Page of tricks, p.1
Page of Tricks, page 1
Page of Tricks
Inheritance, Book Five
AK Faulkner
Contents
Prologue
1. Quentin
2. Laurence
3. Laurence
4. Quentin
5. Laurence
6. Quentin
7. Laurence
8. Laurence
9. Quentin
10. Quentin
11. Laurence
12. Laurence
13. Quentin
14. Laurence
15. Quentin
16. Laurence
17. Quentin
18. Quentin
19. Quentin
20. Laurence
21. Quentin
22. Laurence
23. Quentin
24. Laurence
25. Quentin
26. Laurence
27. Quentin
28. Quentin
29. Laurence
30. Quentin
31. Laurence
32. Quentin
33. Laurence
34. Quentin
35. Laurence
36. Quentin
37. Laurence
38. Laurence
39. Quentin
40. Laurence
41. Laurence
42. Quentin
43. Quentin
44. Laurence
45. Quentin
46. Quentin
47. Laurence
48. Quentin
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the author
Inheritance
Prologue
Twelve Years Ago
Everything hurt.
Quentin packed books into his bag as slowly as he was able. The last echoes of the bell sank beneath the waves of footsteps as children from all classrooms poured out into the corridor, eager to be first in line for lunch. He couldn’t possibly keep up with them, and he didn’t wish to be trampled in the rush, so he hung back and made a fuss over ensuring his pencil case was stowed neatly until there really was no further excuse.
It was a serious effort to stand. He placed his hands flat against the desk and pushed himself to his feet with immense willpower, but the pain it brought made his arms tremble, and so he leaned against the desk a while, breathing hard, until the wave of nausea subsided.
“Hurry up, Banbury. I haven’t got all day.”
Quentin steeled himself for one final push. After a double English Literature period, his body felt like it had turned to stone, and it took preparation to get going. “Sorry, sir,” he breathed. “Won’t be a moment.”
“Bloody lunch will be cold by the time I get there,” Mr. Hargreaves muttered. “What’d you do this time? Fall off a sodding horse again?”
“Yes, sir.” So Mama had told him, anyway. He rarely seemed able to remember his accidents.
He propelled himself upright and snatched up his satchel in a single motion, then forced himself toward the door. His arms and legs were stiff, and they complained every step of the way. He’d learned a long time ago not to try shouldering the satchel when he was this badly off, so it hung from his fist.
“You want to try learning to ride the damn things before you go bolting off across the countryside.” Mr. Hargreaves followed him out and slammed the door at Quentin’s back, then Quentin heard the rattle and scrape of keys as his teacher locked the room.
“Yes, sir,” was all Quentin could say.
Mr. Hargreaves stepped around him and walked briskly off down the corridor, leaving Quentin with a formidable decision.
Was lunch worth sitting down for?
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone without food. Sometimes sitting was not an option, and other times he simply wasn’t hungry. Today, as he limped along the centuries-old corridor, he decided that his hunger outweighed the pain, and made his way to the refectory. The longer he took, the more likely other children would have already eaten and gone out to play in the sunshine.
Quentin dawdled at every stage. He stopped off to use the boys’ room. He pretended to read things on the notice board. By the time he collected lunch, half the options were already gone, but so had half the school’s children, and he was able to settle in a quiet corner to pick at his salad.
“All right, Thickie?”
He sighed and laid his fork down as Bingo landed heavily in the chair by his side. “Get lost, Bingo,” he muttered. “I’m not in the mood.”
Grenville ‘Bingo’ Spode was, like Quentin, in his final year at this particular preparatory school. Unlike Quentin, Bingo wasn’t set adrift the moment Mr. Hargreaves used a word of more than three syllables. The school uniform sat ill on them both, so at least they had that in common.
“Not in the mood.” Bingo huffed at him as he splayed out in his chair like a dead spider. “Oi, Knobby! Thickie Icky isn’t in the mood!” He bellowed it across the half-empty refectory so loudly that a dozen faces turned toward him.
Footsteps came up on them from behind. Quentin flinched. All it would take was a heavy hand against his back right now and he would squeal like a stuck pig, which would only earn further mockery.
“Piss off, Bingo.” Freddy’s voice was a lifeline to a drowning man.
Bingo turned clear blue eyes up to Freddy, and his idle smile slowly faded away. “Freddy? Nothing going on here, I swear.”
“Then you won’t mind leaving, will you?” Frederick’s hand came to rest against Quentin’s shoulder, but so lightly that it was barely felt through the layers of clothing and dressings. “Go on, take your smell with you, or I’ll wash it off you myself.”
Quentin snorted as Freddy all but threatened to pee on Bingo right there in the refectory, and Bingo looked rightly appalled at the inference.
“And if I catch you calling him Thickie again,” Freddy drawled as Bingo stood, “I’ll give you a damn good thrashing. Now shove off.”
Bingo eyed them both, but turned on his heel without another word, and Freddy dropped into the vacated seat with a grin.
“You really must stand up to these imbeciles, Icky,” he chuckled. “Are you all right?”
Quentin smiled softly and took up his fork. “Yes, thank you. I would, but I’m just so…” He waggled the fork in the air, then speared a piece of cheese with it. “Tired.”
Freddy shrugged. “To be expected, I suppose. Still, you’ll be back on your feet in no time, and at least we’ll be off to a proper school after the summer.” He glanced around quickly, then leaned in. “Guess what arrived this morning?”
“I couldn’t have less of a clue,” Quentin murmured before he popped the cheese into his mouth.
“Ha. Shh, don’t say a word.” Freddy dipped a hand into his blazer, and when he snuck it out again he kept it below table level.
Quentin’s pulse raced. Freddy couldn’t have looked more guilty, which meant whatever he had in his hand was against the school’s rules. If they got caught, it could be a swift trip to the Headmaster’s office for them both, so he looked around just as quickly, then peered down past the table’s edge.
Freddy held a small, black, rectangular slice of metal. It wasn’t until his thumb slid along the edge and flipped it open to reveal a bright screen and a number pad did Quentin realize it was a mobile phone.
“Christ, are you trying to get us expelled?” he hissed.
“What does it matter? We’re out of here in a few weeks anyway.” Freddy grinned at him. “Anyway, look! Thinnest phone ever, it’s got a camera built in, it’s got a color display. You can even transfer files to it from a computer. No more boring ringtones, you can actually use music!”
Quentin blinked at him. “If that thing goes off in class, Hargreaves will have your arse.”
“It won’t, it’s on silent. You should get one, Icky! Ask Mama, she can have it sent here for you.”
Quentin crinkled his nose at the thought.
This was a boarding school, although fewer than half the students here actually boarded. Both Quentin and Freddy did, though, and only went home at weekends or for birthdays. The very idea of having a mobile phone here was a horrible one. The school was Quentin’s only break from his life at home, and the very last thing he wished for was for his relative peace and quiet here to be interrupted whenever anyone wanted to call him.
Father would pitch a fit if Quentin got his hands on a phone, anyway. And the very idea of Father angry was enough to make a fellow wet the bed at night.
“No,” he sighed. “I don’t want one.”
Freddy snorted at him. “You’re allergic to the twenty-first century, that’s your problem,” he muttered as he snapped the phone shut. “I can’t look after you forever. You know that, don’t you?”
Quentin eyed him as Freddy tucked the phone back into his blazer, then cracked a smile. “You don’t bloody look after me anyway!”
Freddy laughed and lounged against the table. “Come on, eat up. We’ve still got time to get outside for a bit. It’s such lovely weather, I think I’ll go punch Bingo for you!”
“Freddy, no!”
Freddy just laughed, and Quentin ate as slowly as he could to save Bingo’s nose from being broken.
Everything still hurt, but it wasn’t so bad with Freddy by his side.
Together, they could face anything.
1
Quentin
Quentin thought he’d heard some silly ideas in his time, but this one took the biscuit.
“You want us,” he said, choosing his words with care, “to dress up in ch
“It’ll be fun!” Laurence had his doe-eyes in full effect, but the result was mitigated by both his proposal and the huge raven on his shoulder.
Windsor clacked his beak and waved his head back and forth as though he found the whole thing hilarious.
Quentin tutted at them. “You are as bad as each other,” he said with nothing but fondness. “No. Besides, doesn’t Myriam have some sort of Pagan thing she’s invited you to?”
“But Halloween is fun.” Laurence’s voice reduced to a plaintive whine as he leaned into Quentin’s side. “Samhain’s not fun.”
“Mm.” He eased his arm around Laurence’s waist and turned to kiss his forehead softly. “Why not?”
“Eh.” Laurence gestured toward another chair, and Windsor took the hint. The bird hopped from Laurence’s shoulder and half-walked, half-flapped his way over to that chair, skirting the dogs to avoid them sniffing his backside.
“It’s a good time of year to remember the dead, you know?” He wriggled against Quentin’s side and draped his arm over Quentin’s lap. “That’s what they’ll be doing tonight. Honoring the dead, sharing stories about them, celebrating their lives. It’s really beautiful,” he admitted. “But there’s no candy.”
“I see.”
He leaned back against the couch and idly ran his fingers through Laurence’s curls. Their soft-spun gold had lost its summertime gleam, but they weren’t yet as dark as they’d been when he first met the florist back at the start of the year.
Goodness. Had it been so long already?
Laurence all but melted against him, and his eyes drifted closed. “We could go,” he mumbled against Quentin’s waistcoat. “If you wanna.”
“And talk about dead people?” Quentin frowned at the thought. “In front of strangers?”
“It’s a celebration of life,” Laurence said. “Not death.” He squeezed Quentin’s thigh. “Why don’t we do a little ceremony here instead? At home? We can see if the kids want to come along. Maybe do a cookout, too?”
“Would it make you happy?”
Laurence chuckled faintly. “I dunno, baby. But sometimes good and happy don’t line up the way we think. Sometimes we gotta get things off our chests before the happiness can come.”
“Ah.” Quentin inclined his head and allowed his fingers to drift down Laurence’s neck. “I can see how it would be cathartic, yes.”
It had been a hectic year. Perhaps a moment to reflect before they all moved forward would indeed be a good idea.
Laurence sat up slowly and eyed him in confusion. “Uh. Nobody’s gotta, like, pee into a tube or anything…”
Now it was Quentin’s turn to be confused, until his brain coughed up the answer. Then he laughed.
“Cathartic, darling, has nothing to do with catheterization. It means it can relieve tension through a strong outpouring of emotion.”
“Right…” Laurence squinted at him. “Man, sometimes I think you eat dictionaries instead of real food.”
There was a dirty joke to be made in there somewhere, but Laurence stood before Quentin could figure it out.
“I’m gonna go to the store, get food for later. You want anything?”
“No. Thank you.”
“No,” Laurence agreed with a grin. He leaned over and stole a quick kiss. “Back soon, baby.”
It was only once Laurence was gone that the joke finally formed itself. Before he could utter it, Windsor began to waggle his tail up and down.
Quentin shot to his feet and opened a window. “Don’t you dare poop on the carpet! Come along. Outside!”
Windsor eyed him and stretched his wings, then clacked his beak a couple of times as though he were preparing to say something deep and meaningful.
“Poop!” the bird declared.
Quentin blinked.
Corvids could mimic all sorts of sounds, including human speech. The young were also especially playful and inquisitive. All in all, they were smart little buggers, and Windsor had already shown signs of a deplorable excess of personality.
So why on earth was Quentin at all surprised that Windsor’s first spoken word was poop, of all things?
He sighed and gestured to the window. “Outside,” he repeated.
Windsor cackled as he hopped and flapped his way toward the opening. He wasn’t yet able to fly fully, but he was perfectly capable of navigating his way up to the windowsill, then the ledge, until finally — with another cry of “Poop!” — he bounced out of the window to go relieve himself on the grass.
Quentin shook his head.
“Laurence is going to have my head on a platter,” he muttered.
“You want us to do what?” Soraya squinted at him with all the misgivings he already felt himself.
Quentin laughed gently. “It isn’t that I want you to. It’s something Laurence would like to offer, and you are welcome to attend if you wish. Nothing more.”
“Sounds dumb,” she sniffed.
Kimberly fidgeted with the hem of her t-shirt and eyed the dogs. “I think it sounds good,” she said so quietly that Quentin could have imagined it.
Soraya shifted her weight onto her left hip and crossed her arms. Never had Quentin seen a teenager look so unimpressed, and that was even after she’d called him all sorts of names when Annis took Lisa.
There was a memory he could do without. How could it be that his brain was so unreliable on things he might wish to recall, yet quite happy to torment him with the horror of watching as a daemon stole two of his wards right out from under his protection? Bloody useless thing. Other people, it seemed, had brains that actually worked, but no. His was about as functional as a chocolate teapot.
He pursed his lips as his memories chased his good humor away. “Merely an offer,” he murmured. “No obligation.”
Soraya huffed and stalked around the kitchen table to plop herself down by Kimberly’s side. “I guess we could go.”
Quentin poured tea into cups. “Truth be told, I’m hardly eager to talk about these sorts of things myself, but it is Laurence’s faith, and I think it could be…” He stirred the tea while he chose his next word. “Beneficial.”
“Next you’ll want us all to see therapists,” she muttered.
“Oh, I don’t think that would be wise.” He carried the cups over to the teens and set one down before each of them with a small smile. “After so much effort spent in maintaining our secrecy, I’m not certain that it would be feasible for any of us to truly open up to a therapist who lacked a certain perspective.”
Kimberly nodded as she reached for her cup. “You mean one who isn’t psychic.”
“Indeed.” He reached for his own cup and sat with the girls at the table.
It was a dilemma. He had slowly come to accept that his mental health was less than ideal, but seeking treatment was utterly out of the question. What were his options here? He could speak with a therapist and risk revealing his gifts to a stranger if provoked into a conversation he felt threatened by, or deal with his illness as best as he could in the hope that he never harmed anyone he cared for.
Laurence’s proposal seemed a viable compromise. What if Quentin could find a safe outlet for his emotions? A way to get things off his chest without destroying anyone’s office or shredding those he loved? It couldn’t possibly heal him, but perhaps it might be a way forward until a better solution could be found. It went against all instincts, the stiff upper lip drilled into him since childhood, but at this juncture, the worst that could happen was that it proved fruitless.
