Page 5 of The Entanglement of Rival Wizards (Magic and Romance #1)

TRAFFIC ALERT: Troll warning at the South Street Bridge. Travelers advised to seek alternative routes even if they believe they can answer the troll’s riddle. Adventure party dispatched. Expected time to all clear: two and a half hours.

Normally, a notification about an adventure party so close would have me wrestling Orok out of his hangover so the two of us could play gawkers with a few dozen other people.

On the spectrum of defensive magic users, adventure parties sit on one end while the Arcane Forces cap off the other; it’s the difference between using an explosion spell to close old subway tunnels so they can flush out a horde of undead pixies versus using it to level half a town along with alleged stores of dragon eggs.

A friendly neighborhood adventure party is typically an entertaining start to the day—

—except the South Street Bridge is the path I take to campus.

I was ready for this morning. Before I went to the Conjuration Lab with Orok last night, all my nice clothes were tucked in a garment bag and my messenger satchel was packed next to my laptop, along with printed copies of my grant proposal and my travel case of spell components since my leather belt isn’t exactly fancy.

I ordered breakfast to be dropped off at the ass crack of dawn despite Ghostmates’ exorbitant fees and the tendency of their delivery spirits to slam kitchen cupboards and rattle plumbing.

All I had to do was wake up this morning, hop in the shower, grab my shit, and get to campus not just on time, but early, so I could change in my TA office instead of wearing my nice clothes on the bus.

But what’s that saying? When mortals laugh, gods make plans? Or maybe it’s the other way around, but I must’ve laughed way too much last night playing drunken Blast Off with Orok and Crescentia, because holy shit, am I getting fucked by a god’s plans now.

My dress shirt never made it into my garment bag. Hell, it didn’t even make it from the washer to the dryer, so it was a stiff, mildewy mess that’s currently rattling around with hopes, prayers, and extra static sheets on the quick-dry cycle.

And my coffee order, which was supposed to have an extra shot of charisma—yeah, okay, those potions are generally sugar syrup, but I’ll take whatever placebo effect I can get—had an extra shot of something, but it was nothing close to charisma.

I am vibrating out of my skin as I pull up the Philadelphia transpo app and check what other routes are available, and, wait, are my nails a little jagged?

Does that matter? This brunch is for the announcement of the grant recipient, but this is still a chance to network with university uppity-ups and alumni who felt like coming and—shit.

I should bring business cards, too. Do I have time to get some?

Is there a spell to make business cards? Can I—

What was in that coffee.

I pace my bedroom, window to door, and growl at my phone as the transpo app loads.

New estimated route: forty minutes to campus.

I factored in fifteen minutes, which is what it usually takes.

I shove my phone in my messenger satchel, grab my garment bag, and sprint into the hall.

The bathroom is still open, steam from my shower making the upper floor of our two-level apartment muggy.

I clatter down the stairs, the ratty carpet slick from decades of tenants, and nearly twist my ankle as I trip-tumble into the living room.

“Mom, I’m not hungover, I swear.”

Orok’s huge frame is sprawled on our couch, one leg across the back, a bottle of water balanced on his forehead.

He’s still in last night’s clothes that make everything smell vaguely of smoke, his phone pressed to his ear.

His eyes are pinched shut even though the curtain’s drawn tight and the only light comes from our dinky-ass kitchen, where the dryer chugs, the buttons on my nice dress shirt dinging around inside the drum.

“Yes, I can handle my alcohol,” he says into the phone. “I’m not—Mom. Mom . No, I didn’t challenge anyone to a fight.” He rubs the skin between his eyes. “Yeah, Seb was there. He had nothing to do with me not wanting to punch people.”

I rush past, tripping on a pair of Converse—mine, oh, I need those; I tug them on, keep walking—but Orok’s eyes stay closed, and he’s now rolling the water bottle back and forth across his forehead.

The Church of Urzoth Shieldsworn is all about strength and physical prowess.

Most of what I’ve heard is rhetoric from his mom about how real devotees of Urzoth don’t show weaknesses like getting sick from alcohol—which is just, what —or how they don’t stumble down paths of nonsensical frailness like academia rather than doing something that requires brute strength.

Orok’s wrested some saving graces by focusing his studies on Urzoth’s relics and playing on the rawball team.

Despite being proud of these accomplishments, and generally loving her son, his mom refuses to see me as anything other than a black mark against him.

I should send Mrs. Monroe a photo of her baby in all his I can handle my alcohol glory, then explain that I’m the one who is not hungover despite the rampant anti-Sebastian propaganda she pushes. He did drink more than I did, but whatever.

Though being not hungover is all I’ve got going for me this morning.

The dryer lurches worryingly, jostling everything in the kitchen, but the cycle continues, and my frantic rushing throws me to a stop in front of it.

Do I need a shirt? Is it that important?

If I leave right now, I’ll make it to campus on time. Ish.

I look down at my threadbare AC/DC shirt and briefly think it’d be pretty badass to do the T-shirt-under-a-suit-jacket look, but am I capable of pulling that off?

Doubt hits me, or rather, catches up to me, and I stagger from the force of it body-slamming my brain.

You know who could pull off that look? Who probably isn’t running late.

Who’s likely already at campus, polished and chatting up the grant committee, not at all worried about his post-graduation plans being dependent on this grant because if ( when ) he doesn’t get it, he’ll still have a cushy job lined up in any number of his family’s businesses.

I grab my half-drunk coffee from the counter—but no, okay, I rethink that at the last second and check the label.

No charisma potion, like I suspected, but it does have a quad shot of espresso added to my regular drip coffee. I’ve only been poisoned by caffeine and my own neuroses.

Great, great morning. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

I’ll get to campus, change at warp speed, and sneak in while everyone’s getting their brunch food bits. No harm done. The decision about who gets the grant has already been made, anyway; I doubt the committee will change their mind based on a few minutes of tardiness. Right?

I glare at the dryer and seriously consider blasting it with a fireball.

“Yeah, I’m still going to church,” Orok says behind me.

I laugh. Loudly.

He lets go of the water bottle to flip me off.

“I know,” he keeps saying to his mom. “I’m still working with Reverend Dregu.

Yeah, we get together every week. Mom. Mom .

I’m not sending you my research reports.

There’s nothing in them you’d care about!

They’re all spells and equations, not—yeah, I talk to Reverend Dregu about my soul, too.

No, I didn’t take a tone with you. I’m sorry. I said —”

Ironic how Orok’s mom is all about pushing him to exert his strength, but him standing up to her isn’t something she tolerates.

There is no sweeter sound in the world than our crappy dryer beeping.

I chirp triumphantly and open it. My shirt is dry, wrinkle-free, and doesn’t have that weird mildew smell.

Things are looking up, see? Everything is fine.

The knot in my stomach that has nothing to do with strong coffee pulls tighter.

I delicately tuck my shirt into the garment bag and double-check I have everything. Why do I feel like I’m forgetting something? I probably am. I’ll probably get to the brunch and realize I forgot pants and have to go in wearing my gray sweats.

But no, I packed pants. And a normal belt, too. Look at me, adulting.

My unsteady hands fumble the garment bag’s zipper and I spin around to down the rest of my coffee—I really, really don’t need it—only to slam right into Orok’s chest.

Still on the phone, he clamps his free arm around me and draws me into a brutal hug. He reeks of smoke, and the side of his shirt is crunchy where it got singed during Blast Off.

But I let him hug me. Just for a second.

“While I appreciate the sentiment,” I whisper, “you’re making me stink.”

He squeezes me tighter before releasing me with a pat on the head.

“Good luck,” he says softly. “You’re gonna kick his ass.

” He flinches. “No, Mom, I’m not kicking someone’s ass; it was metaphorical.

I’m not—” He sighs, and the sound of his mom guilt-tripping him for not embracing his family’s religion by randomly crushing skulls is a muffled drone between us.

I grin, and Orok winks at me, and that gnawing worry abates enough that I manage a clear breath.

I’ll make it to the brunch. I’ll get that grant. I’ll do my final project, complete my degree, and start at Clawstar next summer.

It’s going to be fine.

I grab the rest of my stuff as Orok plants his hip against the kitchen counter.

“No, Seb’s not been going to church with me,” he tells her and smirks at me like he’s tattling. “He’s still a heathen.”

Asshole, I mouth.

“You’re right, he is puny!” he says brightly. “That’s what I said yesterday.”

“I’m leaving,” I shout too loud as I open the door. “Have you told your mom you got kicked off the rawball team yet?”

Orok’s eyes peel wide a beat before I hear his mom shriek “ WHAT?! ” through the phone.

He hasn’t been kicked off the team. Shit-stirring is my love language.

I smile sweetly as I close the door.