Street."
"Impossible," Ezra instantly replied. "He's Nephilim—half angel. I can count on one hand how many times he's suffered a Fever. Unless he was mucking about with power on the Demigod scale or higher, there's no way a silly little Vortex would fell him."
Armin raised an eyebrow, but he persisted. "It doesn't change the fact he blacked out."
Ezra was at Sorrel's side in an instant, a hand pressed to his forehead. Sorrel grabbed his wrist to shove him away, certain he was being overly-dramatic, but a tingle at the base of his skull stopped him. He waited for his father to finish scanning him and wasn't surprised when the normally docile angel spat an angry, "That fucker."
"Let me guess," Sorrel said tonelessly. "While I was working, Alabaster siphoned me into a Fever, then tried to cover it up."
"That's not all," Ezra replied as he lowered his hand. "He inserted a stent into your matebond."
"A what?" Armin asked while Sorrel trembled at the implications. This was far worse than the simple siphoning of power.
"It means he's been taking more than a little sip of me each time he uses a spell," Sorrel explained in a shaky voice. "He inserted a direct channel and has been draining me constantly for however long the damn thing has been there. There's probably a pool of power tucked away somewhere in his Assembly labeled 'Sorrel' and he's been feeding it with me. Gods know what he and his wizard buddies have been doing with it."
"This is a violation of sacred law," Ezra spat. "This is worse than just theft. Fate is going to be pissed when she hears about this perversion. I swear by all that's holy, you will receive justice for this. The Assembly better be on their knees, begging for forgiveness long before I get to them. And your mother—"
"Don't worry about it," Armin interrupted. Ezra glared as if Armin had just spat in his face, but the ogre merely smiled. "You're a cherub. I think my father is better equipped for this particular battle. No offense."
Ezra blinked twice, then smiled like he was nothing more than a sweet child again. "I'll pack some muffins to take with you."