Page 8 of The Entanglement of Rival Wizards (Magic and Romance #1)

Sebastian—

I understand your concerns regarding your required partner.

I myself partook in many a good-natured ribbing with the Conjuration Department during my time as a student.

The fact that the selection committee not only saw value in your project, but in YOU, speaks volumes of your character and skill. Do not risk your future over this.

I look forward to hearing of your progress at the first monthly check-in,

Professor Thompson

Basically, Suck it up, Sebastian, you’re being a child.

I would, however, like to point out that my issues working with Elethior have almost nothing to do with him being in the Conjuration Department—I’m not that much of a dumbass.

As I told Thompson, my very valid and professional concerns stem from working with someone who represents magical corruption and elitism, the polar opposite of everything I stand for.

But Thompson seems unable to comprehend anyone not being over the moon to rub elbows with a Tourael, which means he’s determined to view my concerns only as the result of a petty interdepartmental rivalry.

I swing back and forth in my desk chair, staring at my laptop, trying to decide how professional it would be to send back an email saying, But I don’t WANNAAAAAA .

The floor outside my bedroom creaks and I swivel on Orok, nearly upending myself from the rickety chair.

“I’m not being childish. He’s a Tourael,” I tell him, like he doesn’t know, like I haven’t been having this argument with him and myself since I got home on Friday, and it’s now Monday, and the semester is over and he’s officially stuck with me for the next few weeks.

“ That’s my problem. He’s going to take what will now be our project and dump it into the Tourael magical defense conglomerate, and it’ll be used to hurt people.

Clawstar will see I’m working with a Tourael and think I’ve crossed over to the enemy.

My research, my work will be tangled up in Tourael shit, and I get no say in it.

That’s my problem, and it’s not a childish concern. Right?”

Orok’s checking something on his phone, but he flicks his eyes up to me. “No. It’s not a childish concern.”

“Thank you.”

“But—”

“Fuck you.”

“—first of all, I doubt Clawstar is so petty that they’d boot you for working with a Tourael.”

He’s right. I did, actually, message my future boss the evening of the grant announcement to assure her I got it, remind her that my prearranged forthcoming job is still a good investment on her part, and try to get ahead of any issues.

She’d congratulated me, and made no mention of my auspicious lab partner.

It’s possible I might be overexaggerating the negative impact of this, but damn it if I’m not going to wallow.

“Second of all,” Orok continues, “Elethior won’t be able to take your joint project. You both own it equally. If you don’t want it to end up in his family’s hands, it won’t. He’s probably just as concerned that you’ll try to get your joint project to go up online for free.”

My smile is sinister. “ Oh . Oh, that’s a lovely idea.” I was already planning on pushing this project out for free, so Elethior stewing is icing.

Orok winces at his phone and pockets it. But he refocuses on me before I can pry into that. “What is childish,” he circles back, “is not accepting the situation like an adult and finding common ground so you do, in fact, have a final project to present.”

I scowl at him and scramble for my phone on my desk. “I’m calling Crescentia. She’ll take my side.”

“You know I’m right, dipshit. But I didn’t come up here for you to ignore me.”

Orok’s posture is… weird. He’s leaning against the door like he’s trying to be relaxed but tension’s strung across his shoulders, one thumb tapping an anxious rhythm on his thigh.

Concern flares. “What’s wrong?”

Our doorbell rings.

Orok holds up his hands. “Okay, so, I didn’t tell her to come. Remember that.”

That clears up nothing. “Who?”

He scrubs a hand across the back of his neck.

“My mom wants me home for winter break. Our church is doing their usual ode to Urzoth Shieldsworn’s birthday—even though I’ve told her that isn’t his birthday, that church higher-ups just jumped on the trend centuries ago to throw big holidays in the winter season like a dozen other gods, so it doesn’t—”

The doorbell rings again. A fist knocks.

He coughs. “Right. Anyway, my mom came to get me. And since she was coming, they decided to make it a road trip.”

They.

Everything in my body shifts gears, only the clutch goes out so there’s a lot of internal grinding and a little bit of smoke.

I snatch my phone, but swipe to the most recent—unread—texts from my mom.

MOM

Sebastian, sweetheart, we’re on our way!

Ghorza’s GPS says we should be there after lunch.

We’ll visit then hit the road back home! And I do mean WE. It’s been too long since you spent the holidays with us!

I stare at my phone in a stupor.

Until the screen lights up with an incoming call. From my mother. Who, I assume, is part of the knocking and doorbell-ringing racket downstairs.

Eyes pinched shut, I let my phone thunk onto my desk and take a beat to scrape through what the past few days have left of my sanity.

There’s nothing to do but face this like an adult.

That’s what I do now, apparently. It’ll be good practice—if I can get through a few hours with my mom, I can handle Elethior. Probably.

“We should let them in before she chops down the door,” I say, defeated.

“My mom hasn’t used her strength like that in years.”

“I wasn’t talking about your mom.”

He snorts as we clatter down the stairs—

—and I come to an abrupt halt.

Orok slams into me from behind, sending me stumbling forward.

I whirl on him with my mouth agape. “Did you clean our apartment?”

He rolls his lips between his teeth and gives a sheepish shrug. “Moms. Ya know?”

Yeah. I do know. I know that they’ll deep-clean the whole place within an hour of being here no matter what state it’s in, but Orok’s attempt is good.

Every table is usually covered in old plates or takeout boxes, and books from classes or the library tend to stack up along with spell or research components.

But there’s nary a book or bit of trash in sight.

Our ratty couch has a decorative quilt Orok’s grandmother made folded on the back with two frilly pillows I’ve never seen in my life sitting on either end.

The coffee table holds our unsorted mail in a neat stack.

The dining table and kitchen are just as spotless—who knew our counters were blue?

I slug Orok in the shoulder. “A-plus, man. Is this why you’ve been clattering around down here all morning? You could’ve pressganged me into service; I was just spiraling in my bullshit.”

“Orok!” a voice calls through the door. His mom.

“Let us in, please,” another voice. My mom. She must lean closer to the door, because the next part comes lower and more muffled. “This neighborhood isn’t safe for us to be standing in the open.”

Yeah, that’s definitely my mom.

Orok moves for the door. “You don’t have to come home,” he whispers at me. “Don’t let her pressure you. Remember, no is a complete sentence.”

I flick him a deadpan look. The very idea of saying no to either of our mothers is, quite possibly, the most absurd thing he’s ever said to me.

He grabs the doorknob but doesn’t open it yet. “Just—them being here isn’t my fault, okay? Don’t be mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad at you? For, like, anything. You’re the one person who could dump a bowl of spaghetti on my head, and I’d assume you had a good reason and thank you.”

Orok gives me a weak smile before he says, in one breath, “Well, it isn’t spaghetti, but I’ve known your mom was coming since before the grant brunch, and I didn’t tell you because I knew you weren’t checking your messages from her so you wouldn’t know, and this way, you didn’t have to stress about it. ”

Okay, now I get pissed. “You son of a—”

He rips open the door. “Mom!”

Ghorza Monroe barges inside in a whirlwind of flailing arms. She squishes Orok’s face in her hands with gushy proclamations of adoration like he’s still the seven-year-old who’d cling to her arm on the walk to the bus stop.

She’s bigger than he is, and even her hair is huge, a giant arch of dark curls, so she has to crouch in the doorframe while she oohs and aahs over her son.

Then she steps aside, and my mom slides past her.

Abigail Walsh is the sixty-year-old female version of me.

Or I guess I’m the twenty-four-year-old male version of her?

Either way, pale skin, blond curls, short stature, poor eyesight.

She’s wearing a coat and a crisp Lesiara U collared shirt, death-gripping her purse over her shoulder because I don’t know why you chose to go to school in the city, Sebastian. There are pickpockets everywhere!

The polo at least makes me smile. She’s trying. I can, too.

“Hey, Mom,” I say.

She shuts the door and leans in for a hug, but stops at the last second and zips her eyes over my outfit. Sweatpants and a T-shirt.

Her lips twist in distaste. “I told you we were coming. Would it have been so hard to clean up for us?”

Ah. Well. I guess we’re not trying that hard.

“Yeah. Sorry. Been a busy weekend, what with the semester ending, and—”

“The semester ended, ” she repeats. “You had nothing to study for this weekend, and I know that job of yours doesn’t start for months. There’s no reason you couldn’t have made an effort for our arrival.”

I chew my tongue. “So. Good trip?”

“The drive was fine.” She puts her purse on the counter. Or, rather, she starts to put her purse on the counter, but pulls a few components from said purse and does a spell she’s done so many times I’m pretty sure she doesn’t realize she’s doing it: Detect Germs.