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When Ilya Rozanov had started playing hockey, eight years old and looking for something to hit, he hadn’t known that he would fall in love with it. If he had known he would fall in love with it, he would have gone into it slower, quietly, cautious. He would have waited for the other shoe to drop - because there was always another shoe - before he decided that there was nothing else that he wanted to do with his life. But Ilya had been eight, and he’d already been a couple of heads taller than the rest of his class, all gangly limbs and imposing physicality, and he’d needed somewhere to put all the aggression that lingered in his clenched fists and tensed shoulders. His papa had that same aggression, the same short temper as Ilya, but Ilya’s papa unloaded that aggression onto his family - Ilya and Andrei and Ilya’s poor mother. Ilya had vowed he would never make the same mistake.
And hockey had been fun. On ice, he had not been Ilya Rozanov but someone else entirely, graceful and powerful and good. He’d been so very good at it, in a way he had never really been good at anything before in his life - and Ilya had wanted nothing more than to be good. So, he’d thrown his entire self in, training and skating and pushing himself harder and harder and harder. By the time he was ten, his coaches had been saying that he was growing up with the eyes of the nation watching him, relying on him. By the time he was eleven, he knew that he was going to make it to the NHL - not the KHL, like his papa wanted - and he was going to be one of the best. By the time he was twelve -
Well.
Twelve. He was twelve and his mama was dead. His shoulders were too broad for the suit that they tried to dress him in for the funeral, so he spent the day before it traipsing through clothes shops in Moscow and wishing he could sink through the floor and let the earth swallow him back into the embrace of her arms. He was twelve. His suit did not fit - even the new one was still a little tight. He was twelve, his suit did not fit, his papa was angry. After the funeral, Papa had sat him down. Had looked at his shaking hands, where they curled like dry petals on his lap, and his red eyes, rubbed raw when he had tried to hide the evidence of his weeping, and had declared, with disgust, that he had too much of his mama’s blood in him to ever make him amount to anything.
Ilya had been twelve. His mama was dead. His suit did not fit. His papa was angry. But he’d been good at hockey. And he’d said as much - stood up to his papa in a way that he would never usually dare, shoulders squared and feet apart, stood straight like he was thinking about striking his papa. If his mama’s blood had given him anything, it was only the knowledge of how not to beat on the defenceless, on the people who relied on him. If that was softness, Ilya pitied the guys on the other team when they faced him in ten years, when Ilya’s heart had circulated and recycled his mama’s blood into something a little more distant from her.
“Fucking faery,” his papa had spat, but it had been a different sort of slur for once. It had been a death knell for any hopes Ilya had had about being good for the rest of his life.
Faery, Grigori had called him, because that was where Irina Rozanova had come from. From the wild forests of old Russia, before it had been named, and the hills and the fields and all the natural places where ancient beings that hidden themselves away. There were not many wild things left in Russia, but Ilya knew enough to name them. And he knew enough to know that there was not a future in hockey for him anymore - not in Russia, or in America, or anywhere in the world. Old blood was powerful, strong, and lingered - it would stay in Ilya no matter how many times his heart pumped it around and dispersed it and cycled it. It would always be in him.
Ilya’s blood meant he had a predisposition for the arcane, and the predisposition for the arcane meant that there would always be the chance that his sporting abilities had been gained through an unfair advantage. Ilya remembered one KHL player - a goaltender, not very good - who’d dabbled a little in secret. He hadn’t one the cup with his talents, but he’d had one game without letting the puck past him and it had been enough to keep his team alive for another season. Until, of course, it had been discovered. He’d never played again, anywhere. Because these were the rules, without room to appeal: magic could not be regulated. For some, it was innate, instinctive. It was like this for Ilya. And so Ilya could not be allowed to play, in case he would cheat.
His abilities had come to fruition in puberty. When other children woke up with voice cracks, Ilya woke up in the streets of Moscow, knowing that he was sleep walking and always moving steadily towards the distant countryside. Things happened around him - odd, mostly unremarkable things, like little instances of luck or spontaneous rain showers that seemed to spare him. He’d walked barefoot through Svetlana’s garden once, and flowers had bloomed where he had stepped. These were the three things his mama had given him: her fucked up brain, her blood, and the inability to be happy.
“You should take the job,” Sveta said, kicking her feet up in the air as she pulled Ilya’s hand closer to her for inspection. In one, she held a nail polish brush, which she had been wielding with deft grace over the mangled remnants of his nails. “Fuck Grigori. Have an income, and we will rent a flat together or some shit.”
Ilya’s lips quirked up into a humourless smile. “I need a house to get a job to save for that flat,” he said. “I cannot do that if my father kicks me out because I decide to take a café job over listening to him.”
“You’re a university student. Everyone has a coffeeshop job.”
“Not me,” Ilya said grimly, and threw himself backwards onto the bed.
Truthfully, Ilya did not wanted a coffeeshop job. But - if Ilya was being completely honest and truthful with himself - he did not want any job that was not hockey. He did not want the university degree he was working towards, or whatever future prospects it would win him, and he did not want the little flat with Svetlana or his childhood bedroom. He wanted America and the NHL and hockey. There was a Canadian player - something Hollander - and maybe Ilya did not keep up with hockey as much as he used to, but he knew enough to know that this Hollander was the best. Ilya thought that he could probably be better - and so he wanted what Hollander had. All of it, and more.
He wanted the blood that ran through his veins to be gone, and he wanted everything to be the way it had been when he had been eleven. It had been simpler, then.
Svetlana sighed impatiently, swinging off his bed and stalking over to his desk chair. He heard her fiddling with the nail polishes that she had brought with her and discarded on the desk, the clink of glass as she started putting them away, but pointedly did not look over at her. He kept his eyes trained up on the ceiling. Looking at Sveta was how she won, and Ilya was determined not to lose this argument. It was one that they had often, but they were both stubborn and they both wanted to win, even at the expense of the other. Neither of them wanted a stalemate, but if it was the only thing standing between them and the destruction of their friendship, then they’d take it - a little reluctantly, still hoping to bait the other into giving up, but friends.
But Sveta did not leave - not straight away, as she usually did when their discussions snagged at this point. She lingered in the doorway. “Maybe,” she suggested, “you should think about what you can do, Ilyushka. Many people would do anything for the gifts that you have. There are a lot of vengeful people in this city who would pay could money for blood magic and hexes.”
“I don’t want to use it,” Ilya rebutted mulishly. “I want rid of it.”
Sveta did not close the door gently on her way out. The noise of it rang around and around in his battered head - along with her words, on a loop. He knew that there were people who would pay - there were always stories in the media about some political scandal or rogue magic attack - and Ilya was sure that he could make a pretty penny harnessing his abilities. But he also knew that there were laws (a multitude of old, contradictory laws designed to ensnare the unwary and trip up even the most clued up of magic users, which Ilya was decidedly not) that heavily regulated it all, and that even the thought of using magic was one step closer to admitting everything he had refused to accept.
So, no. He would not use his magic. He would not take Sveta’s advice, nor ask her about it, nor even think about it.
… going to Sasha a few days later was just one massive coincidence.
Aleksandr Volkov had been his old hockey coach’s son. A few years older than him, and thoroughly uninterested in everything to do with the sport. Sasha had not been as good as Ilya, but his blood had been normal, which ultimately counted for more. The gifts that Sasha had now had been self taught, honed over a period of years until there would be no denying that Sasha - like Ilya - could not fairly be entered into the hockey leagues. Sasha’s father had not spoken to him since. Ilya had been tempted, selfishly, to do the same.
But Sasha was the only person Ilya knew who understood the arcane and was not Svetlana, and these were his two main criteria in the sort of person that he needed. On a day off from university, having successfully tucked away his next lot of assignments for the time being, Ilya found himself lingering on the pavement outside Sasha’s flat, trying to work up the nerve to go up.
In his pocket, his phone chimed.
i know you’re there, the message from Sasha read, which was not ominous in the slightest. Ilya found it best not to ask Sasha how he knew most of the things he did these days.
Buzzed up to Sasha’s flat, the front door already open and waiting for him, Ilya found Sasha in the middle of making brunch, puttering around his open plan kitchen, conspicuously shirtless. He didn’t really acknowledge Ilya entering, except to push a chopping board and a knife across the counter. Just to prove that he could, Ilya wafted his hand, watching as the simple levitation spell he had muttered under his breath picked up the knife, moving it on a shaky collision course for the cucumber he was supposed to be slicing. Sasha rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue chidingly, and Ilya blinked as the fruit fell into perfectly cut slices in front of him. He scowled. Sasha mostly looked smug.
“That,” he said, already moving away, “is not your speciality.”
Ilya did not reply. He massaged the pulsating ache of a cramp out of his hand with trembling fingers.
Sasha plated up his brunch, sliding a serving across to Ilya. Pale cheese, covered in what looked like homemade tzatziki, and Ilya was hungry for none of it. He ate it anyway, watching as Sasha tucked in beside him. Their elbows, resting atop the counter, knocked together.
“So,” Sasha said, already smirking. “Why don’t you explain what you need me for?”
Ilya laid out the suggestion that Sveta had made - at first, faltering, unused to talking about his ‘gifts’ so explicitly, and then gaining traction as the idea unspooled in his mind once again. He saw it, more clearly than he had ever expected to. Not the life that he had wanted, but a life nonetheless. It was better than nothing. He did want it but he wanted it more than what he had now - the house that his mama still haunted, the childhood bedroom that felt more like a crypt than a home, the anger of his father and the vitriol of his brother. And if it was this curse that could get him it, could redeem itself from having ruined all of Ilya’s ambitions… Well, Ilya wanted that.
Once Ilya had finished, Sasha nodded slowly, running the idea over in his head. “First,” he said, “you need a blood test.”
Ilya’s nose crinkled. “A blood test?”
“Hexes are a pretty hefty sort of magic,” he said. “Karmic hexes - which are what I think will best suit you - are more subtle. No sparks and fire and conjuring. A lot of people want certificates of authenticity. You know, blood tests can show how high the level of magical aptitude someone’s likely to have, based on traces in the blood. You have some naturally, but the more you use magic, the more it’s evident in the blood.”
“I don’t use it,” Ilya pointed out.
“You’re baseline will be good enough to start, but you can do them every so often to update your certification. I do mine once a year.”
Sasha stood, crossing to a vintage writing desk in the corner and rifling through the drawers. He returned a moment later with a box, which he offered out to Ilya.
“There’s a finger prick test in there,” he explained. “If you prick each of your fingers and press them against the ten sample papers, we send them away and they can read your levels from there. You get a shiny certificate in return.”
“I don’t like needles,” Ilya said, warily eying Sasha’s hands as he tugged the equipment out of its box. Sasha rolled his eyes, and Ilya dutifully took the equipment without protest, inhaling as steadily as he could manage as he ran through the steps. “Like this?”
“Perfect,” said Sasha, and then passed an envelope over to him, an address and stamp already applied, for Ilya to drop the samples into. He sealed, and tossed it onto the counter. “You got supplies?”
Mutely, Ilya shook his head.
Ilya had clearly underestimated the amount of work that went into preparing for magical rituals. He and Sasha spend the next week trawling through the underbelly of Moscow, in little market halls tucked away down back alleyways and in basements, and stalls manned under bridges along the Moskva river. It was like a whole new world, flowering open and offering itself up to Ilya, sticky and sweet and overwhelmingly cloying. He came away from all of this with a lot less in his wallet than he was already trying to stretch out - witchcraft involved a surprising amount of investment - and a large collection of candles, incense, ribbon, crystals and all other sorts of implements. He kept them in a trunk under his bed, one with a false bottom so that Grigori, with his love of military precision and surprise room inspections, was unlikely to happen across them accidentally.
And yet - Ilya found that he was excited by it all. Worse still, he found it interesting. He had never considered himself to be particularly in touch with what his mama had left behind for him, but he felt it now, a quiet whispering in his blood, stirred awake and murmuring louder and louder with every scrap of attention that Ilya paid to it. He felt it too, little sparks of electricity that blossomed when he was holding the various bits of equipment that he owned. All of it seemed half-familiar, like Ilya knew it all already and was simply refreshing his memory.
Two weeks after they had sent away for it, Sasha handed over the results of Ilya’s blood test - a thick sheaf of papers full of technical jargon that Ilya found it difficult to parse through and a certificate of stiff white card, stamped by the Russian Ministry of Other Beings, that declared that he, Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov, had a natural aptitude for magic and could therefore officially peddle his services on the market.
“What now?” Ilya asked Sasha, examining the certificate from all angles.
Sasha pushed his phone across the table. Ilya took it and frowned.
“Etsy?"
“International audience,” Sasha said cheerfully. He seemed not to notice Ilya’s scepticism, or was probably choosing to ignore it. “Lana’s right when she says there’s loads of vengeful bastards in Moscow who want your services - her being one such person - but the world is your oyster, Ilya. Go big or go home.”
Ilya did not argue. Sasha had been doing this so much longer than he had, and Ilya did not know enough yet to contradict him. He was still surprised when the first sale went through - and surprised again when the next came, and the next, and the next.
Svetlana was in his bed again, and she had her cold feet tucked firmly between his legs, despite the fact that he had tried to shove her away. He didn’t mind, really, but Sveta was not supposed to see that, though he knew she knew it. That was how their friendship worked - a little mean, very standoffish, but built on the steady foundations of understanding. It was how it had always been. Even now, they were not really talking. Ilya was idly playing with Sveta’s hair where it spread across his pillow, his other hand flicking idly at the ignition of his lighter. Sveta was staring up at his bedroom ceiling, hands folded neatly over her stomach, humming the tune of some American pop song.
“You are going back to Boston soon?” he asked.
Sveta hummed an affirmative. Something a little morose twitched over her face, quickly smoothed away. They had this conversation every year since Sergei Vetrov had decided to make Boston, Massachusetts, his and his family’s permanent residence. Sveta came back from Christmas and for a few months in the summer, and then she’d leave again and they’d spent the rest of the time contemplating the long periods with pretty much no contact besides a phone call on Sveta’s birthday, in September. The international costs were a pain in the ass.
“Start of February,” she replied, at last.
“I got a job,” Ilya said, a seeming non-sequiter.
Sveta pushed herself up onto one elbow. “Really?”
“I took your suggestion, about the witchcraft,” he told her, “and it is going well. I have savings - not much, yet, but enough that… Well, I am maybe thinking - you will come back this summer, yes?”
“Yes,” Sveta said, breathlessly. “End of May, all the way to the end of August.”
“Maybe you will keep room for one more to come with you to Boston in August?”
“Are you saying -”
“I can transfer university courses. I have called. Sasha has helped me file the things I need for a student visa. I will have to do an extra year of study maybe, but - Sveta, I can come to Boston with you.”
Sveta gave a small, wordless cry and flung herself on top of Ilya, twisting so that she could twine her arms around his neck, pressing closer into him. She smacked a large, enthusiastic kiss to his forehead, shaking him back and forth a little. He started to laugh and could not stop, her joy catching.
“My Ilyushka,” she crowed, between pecks, “with his small business, coming to Boston! We are going to have the time of our lives - you’ll see.”
“I believe,” he said, and clung to her back, suddenly fiercely grateful for her, for all the patience she had granted him, and the hopes and the opportunities and the love that she had kept when he had found it impossible to do so himself. “I believe you.”
This, he thought, was its own kind of magic.