I held Kit in my arms, rigid as a steel trap, both of us shuddering in the aftermath of what had just happened. A horror, a miracle, a near-death experience… the weapon I had hoped to turn against my grandfather baring its teeth at my own throat. I had miscalculated, and it had nearly cost us both our lives.

The world stilled and pressed in around us, the bloody specimens arranged on the shelves now silent witnesses. I listened to the ragged panting, hot breaths beating against my neck. Kit’s body, so slight and yet so violently alive, was curled in my lap now. What I had momentarily awakened between us had faded to cold embers, something I didn’t want to think about, but my skin still prickled where his hands had tried to throttle me.

My grandfather had choked me a hundred times, but I had never been so afraid for my life as I had been as I stared up at Kit. His knuckles were white where he clung to my shirt, and I should have found the childish gesture laughable- but after what I’d seen in his eyes, I couldn’t find anything about this man gentle or amusing. The spirits had been there, visible even to my mundane sense. I had seen them crawling, biting, burning to get out… to get at me with more violence than what Kit had managed to restrain to his clutching fingers. 

The entire room still buzzed with the residue of their rage. I could feel the magic like static, crawling over my skin, clogging the air between us. Kit radiated cold and heat together, as if the spirits that had nearly swallowed him had left him both fevered and frostbitten all at once. Every urge and instinct I had kept at bay for so many years shrieked and clawed at my self-control, urging me to take command again- to ensure the shivering thing in my arms felt safe. 

My arms wrapped around his thin and shaking shoulders, and I tried to convince myself it was all still under control. That I hadn’t just barely survived being murdered by the very creature I’d spent half a year hunting. And that the feeling of his grip loosening from my throat, his body weakening at my command, hadn’t made me feel more alive than I had in years.

I hissed in a breath between my gritted teeth, and it made my throat throb. It was like I could still feel the ghost of his thin fingers there, squeezing with all of the strength his slender muscle could manage. I knew there would be new marks there, the impression of his fingers ringing my throat- fitting, to match the collar of runes I had placed around his own neck. I shouldn’t have found that so satisfying, and I had to throw my head back against the urge to create new marks on his skin. Marks that would show he was mine and I would not allow those vicious spirits to snatch away what belonged to me.

Carefully, I pried my hands away from the trembling arcanist. My hands ached from where I had gripped him so tightly, my fingers curling and uncurling as I tried to shake off the tension. “Are you…” Okay? I didn’t finish the question, the answer glaringly obvious as the arcanist released a low, shuddering breath.

He seemed still trapped in the fear of what had happened for a moment- but eventually he looked up. The arcanist’s face was bone pale, ashen against the darkness of his wide eyes and the messy fall of his sweat-dampened hair.

I reached out before I could stop myself, raking back the silken strands; a distant part of me marvelled at how soft he felt after washing with the products in my bathroom. If I took care of him, he would be a very pretty pet.

For the first time, the arcanist didn’t violently jerk back from my touch. Something soft and vulnerable sparked in his gaze, his lower lip trembling as his hands pulled at my shirt. “Sorry,” the word was hardly a breath, tears sparkling on his lashes.

And something roared in my chest that made my stomach churn, my throat tight as I swallowed. Desperate for a distraction, I asked, “Is it always like that for you?”

The arcanist stiffened, his body leaning away from mine, getting what little distance he could when he still straddled my hips. His dark eyes darted around- looking for an escape and finding none- before he finally, reluctantly, admitted, “Mostly. They talk about my kind like the power is a blessing, and there are some spirits that don’t seek control or violence. Just not the kind that are drawn to me, apparently.” His voice was caustically bitter, his hands finally releasing my shirt to rake his damp hair back from his face in a jerky motion.

My hands twitched with the desire to grab his waist and yank him back up against me. I shoved at the floor instead, dumping the arcanist out of my lap and ignoring his scandalized hiss as he was left sprawled on the tile. “Not surprising, considering all of the things you’ve done. They must feel right at home-”

“Shut up.” There was more fury behind the words than I expected, the arcanist’s eyes burning up at me. “It was always like this, ever since…” he sucked in a breath, his expression growing darker.

“Ever since my grandfather murdered your parents in front of you?” I suggested, my tone dry.

He flinched like I’d stuck him, his hands curling into fists against the tile. “Yeah,” he responded shortly. The chill had settled back into him, the vicious edge of a stray cat used to fighting for his life.

With the vulnerability that had called to me fading, I found it easier to think. “How do you manage it? If every vengeful spirit can force its way in like that…” It must be hell.

The arcanist kissed his teeth. “Like you care, I’m just a tool to you.”

I stared at him, letting his rebellious words hang in the silence until he was fidgeting and uncomfortable. His breaths quickened, some kind of internal conflict taking place, until finally: “Fuck, fine. I’ve been taking a limiter potion since my parents were murdered. It dulls the magic until I can’t feel it, and the spirits can’t reach me, but it never lasts long. I have to take it every day, or else… well, you just saw what happened.”

By the time he paused, my eyes had widened with horror. I knew what limiting potions were made of- ingredients that were toxic to arcanists, a slow poison that would eventually destroy their connection to the natural magic that defined their being. If this little thing had been taking that potion daily for more than a decade… It was a miracle he was still alive, much less able to speak to the spirits and take their power for his own. 

“That’s how they tracked me.” The arcanist’s bitter words distracted me from the dark thoughts. He had collected himself, picking himself up off the floor. His delicate hands brushed invisible dirt off his borrowed clothing; my lab was immaculate, but I assumed the gesture brought him comfort. Some sense of normalcy amid the nightmare I had dragged him into. “Apparently they’ve been monitoring some of the ingredients used in the potion. At least, that’s what the shop’s owner told me.” For a moment, something cracked his jaded exterior- hurt, and betrayal, his eyebrows pinching together. 

I stepped away from him, turning my gaze to the expanse of counters and perfectly clean tools. “That explains how they got to you before me,” I muttered, resentment curling through me. I hadn’t expected a creature like him, one capable of the things he had done, to be poisoning himself- so I hadn’t thought to trace a potion I wasn’t expecting him to use. It was a fault in my research, and knowing I’d made such a critical mistake was aggravating. “I won’t be making you any more, so I hope you weren’t expecting me to feed your addiction-”

“You think I want to take that shit?” The lash of his voice snapped my attention back to him. Color splotched his pale skin over his cheeks and down his slim neck, reflecting the anger that shone in his eyes; it seemed all I could manage to do was infuriate him. “I hate the way it feels. It numbs the entire world, every sense and every emotion. But it’s the only way to survive… that.” He gestured to the specimen jars in the neat rows, and I watched a shudder run through his delicate body. “The only way I could avoid being devoured by the pain of every lost, vengeful spirit in the city was to poison myself every morning. I didn’t have a choice.”

My stomach flipped, recognizing again the similarities between us- both of us trapped by my grandfather’s machinations. Any sharp retort I could have given died before it reached my tongue; all that left me was a heavy sigh. “Understood. Prolonged exposure has probably damaged you beyond repair, but if we’re lucky, I may be able to reverse it at least enough for you to get some control over that magic before it kills me.”

“You… can fix it?” The arcanist’s voice grew smaller, and I watched a torrent of conflicting emotions pass through his eyes: distrust, hope, anger… settling something vague and dangerously nearing apathy. As if he didn’t expect a single thing of me and assumed my words were only meant to manipulate him.

He wasn’t entirely wrong; I could only benefit from helping him. But somehow, knowing he assumed I was a monster put something sharp in my chest I didn’t understand. “I can try,” I answered simply. The arcanist stayed put, watching me with wary eyes- still just a cornered animal trapped in the den of a predator- as I began to move through my lab. “If you’re willing to behave, that is,” I added the condition, a smirk pulling at my lips as I watched him bristle. 

I turned toward him, arms crossed over my chest as I eyed him. “This is going to take time, and I was serious when I said I would help you take revenge against my grandfather. But if we’re going to work together, it’ll be easier if we’re not at each other’s throats every second. Sound fair, Christopher?”

“Don’t call me that.” His voice sounded colder than ever, something near hatred edging the frosty tone. 

It took me aback for a moment, until vague memories surfaced, and I realized who would have called him that- what treatment that likely brought to mind. Given the history, the name must have felt dangerous to him; a connection to his past, to a subject whose parents nearly escaped, to a shivering boy who would spend the rest of his life being hunted… even when he chose to become a hunter himself. 

“What should I call you, then?” I forced my voice to be gentler, lowering my arms, trying to appear as harmless as possible.

The arcanist watched me for a long moment, another silent conflict in his dark eyes, before he finally muttered, “Kit. You can call me Kit.”

“Alright then, Kit.” I somehow brought a smile to my face, though it was small and stiff. I gestured to one of the lower counters, trying not to think about the faint rusty stains across its surface. “Sit, so I can examine you… and we can have a proper conversation. I think it’s overdue.”

Kit hesitated, his hands clenching the hem of his borrowed shirt. His gaze darted between me and the stairs which led upstairs- to a mansion full of people who would abuse him in ways I shuddered to think about. I saw the moment he made his decision, shoulders slumping as he trudged across the tile to perch on the counter like I’d directed him.

It felt strange to see him listening to me, a faint whisper of pleasure at his actions sternly banished to the back of my mind. It was easier, simpler, safer to focus on the task at hand. I had every herb, every ingredient, every supply money could buy; given enough time, I could reverse the effects of the potion he had been using as much as anybody would be able to. And if I was lucky, by the end of it all, he might trust me enough to risk his life for the freedom we both craved.