Malus

Chapter Two

 By far, it was the most dreary stretch of evening committed to terrible grown-up-ness either of them had ever experienced. Jonathan was getting sick of it himself, and he could hardly expect Perry to take much more. The boy was standing by a corner, his face wrinkled in annoyance and his blue eyes focused up on someone he couldn't see. No one had asked about his mother, or even if he was truly his own flesh and blood. If he was lucky, it would stay that way.

Warren approached from behind, bearing a glittering wineglass. He forced it into the man's hand and took a drink from his own. "What's the matter, Jon? You're not enjoying your own party? It would seem you've spent a little too much time outside the world of adults, old friend."

"I'm fine, and I'm not drinking. Maybe if you had some kids yourself..." Jonathan let the thought hang in the air and dropped the hand holding the glass to his waist.

"'Fraid not, Jon. Forever a bachelor," the man said with a wry smile. "What about yourself? When's the last time you saw that dame...Ciara Murphy, wasn't it? From Raheny."

The man scoffed. "We've talked in the past few months, and she still forces me to take an armful of that jam she makes every time I bump into her. But that's it. That first date was our last."

"Jon..."

"Warren," he countered on a sigh. "I have a child. I have children, to be precise."

"Don't tell me," he interrupted, shaking his head, "you're still sending letters. Having children does not mean you're obliged to ignore every woman who looks your way. Let dead dogs lie. Besides, Perry seems to be doing just fine without...you know." He cleared his throat before going on, "How is the little tyke? Hardly seen him since..."

"'53," Jonathan offered, grimacing.

"That long? How old is he now, then? Seven?"

"Nine this March. Really, Warren, you were there."

"Perhaps, but my entire life doesn't revolve around that day. It wasn't so memorable for the rest of us." He took a moment to remember. "It was...March, in 1249. Am I right?"

"The sixth. And according to his birth certificate, 1992," he corrected. "You were at three birthday parties. They all happened on the same day, Warren."

"Oh, take it easy, would you? At least I came to those." He sipped from his wineglass and switched topics again. "What about his studies? I trust he's progressing well."

Jonathan shrugged. "He's only just starting on the second degree. He's a little old, I know, but you understand. I have to be careful anytime sorcery is involved. The whole summoning section in the first degree took months. He needs to know how to make proper protection circles and charms." He paused, staring at his glass before taking a tentative sip. The drop of wine was more alcohol than he'd had in years and the taste alone quickly coerced a layer of defensive secrecy away. "I had to teach him the complicated ones to give him the best chance—eight-piece circles that I don't even understand well enough. But the thing is, Warren, he gets them better than I do. I've been working at sorcery for tenyears, and he's stumped me. If he wasn't the way he was, I'd send him to a decent sorcerer in a heartbeat, but..."

"That's tough, Jon." Warren spoke in a low voice, swelled with pity. "But it happens sometimes. It's almost as if the most fragile ones excel at summoning, like it's a bloody rule of the cosmos. It's ironic, in a way."

"It makes perfect sense," Jonathan disagreed, furrowing his brow. "They're closer to spirits, without all the natural walls full-blooded magicians have. But don't they usually avoid sorcery like the plague? Or they should. Maybe the older ones just know they can't."