Page 9 of Our Radiant Embers

‘Here?’ I’d taken in the dated furniture and the retro jukebox in the corner. ‘But it’s just…a bar.’

‘Pays the same, and bar brawls are a lot less likely to uproot anything that isn’t anchored to the ground, or get you soaked from head to toe. Plus’—he’d nodded at the rainbow flag—‘there is that.’

I didn’t entirely remember how that had led to me making some comment he considered homophobic, to which I replied that he didn’t know the first thing about me. He’d then proceeded to inform me, in great detail, about all the ways my family was rotten because of how we treated the people who worked for us. Which was a load of crap, of course—we ran a business, but we treated people fairly. So I’d pushed back. Cue more booze, a heated argument, rising irritation and somehow, eventually, his challenge to prove that I wasn’t who he thought I was.

Yeah, I’d proven that, all right.

Cassandra knew all of this, of course. It didn’t stop her lips from curling up into a teasing smile. “He’s easy on the eyes, though.”

“Why don’t you date him, then?” I asked. Which, weak. Since I realised it, Cassandra certainly did.

“One,” she stated with the air of a cat with a particularly amusing toy, ready to pounce on the flimsiness of my comeback. “Unlike you, I already have a boyfriend.” She did, not that her parents would approve if they knew—the guy came from a no-name family. But he adored her, and for me, that was good enough. “And two, wrong equipment.”

Right. Because Liam, unlike me, made no secret of his sexuality. Oh, he didn’t wear rainbow suits, nothing quite that obvious, but he simply didn’t appear to care about how word travelled. I envied that, and maybe disliked him just a little more for it.

“Look,” I told Cassandra, “I’ve got enough on my plate already. Adding Liam Morgan to the mix is not what I need.”

“I’m afraid that’s not up to you anymore.” Her voice wasn’t devoid of sympathy, and she was right—but then, she always was. It was one of her more irritating qualities.

“I’ll handle it,” I said with all the confidence I’d been raised to project, and really, I would. So what if I’d be seeing a lot more of Liam than I was truly comfortable with?

I was a Harrington. The Morgans were no match for us—not even Liam.

3

LIAM

The Harringtons were richer than political promises during an election year. Big fucking surprise.

Presumably, they’d invited me into their pretentious abode to illustrate just that. And yes, in all honesty, the towering columns, turrets, and manicured lawns looked impressive, as did the stern-faced guards at the entrance of the estate. Taking a leaf out of the King’s Guard’s handbook, were we?

My Audi looked rather out of place. As did I—although I’d made a deliberate choice, opting for jeans, trainers, and a leather jacket.

When the heavy front door swung open, I draped myself in measured indifference. A butler, his formal uniform as crisp as his expression, scrutinised my general being and surely found me unworthy of the opulence that surrounded us. Like I cared.

After confirming my identity, he led me through a vast entrance hall with a gleaming chessboard floor—someone sure liked their marble. In the stillness, our steps echoed, mine faintly more muffled than the butler’s click-clacking dress shoes. The floral scent of cleaning products hung in the air.

We proceeded along a hallway, closed doors on either side, until we arrived in front of an office. The butler rapped his knuckles on the doorframe. Behind a massive desk about the size of my bedroom, Adam looked up with a smile as polished as the marble floors. His gaze travelled down my body and back up.

“I see you put some effort into choosing a professional attire.”

Ah, yes—skip all pretence and jump right into trading barbs. Lovely.

Projecting mild disinterest, I took in the room before I returned my attention to Adam and his white button-up. Admittedly, it fit him well. Since I wasn’t three beers in, it didn’t affect me.

“I believe in substance over style.” I sauntered past the butler and right up to a bookshelf that held a variety of old, leather-bound tomes. Rumours equipped the Harringtons with one of the biggest collections of books on the history, theory, and application of magic, but of course they wouldn’t exhibit those quite as overtly. Shame. Average as my magic potential was, I’d been trying to solidify my knowledge. The books that were widely available hadn’t quenched my need for answers.

What were the conditions for magic to thrive? How could I reliably harmonise the flow when using two or more types of magic for one device? Why did my family stand as an anomaly, five of us secretly harbouring subdued potential for all four elements when the norm was one? Granted, a small number of powerful mages possessed a weaker gift for a secondary element—without exception, it was the opposite of their primary strength, often kept concealed as an ace up their sleeves. Adam, for instance, was the strongest fire mage I’d met, while his water ability registered only at Blaze-level.

“I can see that,” Adam said dryly, rising from behind the desk. “Can I offer you some coffee or tea?”

I turned. “A shot of vodka might make this bearable.”

It was barely out when I remembered why that was a terrible idea. The brief tightening of Adam’s mouth said that he did, too. “Get us a bottle of sparkling water, please,” he told the butler. “And a coffee for me. Nothing for my guest, it seems.”

“Right away, sir.” The butler turned on his heel and disappeared back the way we’d come.

“You said ‘please’.” I draped my leather jacket over the armrest of an antique sofa. “I’m impressed.”

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