Page 21 of Our Radiant Embers

“Does it take practice to be such an insufferable git, or does it come naturally to you?

I offered a self-effacing shrug. “It’s all in the genes.”

A second of silence stretched between us. Suddenly he grinned, a distinctively wolfish tinge to it. “That’s what I thought.”

With that, he got up. I did the same, gathering notes that my assistant would type up later. “Your assistant,” Liam echoed flatly when I mentioned it, as though the mere concept was outlandish.

“Learn how to delegate,” I told him. “With a project like this, you’ll run yourself into the ground if you plan to do everything yourself.”

He pursed his mouth. “Don’t hold your breath.”

“Look, man. Personal feelings aside, we’re stuck in this together. If you crash and burn, we both do.” I sent him a pointed look. “Do us both a favour and hire some fucking help, all right?”

He grumbled something that wasn’t quite assent. Right—I’d have to keep an eye on him.

We made our way to the door, where I stopped to put my shoes back on while Liam hovered. Music still thrummed through the wall, and I considered asking whether I could take a quick peek into the workshop, curious despite myself because no one had successfully copied what the Morgans did. My reserve of charm was running dry, though.

Tomorrow.

* * *

Was this how a CEO felt on the verge of delivering a status report to a group of sceptical Board members? At least it was only my father and aunt this time, the drawing room with its high ceiling dwarfing us all.

After I’d outlined the joint proposal Liam and I had hammered out earlier, thick silence hung in the air. Eleanor broke it, her voice as pointed as the click of her heels on the polished floor. “Timelines and deliverables? You mean to say they are monitoring our progress?”

Of course she’d see it as an insult.

“Only on two things. The…”…energy penises, as Liam called them. I doubted his brand of humour would resonate in this room. “The power-generating towers, for one, and our earth-magic coated windows. We’ll monitor them on eighteen innovations.”

My father interlocked his fingers, his brow furrowing. “What level of detail are we expected to share, and vice versa?”

“Only enough to reassure the other side that things are on track.” I shifted, glancing at the imposing marble fireplace behind him. Softly glowing embers within suggested that for now, his anger was contained. “Nothing that would allow them to copy our concepts. Or us to copy theirs, I suppose.”

“This is not the Harrington way.” Eleanor paused in front of the window, framed by velvet drapes of a rich maroon—a figure in a play of her own design. Like my father, she’d been formed by a time when magical justice meant survival of the fittest, and the strongest families could quite literally get away with murder. We’d been one of those families.

In the past two decades, things had changed. There was an understanding now that a Wild West mentality harmed our community as a whole. Not that there hadn’t been rules before—but now they were implemented more stringently, with Archer Summers overseeing the enforcement as part of her shadow advisor role.

“It is rather unpleasant,” my father agreed. I needed a moment to realise he was referring to Eleanor’s words rather than the evolution of a justice-based magical society.

“The Morgans are weak.” Eleanor’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Separate them from their gadgets, and they’re vulnerable.”

Hold on.

“They’re not a threat,” I blurted. Easy. I strove for a much calmer tone. “For one, they’ll be scrambling to uphold their end of the deal—they’ve thrown a lot of ideas into the mix that they haven’t tested at scale before. They won’t have time to breathe, much less make nuisances of themselves by interfering with our processes. Also, anything happens to them, we’ll be the prime suspects.”

“It might also delay the project.” Father’s voice was briskly pragmatic.

Eleanor folded her arms, frowning, then inclined her head in agreement. “Fine. We’ll work around them.”

I turned away to hide my relief. For fuck’s sake, I didn’t even like Liam. He was infuriating, challenging me in ways that few people dared. I also still remembered his taste on my tongue even though I wished I didn’t. But anyway, our community had rules for a reason, and I, for one, felt that we were bound to them just like everyone else.

Stepping up to the bookshelf, I trailed a hand along the worn leather spines, a greasy shine to them. Our library of magical theory far surpassed anything commonly available. Gale had spent countless hours working his way through any book that might hold some answers for him—from philosophical explorations of the nature of magic to theories about its origins. They mostly built on how it appeared to be strongest where a large number of people congregated around shared stories and symbols of faith.

Me, I’d always been more interested in the practical application of magic. ‘Because you have the luxury of being powerful,’ Gale had told me, and yeah, he might be right about that.

“Now,” Father said, “what’s this about helping them build an office?”

I’d expected that question, and I had a ready answer. “Just a rough initial design for now. It makes us look collaborative. Also, we’ll be working with them for months—which is to say that I will be working with Liam for months—and I’d rather not deal with his family constantly walking through.” I straightened my spine and offered a calculating smile. “For Gale, it’s investing a few hours. And if the Morgans subsequently take our offer, which will be slightly below market rate but still profitable for us? They’ll owe us.”

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