Chapter Text
Arlo Stoker did not look like a man with a deadly secret.
In both stature and disposition, he seemed younger than his eighteen years, compounded by the generous dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks and and delicate features that did no favors for a boy with four rowdy older brothers.
Brothers which, if he found what he was looking for, would have a chance to survive.
Arlo left his family with everything he owned strapped to his back, and boarded a ship that would take him to a city, the tales of its sprawling magnificence having reached as far as his home.
Arlo’s hometown had its own kind of splendor - the grassy hills stretched to the horizon, nestled between mountains sprinkled with flowers and, on many summer mornings, the grazing herds of his family’s sheep. The land was barely touched by human hands, with stone houses and huddled villages clinging to the side of the mountain in hushed defiance of nature’s power. Arlo slept in the grass with the sheep during the summers to help the dogs protect them from predators, and woke every morning to a sky sprayed with orange and dew on his eyelashes, the air thin and crisp in his nostrils. His dog, curled at his side for warmth, sighed and stretched with a groan of protest. As the burning sun grew higher in the sky, the world grew warmer and brighter, bringing with it the sounds of waking animals and villagers as though the creatures below unfurled toward the light like flowers. He was in awe of this place and its wild majesty.
Vesuvia could not have been more different than his home. It crackled with activity night and day, every street filled with the murmur of voices and music, buildings squashed against one another or built so tall that he had to crane his neck to see their roofs. Every day he saw and smelled and tasted things he had never imagined, and fell exhausted into his bedroll every night.
The ocean was a marvel all its own, not only because its vastness dwarfed even the largest lakes he had seen, but because he could not walk even a mile down the beach without encountering the nubile bodies of half-naked young men glistening in the sun as they worked or lounging on the sand with dripping bodies and wet, slicked hair. For Arlo, whose romantic experience consisted of a strangely dry kiss stolen behind the church three years ago, their playful smiles were the only thing more terrifying than being alone in a new city.
Arlo frequently came to the beach to camp, since it was normally peaceful at night and the sounds of the waves comforted him.
Many beautiful days and warm waters had given way to grey skies and gusts that whipped relentlessly at Arlo’s clothes as he strolled the beach with his bedroll in his arms. For the first time since arriving in Vesuvia, it was devoid of anyone besides himself as far as he looked in either direction. The roar of the waves seemed louder and more menacing when he was by himself, especially when he saw that the sky was crowned by a distant gathering of small, low clouds. He spread his bedroll on the sand, nestled into his blankets and silently watched the foam that skated along the crests of the waves. Its hypnotic rhythm soon lulled him to sleep.
Arlo awoke in total darkness to rain pelting painfully against his face. He cracked an eye open and swiped his arm fruitlessly across his face to dry it, becoming aware of the din around him with growing anxiety. He sat up quickly, his heart hammering, frightened to discover that he struggled to brace himself and stay upright against the roaring wind. The world was shrouded in rain, the sky black and matted with enormous clouds that towered into the heavens and the waves pummeled the shore with a violence he had never witnessed. He felt water lap against his feet, and gasped as he realized that the sea level had risen so much that his place on the beach would soon be underwater.
He tried to scramble out of the wet blankets that clung heavily to his body and resorted to thrashing and kicking them away. He shouted with panic and frustration as the ocean swept them up and carried them into its depths. Terror crawled up his back, sending an icy lurch through his stomach and sealing his throat. He clambered into his hands and knees, clawing at the sand and scrambling away from the churning sea. Once he crested the dune and planted his shoes on the cobblestoned streets, he sprinted for the center of the city with all his strength.
The storm was so deafening that Arlo couldn’t hear his feet pounding against the stones. The buildings that loomed around him were dark and unfamiliar, illuminated briefly with flashes of lightning that turned Vesuvia bright as midday for one disorienting second and left ghostly visions dancing on the backs of his eyelids. Somewhere to his left, he heard an ear-splitting crash as the storm claimed a tree and hurled it to the ground.
The streets were similarly lifeless and many of the windows he passed were sealed with wooden shutters. Arlo felt an acidic bile rise in the back of his throat. He ran through the abandoned remains of the marketplace, shocked to discover that the wagons and stalls that normally lined the street had all disappeared. He was half convinced that he was the only person left in the city.
A shuddering flame in a shop window drew his eye in the suffocating gloom. He scurried in its direction, pressing himself against the door and pounding it frantically with his fist, muttering a prayer that someone was on the other side.
Several excruciating seconds passed as Arlo hopelessly listened for the occupant, and then the clatter of the bolt on the other side of the door made him jump. The door swung open.
Even in Arlo’s alarmed state, he had an absurd jolt of embarrassment at his own harried appearance. The man standing before him was nothing less than a striking beauty. He was slender and handsome, dressed in an loose array of eye-catching patterns and soft layers that revealed an alluring peek of his smooth, caramel-colored chest. A halo of white tousled curls framed his face, and his bright lavender eyes widened slightly as his gaze raked over the soaked figure standing on his doorstep. Arlo instinctively wrapped his coat more tightly around his body, grimacing as the saturated fabric seeped more water onto his skin. The stranger recovered quickly, stepping aside to invite Arlo in.
“Come in, please,” he said graciously, gesturing with his free hand into the dimly lit shop.
Arlo ducked his head and shook out his hair, sending a spray of rainwater cascading to the ground, and reached for the tail of his coat to ring it out on the doorstep. The stranger grinned at him lazily.
“I don’t think that’s going to help much. Come on.”
He stepped through the open door into the shop, where the sound of the storm was immediately dampened to a dull drumming on the roof as the shop enveloped him in warmth. His eye was drawn across the room to the buffet of sights - strange bottles of every shape and color lined the wall behind the counter, some filled with liquids that glowed or bubbled or sloshed heavily inside their containers, while displays of crystals, staffs, scrolls and complex brass instruments coaxed his attention. The ceiling boasted a colorful display of paper sculptures- birds with their wings unfurled as though frozen in time mid-flight, flowers of every shade, planets and stars and clouds rendered in enchanting detail. Plants in painted terra cotta pots seemed to be growing on every unoccupied surface, alongside books tucked away in careless stacks and piles. The whole place was pleasantly cluttered and inviting, punctuated by the scent of herbs and incense. Arlo realized his mouth was hanging open and quickly snapped it shut.
“I’m afraid the master is out,” his host remarked, “and I don’t know when he plans to return.”
Arlo glanced at him, befuddled, and suddenly understood that the young man thought he was a customer, rather than a half-drowned moron running for his life.
“Oh!” Arlo said. “That’s, uh...it’s alright. To be perfectly honest with you I just ducked into the first unlocked door I found. I got caught in the storm.”
“I see,” his host replied. “So fate has brought you to me.”
Arlo looked up to see if the man was joking and found his expression infuriatingly placid.
“Um. This is quite a place you’ve got here!” Arlo exclaimed appreciatively.
The stranger smiled gently. “Thank you. We’ve worked hard on it. Are you a magician yourself?”
Arlo grinned rambunctiously, turning to the stranger and smoothing a hand over his soaked hair to push it out of his face. “I know a card trick.” He laughed at his own joke. “Sorry, no. I don’t have a drop of magic in me.”
“There’s magic in everyone,” the stranger replied, his eyes sparkling.
“Even in me?” Arlo replied jokingly. He widened his eyes and wiggled his fingers at his host, an obvious caricature of spellcasting.
The magician’s expression was inscrutable for a moment, and then the corner of his mouth turned up. He crossed the space between them and reached for Arlo’s hand, drawing it close to his bare chest and holding it palm-up in his own. The stranger traced the long, diagonal line in Arlo’s palm with the tip of his finger, the unexpected touch sending a spasm down Arlo’s spine. His hand prickled where the magician’s finger had been, heat rising unbidden to his cheeks. The stranger smelled of patchouli and lemongrass, but stronger still was simply the magnetism of his presence. He radiated with an enticing and powerful energy, eclipsing even the wonder of the shop as he studied Arlo’s hand. Arlo couldn’t help but stare at him, taking in the crown of stark white hair and aquiline nose, the lips that pursed gently as he concentrated. Arlo swallowed thickly, rapidly averting his eyes to feign interest in a nearby display. The stranger pondered Arlo’s palm as though it were fascinating and informative, then gazed up at Arlo from beneath a fringe of white eyelashes. His voice was low and honeyed when he replied.
“Especially in you,” he said, releasing his hand so suddenly it dropped unceremoniously against Arlo’s thigh with a wet slap.
Arlo chuckled nervously, occupying the now tingling hand by tucking a lock of hair behind his ear and beaming at his host in a valiant effort to regain his suave exterior.
“Well what do you know?” Arlo said, his tone teasing once more. “Mother always said I was special.”
The stranger turned and strode to the counter to pluck a thin book bound in red leather, treating Arlo to a raised eyebrow instead of replying.
Arlo laughed, his eyes following the magician as he puttered around the eclectic space. “Do you magicians have to be taught how to act this mysterious or does it come naturally to you?”
“There’s a seminar we attend every year,” he replied casually, flipping through the pages of the book. Arlo was lost for a witty retort, unable to fathom whether his host was being serious or not. The magician crooked a finger, beckoning Arlo toward him. “Come here.”
The pit of Arlo’s stomach twinged slightly, though the sensation was not entirely unpleasant.
“Oh...why?” Arlo stammered.
The magician looked up, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I’m going to do a spell on you that will dry your clothes.”
“Oh! Um...no, that’s alright. I can just wear these. They’re already drying off.” He gestured to himself lamely, ignoring the rhythmic splat of water dripping off the ends of his sleeves and coat tails and hitting the wood floor.
“I won’t set you on fire, you know. I don’t think you realize this, but it’s typhoon weather out there. You’re going to be stuck here for a while. You should really be comfortable.”
Arlo felt the heat in his face again. “I don’t really, uh...” he patted his pockets for emphasis. “I’m a little short on coin at the moment. I can’t pay you for your services.”
“How about this?” The stranger replied. “You can mop up what you tracked in once you’re dry. We’ll call it even.” He glanced at the book in front of him, pointing to a passage. “It’s a very simple spell.” He raised his head to smirk at Arlo. “And I think you’d prefer this to hanging up your clothes and strutting around naked in my shop.”
Arlo’s throat went slightly dry, but he smiled roguishly. “Excellent point. Alright, it’s a deal.”
Arlo came and stood by the magician at the counter, peering curiously at the page he was studying. “Very simple” must have been a relative term - the text on the page was peppered with words Arlo had never seen before, and many of them were in another language entirely, not to mention that several symbols had been drawn in the margins and the labeled illustration on the opposite page had no perceptible meaning at all.
“My name is Asra, by the way,” the stranger murmured, his eyes still scanning the page. A small reptilian head appeared at Asra’s cuff as a creature poked its head out of his sleeve and tasted the air experimentally with its tongue. “And this is Faust.”
Arlo smiled at the snake as more of her head appeared from the depths of his sleeve. “I’m Arlo. Thank you for taking me in.”
Asra straightened, placing a hand on each of Arlo’s shoulders and pushing him gently backwards.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Asra replied, his eyelids drooping heavily as he smiled. Arlo’s heart jumped into his throat as he met the magician’s gaze with wide eyes. He wondered briefly if Asra was going to push him against the wall and kiss him, but once they had moved a safe distance from the counter, the hands slid away and Asra stepped back, extending his arms towards Arlo with his palms forward and his fingers spread. Arlo scolded himself silently.
“Don’t be nervous,” Asra said.
A gust of air surged over him, rippling Arlo’s clothes and hair with the warmth of the sun-kissed breezes that dried him after a swim. As the magic poured over him, he felt a tug in his chest, as though a dormant energy inside him had stirred. The air shimmered between them as magic radiated through his body, making every nerve stand on end. When the wind subsided and his clothes were dry and warm against his skin, he shivered involuntarily. It wasn’t until then that he realized how cold he had been.
He looked at Asra and smiled, stretching out his arms to display the results. Asra beamed back at him.
“You were right,” Arlo said. “Not so much as a smolder.”
For the first time, Asra laughed - it was lilting and silvery, infectiously exuberant, lighting up his entire face and somehow, Arlo thought, more than just his face, but his being...perhaps even the entire room. Arlo’s stomach gave another thrilling twinge.
“So where is the mop?” Arlo said.
Asra gestured dismissively. “You must be starving. Come upstairs and we’ll eat something first.”
Arlo trailed after Asra up a narrow staircase to the living area above the shop. Faust emerged from Asra’s clothes, slithering out of his neckline and draping herself across his shoulders, turning her head back to fix one shrewd eye on Arlo as they ascended. Asra tilted his head toward her, as though listening to her, and chuckled softly, glancing back at Arlo with a coy smile.
Where the shop was expansive and staggering in its visual appeal, the living quarters were equally cluttered, but cozy. A circular table splattered with paint took up the center of the room, its surface occupied by the materials of some creative project in progress - a block of wood whittled into a vaguely mammalian shape was nestled in a mound of its own shavings near a collection of small jars filled with colored powder and a stoppered bottle of clear liquid. Asra made his way to the left, toward the kitchen. The storm that raged outside was louder up here, where rain was beating against the window, but the effect was that the space seemed like a sanctuary from the danger outside. On the right side of the room, a bed piled with colorful pillows commanded most of the space.
“Can I make you a cup of tea?” Asra called from the other room. “I need to go shopping but I have some jasmine tea.”
Arlo sat down at the table, picking at a blob of dried paint on the surface in front him. “Sure. Thank you.”
Asra appeared a few minutes later with two steaming mugs, a partially eaten loaf of bread and a block of cheese on a wooden board, and set one of the mugs in front of Arlo, moving to the other chair across from him and settling in. “You’ll have to stay here tonight,” Asra remarked, gazing toward the window with a scrutinizing look. “Possibly longer. It’s too dangerous to go out until the storm has blown over.” He turned to look at Arlo, anticipating his protest. “I insist.”
Arlo’s stomach was churning with excitement, but he sighed melodramatically. “Can’t you just turn me into a frog or something?”
Asra smiled. “You’ll have to wait until the Master returns for that kind of magic. I’m only an apprentice.” He sipped delicately at his tea. “That reminds me, you’re lucky he’s not here. I don’t think all three of us would fit in the bed.”
Arlo’s breath caught in his throat. “The bed?”
“We only have one bed. The master and I share but since he’s gone you can have his side.”
“Oh!” Arlo felt his cheeks getting warm. “That’s alright! I’ve been camping for weeks now, I can sleep on the floor.”
Asra’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Camping for weeks?” He leaned forward, interest piqued. “Why?”
The lie, which he had used many times before, came easily to Arlo. “I’m going to stay with a relative. It’s a journey to reach her but she is going to teach me her business.”
Asra stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “If that’s the case then I can’t possibly let you sleep on the floor. I would be a very poor host. Please enjoy the comfort while it’s available to you.”
He hadn’t been in a bed since he left home, and when he turned to look at the inviting mound of blankets, it was enough to make him tired.
“If it’s ok with you,” Arlo replied. “I would enjoy sleeping in a bed again.”
Asra sawed off a slice of bread and slid it toward Arlo before helping himself. “You called me mysterious,” he said, “when you’re roaming the world alone.” He sliced off a large hunk of cheese from the block and offered it to Arlo. Their fingertips brushed as Arlo reached for it, and his heart throbbed powerfully against his chest.
“Since we’re both so very elusive,” Asra teased, “let’s play a game.”
Arlo snorted with laughter. “What did you have in mind?”
“Truth or Dare.”
“If you want to get to know me better,” Arlo said, “you could just ask me.”
Asra smirked. “I suppose I could. But where’s the fun in that?” Arlo, desperate for something to do with his hands, picked up his slice of bread and tore a bite off with his teeth.
“Truth or Dare?” Asra asked.
Arlo bit the inside of his cheek and winced. “Um... truth?”
“Where are you from?”
“Firent,” he replied. There was no light of recognition in Asra’s eyes. “Well it’s actually a small village outside of Firent. Well... actually it’s kind of nowhere.” There was a beat of silence. “Truth or dare?”
“Hmm,” Asra said. “Truth.”
“Does your snake talk to you?”
“Of course she does!” Asra laughed at Arlo’s shocked expression. “She’s my familiar. She helps me with my magic. Our connection is a strong one so some communication is possible between us.”
“Well... what were you talking about?”
Faust’s head appeared at Asra’s shoulder, intrigued by the conversation. “When?” Asra said.
“When we were coming up the stairs!” Arlo exclaimed. “It’s like she told you a joke or something! What were you talking about?”
“They must not have Truth or Dare in your village, Arlo. I can’t answer that! You already asked your question. It’s completely against the rules. Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“Is there someone special in your life? Like a boyfriend or girlfriend?”
The bite of bread felt suddenly thick as clay in Arlo’s mouth. He hastily slurped some tea out of his mug, and glanced toward Asra to find him stifling laughter. He swallowed loudly and cleared his throat.
“No,” Arlo replied. “Why, what about you?”
“That’s not how the game is played,” Asra teased.
Arlo groaned. “Fine. Truth or dare.”
Asra’s eyes were dancing with delight. “Dare.”
“I dare you to tell me if you’re dating someone!”
Asra giggled, studying his mug. “Remind me to never play cards with you,” he said. “Ok, no. I’m not seeing anyone.” He swirled his tea, watching the spiral instead of meeting Arlo’s eyes when he spoke again. “I’d like to, though.”
Arlo’s heart was pounding so loudly he was certain that the magician could hear it. Asra couldn’t possibly mean anything by that. He chuckled nervously, downing the rest of his tea in one gulp, and stood.
“Well, it’s the middle of the night. I could use some more sleep.”
Asra glanced up. His expression was once again unreadable, though his cheeks were now slightly pink. “Of course,” he replied. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Arlo stripped off his coat and shoes, acutely aware of his body and Asra’s pointed absorption with studying his tea, and climbed onto the mattress. His body sank gratefully into the impossibly soft cushion, bringing a sigh of relief to his lips as he stretched his limbs. He felt the mattress sink as Asra climbed up next to him, shirtless but accessorized with Faust curled around his forearm. Asra nuzzled into the pillow, his curls a disheveled halo around his smiling face.
“Truth or dare?” Asra whispered.
Arlo couldn’t help but laugh. “Hm. Truth.”
“Have you ever been kissed?”