Page 16 of The Entanglement of Rival Wizards (Magic and Romance #1)

The cocktail party’s on campus, in an old building where a wall of windows faces a brick walkway, the protruding bays showing iron crossbars and engraved marble borders. People mill within, warped by the aged glass.

Elethior didn’t come to the lab this morning. Or afternoon. And by the time I had to leave to get here, he still hadn’t shown, and it didn’t matter anyway; we wouldn’t have had enough time to pull anything together.

I’ve got to go into this party, paste a smile on my face, own my mistakes, and hope the committee gives me a second chance.

It only takes remembering the way I rage-broke Elethior’s protection ward last night to know that I fully deserve the repercussions for being such a stubborn, antagonistic pain in the ass.

Why did I think I could show up with any game plan that’d appease the committee if that plan basically told their intentions to fuck off?

Yeah, he’s a Tourael. Yeah, I hate him. But gods, I’ll hate not doing this project more.

I sink deeper into my puffer coat and jog up the steps.

Inside, the foyer is dim and cozy and warm, paneled in dark wood, with a mostly full rack of coats off to the side. I hang mine and duck through another set of doors.

This reception room is definitely nicer than the banquet hall where the grant award ceremony happened.

Two chandeliers give off soft light against more of that dark wood paneling while dozens of dancing globes glitter across the ceiling; an easy enough enchantment that most kids figure out, but it creates a nice effect of glitz and glamour.

There’s a bar against the far wall and a fireplace to the left heating the already warm air.

Guests push in around high-top tables, drinking and chatting and nibbling on finger food.

Davyeras is by the fireplace with a few committee members.

Thompson is here, along with the conjuration professor who sponsored Elethior, as well as faculty of both departments.

But the majority are people I don’t recognize, dressed the nicest by a long way in evening gowns and pricey suits, clearly not clinging to a university salary. Donors and board members, then.

I suddenly feel even more the status symbol of my Target white button-up and clearance black pants, and I let Orok talk me into a dark blue tie with snowflakes on it.

At least I have my travel pack of spell components in my pocket and didn’t wear my full belt; no one else here has any noticeable harnesses.

My eyes ping to each face, looking for—

Elethior’s at the bar.

“Mr. Walsh!”

Before I can muster up the courage to cross the room, Davyeras crowds in on me and extends his hand.

I smile mechanically and shake it. “Doctor.”

“Glad you got here.” He slaps my shoulder as a way to steer me toward the fireplace.

I look back at the bar, where Elethior’s talking with a tall blonde elven woman who reeks of money so strongly my nose tingles from here. “I should get a drink before—”

“In a moment, in a moment.” Davyeras stops us in a group, half of which are committee members, half who must be donors. “I want to introduce you to a few people first.”

My lips fight a hard battle to stay smiling, not grimacing.

Davyeras names off those in the group before gesturing to me. “And Sebastian Walsh here is one of the recipients of the Mageus Research Grant.”

A woman with gray hair pulled back in a severe chignon puckers her lips in interest. “How has your first week gone?”

The group pins their eyes on me.

Right into the fire we go, then.

I resist looking over my shoulder for Elethior. “Ah. Well… have you spoken to— Mr. Tourael this evening? I wouldn’t want to repeat him.” Or incriminate myself.

“We’ve not had the pleasure yet,” the woman says. “I admit, restructuring the grant was viewed as unnecessary by some, but I do hope to see stimulating results.”

“Mr. Tourael and I are definitely”—I think of shattering the protection ward around his desk—“breaking down barriers.”

“And what plans have you developed to explore the overlap of your two fields in spell energy limitations?” Davyeras asks. “Evocation and conjuration are famously at odds.”

The group chuckles cordially.

“Yeah. At odds. Um… we’re solidifying our projects individually before we begin seeing how they overlap.” There. That’s not a lie, but it sounds okay, right?

The group quiets. A few eye one another.

Davyeras clears his throat. “You mean, you are working separately?”

Unease wends in my stomach. “We’ve been firming up our own projects, so when we come together, we have a better understanding of all the pieces.”

The woman who asked the initial question sips her drink. “Hm” is all she says.

Davyeras laughs. It’s forced. “Well, we can hardly expect breakthroughs after only a few days, can we? Mr. Walsh, let’s get you a drink. We’ll discuss more later.”

He nods our farewell to the group and steers me in another of those back-clapping maneuvers until we’re a few yards away.

“Mr. Walsh.” Davyeras smiles politely at someone who passes us. “We have put a great deal of faith in you and Mr. Tourael. Should we be worried?”

His mask of civility barely restrains the intent behind his smile.

“No,” I say immediately. “No, sir. Like I said, we’re getting foundations set in our projects before we come together. We know what an opportunity this is, and we don’t want to waste it.”

Davyeras stays quiet for a beat.

“That had better be the case, Mr. Walsh,” he tells me. “And we will be seeing you both, with a joint report, at the first check-in a few weeks from now?” It’s a question but it’s definitely not a question.

“Of course, sir.”

He studies me a beat longer before gesturing toward the bar. “Good. Now get that drink you’re after.”

“Thanks,” I say and all but catapult my body to the bar.

Elethior’s still at one end, still talking with that blonde woman, only there are a few other people with them now, too. He looks as comfortable as I did in the group with Davyeras, gritting his teeth with a strained smile and death-gripping a glass of red wine.

The bartender approaches me. “What’ll you have?”

I collapse on my elbows. “Literally anything with gin.”

He grins. He’s cute, around my age, clean-cut with glossy dark hair. He gives a flirty wink when he says, “Sure thing,” and turns away to mix something.

I take the moment to regroup.

Until a presence at my side has me smirking to the polished mahogany bar top.

I turn my smirk on Elethior.

He’s in another expensive, sleek black suit like he wore at the awards brunch. His hair’s braided down his shoulder this time, the shaved side showing the faintest shadow of hair starting to grow back. He’s glaring at me, but he doesn’t get a chance to speak before the bartender comes back over.

“Here you go, handsome,” the bartender says, sliding a drink to me.

I take it; it’s less liquid courage, more liquid lidocaine at this point. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

The bartender winks again, and my ears heat, but I’m in no state to see if that was a real wink or an I’m in customer service so I flirt for tips wink.

It’s an open bar, but I throw a few bucks down.

Steeling myself, I turn back to Elethior, my shoulders straight, chin up—

—when his disdainful nose curl stops me dead.

His eyes swing to the bartender, back to me.

“What?” I ask.

“Your date last night didn’t go well, then?”

I cringe. “Excuse me?”

He kicks back the rest of his wine unsteadily, and I get the feeling that’s not his first glass.

But—wait. I’d told Elethior I had a date last night. That’s what he’s talking about.

I laugh. It’s shockingly real and feels like a life raft in what has been my emotional state the past twenty-four hours.

“What’s funny?” Elethior’s suspicion is sharp. “So help me, if you pull any stupid stunt here, I’ll—”

“Chill, Tourael. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve refrained from doing anything that could be considered remotely unscrupulous all week. Don’t I get a reward for that?”

I bat my eyelashes and take a sip of what turns out to be a gin and tonic. To be an ass, I slide my tongue on the rim of the glass.

Elethior’s eyes glue to my mouth.

He looks dumbfounded. Struck silent and frozen.

And maybe a little… hungry.

Two things hit me at once: how I stripped off my shirt in front of him before the awards brunch. And now, whatever this is.

Both those things gather in the base of my stomach and burn, but a smoldering burn, nothing painful, just intent.

I slam my glass on the bar. “Actually, I need to talk to you.”

He drags one hand down his face. “Gods damn it,” he hisses, and I don’t realize he’s saying it at himself until his voice raises when he’s speaking to me again. “No. That’s what I came to say—you have other people you can mingle with. Other donors. You’re not squirming your way over here.”

I glance behind him, to the group he’d been with. The blonde woman is still there, veritably holding court with donors. “Why?”

“That,” Elethior says, his teeth gritting, “is my cousin. And given how vocal you’ve been about all things Tourael, I’m not risking you foaming at the mouth mid-conversation with her. Go torture some other donors.”

My grin is satanic. “But tonight’s about schmoozing with all the donors. It’d be rude not to meet your family, Elethior.”

I step past him, but I have no intention of getting farther than it takes to mess with him.

He grabs my arm and I go immobile.

I never go immobile.

I react.

Usually violently.

So to stand there, and let him hold on to my arm—my brain is a Ferris wheel, spinning, spinning, every seat empty.

I stare down at his long fingers on my white shirt.

“Let me go.” My voice is rough.

His fingers spasm. But he releases me.

My eyes flip up to him, mutinous—

“Elethior,” his cousin calls out. “Is that your new partner? Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Alarm bursts through my cocky anger.