Page 18 of Witchlore
“Yep.” I watch as he puts a glass under a button in the fridge and chilled water comes out. I see there are a few things pinned on it with magnets that look like marbles, including a picture of a handsome-looking couple and something that looks like a shopping list. I don’t think this is the kind of household where they pin up sentimental finger paintings withLIVE, LAUGH, LOVEmagnets. I peek around for other telling family photographs, hoping for an embarrassing childhood picture of Bastian to make me feel better about my humiliating vulnerability, but I’m surprised to see there are none. There’s a lot of art: carved wooden statues by the doors; huge, expensive canvases of brightly colored abstracted human forms mixed with some symbology I think I can identify as Haitian Vodou–inspired; a giant collage piece of tiny landscape photographs that delicately make up a Jamaican flag. It’s all beautifully curated, but as I look around, I keep feeling like something is slightly off.
Then it hits me. I can’t see any of the accoutrements I would expect to find in a typical witch home. I’m by no means an expert, but based on my experience living in a multiperson multicultural witch accommodation, even when a witch only has a room of their own they’ll stuff it to the gills with magical decor. I’d definitely expect more than some vague symbols hidden in the art. I peer around the corner, wondering where the talismans of heritage magic are hiding—do they have it all shoved in a cupboard?
I open my mouth to ask, but a door opens somewhere in the flat and a voice calls out, “Bastian? Is that you?”
A man walks into the living room, tall, dark, curly hair with a receding hairline and much darker skin than Bastian’s, but I can instantly see the resemblance. This must be Bastian’s father. He’swearing stylish black jeans and designer shoes, a white T-shirt that looks like it costs more than anything I have on, and an artfully distressed leather jacket.
“Oh. You didn’t tell me you were bringing a… friend over,” he says, looking up from his phone. He has an accent; I think it’s Canadian but it has a cadence I don’t recognize. French, maybe, and the way he pauses tells me that Bastian is definitely gay. I flush at the idea that I’m being framed as his son’s hookup. I hide my face in my water glass.
“Dad, this is Lando. They’re on my course at college.” Bastian’s tone has dropped below freezing. “Lando, this is my father, Eric Chevret.”
“Hi.” I raise my hand awkwardly.
“Hello.” His dad gives me a hard, steady look and then looks at his son. “Not another Merlin Foundation wannabe, I hope.”
“Dad.” Bastian frowns. I don’t know what to say. I scan Eric’s hands for rings, for any sign of charms around his neck or on bracelets around his wrists. There’s nothing but a sleek watch. It’s baffling. If someone had asked me to draw a picture of Bastian’s dad, based on my limited knowledge, this would not be what I expected. Bastian’s magical prowess and beliefs don’t come from nowhere. I’d imagined that, like most witches, he had learned them from his family and coven. Eric Chevret does not look like the kind of man who is part of a coven; he doesn’t even look like a witch.
“I work in a vegan supermarket,” I say blankly.
“Wonderful,” Eric says absently. “Perhaps you can encourage Bastian to look at more practical future options.”
“You mean like running a bloodytech start-up?” Bastian speaks the last three words like they are the equivalent of drinking toiletwater. Eric merely sighs, as if he has heard it a million times, and gives me a wan smile.
“You’ll forgive me, I’m on the way out. I have a dinner meeting in London.” He turns to Bastian. “Behave.”
“You, too,” Bastian says. His tone is so flat and cold that I want to blush with the awkwardness, but I try not to. Eric is walking to the door of the flat, looking at his phone again as he opens the front door and presses the button for the lift.
“It was nice to meet you, Landen,” he says.
“Lando,” Bastian corrects fiercely, but his dad has stepped into the lift and the doors have closed with a musical ding.
“Christ,” I mutter to myself, thinking that if father-son relations got any colder, we would have to relocate to the Arctic.
“What does that mean?” Bastian snaps.
“Nothing, I just—”
“Wondered why he’s such an asshole?” Bastian slams his own glass down on the marble countertop. I try not to flinch.
“No, I just… you know, you’re clearly so…” I gesture to his necklaces and see his jaw tighten, but I can’t seem to stop speaking. “I guess I expected your dad to be like you.”
“Right, because you know exactly who I am. Having atech brodad who couldn’t give a shit about witchcraft doesn’t conveniently fit into the elitist witch home you’ve imagined for me, does it?”
Bastian’s voice is so harsh, so visceral, so familiar that I respond without thinking.
“What did he do?” I blurt out. Bastian stares at me coldly.
“I don’t know why I should tell you.”
“You don’t have to.” I swallow hard and look at the setting sun, descending like a wilting orange marigold below the dazzling line of the skyscraper in front of us, casting Bastian in shadow. I decideto give him a bit of honesty because I get the uncomfortable feeling I’m one fuckup away from being thrown out. “But… I do get hating your parents.”
“I don’t hate my dad.”
“I didn’t say you did.” On the edges of the room, the sunset dances brightly but we’re sat in the shadow. “I just said… I get it.”
There’s a long pause. I hold my breath, wondering if I’ve made it worse.
“He didn’t do anything,” Bastian says quietly.
