Patrick was in the car in less than five minutes. He could feel the pull in his chest and, in the distance, something like a beacon of magic. It wavered and vibrated on the horizon, drawing him to the south and the east. He once again felt himself whispering charms, spells that would will his car to go faster and the wind to be at his back. He sent out a silent prayer he would make it in time for whatever would happen. Would the man really be on fire? How would Patrick even help if that were the case? Whatever the reason he had been sent these visions, he had to hope it was because he could help.

He had only been driving for an hour and a half when he realized he was close. He pulled off at the nearest exit, a small town in the mountains of western North Carolina. He drove through the town, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. It had a short main street, a couple of coffee shops and some restaurants. Nothing out of the ordinary, just people out enjoying the early evening. He kept driving past the end of the main street, the buildings quickly thinning out until he was only passing long driveways leading to houses hidden in the hills and trees.

It was five more minutes until he felt it. Here, where even the last few houses had come to an end that he felt the pull. On either side was an immense forest, which was certainly a consolation. Even as the sun was dipping below the horizon, Patrick would feel safer surrounded by trees than otherwise. He pulled the car over to the side of the road, turned off the engine, and sat for a moment. He realized he could feel waves of emotion coming from deeper in the woods. His bond to this man apparently psychic when they were near one another.

Patrick focused on the emotions and quickly realized it was overwhelming fear. He got out of the car and faced the woods. The man was still a ways away, perhaps half a mile. The woods here were dense, with many bushes filling in the space between the trees. Patrick walked to the edge of the forest. He took a deep breath and raised his arms, reaching out toward the trees. He pulled a great burst of magic from within. Before him, the bushes and trees tilted, clearing a narrow path, just enough for him to pass through. He began running.

He controlled his breathing, keeping his focus on his magic and the target ahead of him. He willed the trees behind him to snap back into place and those ahead to stay parted. He could sense now, the trees and grasses telling him, that the man was in a clearing. And he wasn’t alone. There were three others there. Three others. Hunters. Patrick felt the dread clawing at his throat, but also a bitterness at the coincidence. Was he being tested? He didn’t believe in a higher power, but what were the chances this would happen again. And how would this time be different?

He reached the edge of the clearing, but for the moment, he stayed hidden in the trees. He could see directly ahead of him was the man from his dreams. Patrick could barely take in his appearance at the moment, but it was certainly the man. In the exact same position as the dream. His hands were smoking. Across the clearing, maybe 50 feet away were the Hunters. The lead Hunter was the same from those years ago. The same one who killed James. He had also resisted James’s magic. There was something greasy about his appearance. Everything about him was unremarkable but somehow wrong. Even his skin was an unnatural gray. It was possible years of using glamours and charms to disguise himself had permanently affected him in some way. His eyes were as close to colorless as blue could be.

The two others were new to Patrick, not that he’d gotten a good look before. One was a woman with a face defined by sharp angles. A sharp, pointed chin, sharp cheekbones, and a thin, sharp nose. Her hair was in a bun, pulled back so tightly it raised her eyebrows (also sharp) giving her an alert look. The other was a man. He was easily two heads taller than the other man, and easily three times his weight. Most of that muscle. He had dark hair and a tightly trimmed beard. His face was kind, which seemed incongruous to this situation. Patrick wondered if his bulk was real or some kind of illusion. He was quite intimidating regardless.

The gray man was speaking.

“We don’t have to dilly dally. It doesn’t seem like you want your magic,” he said. His voice was oily, worming its way into the ear. “We’re simply offering to take it off your hands. Let you get back to your normal life.”

The man was barely listening. He was looking down in terror at his smoking palms.

“Why can’t I control it?” he asked, voice shaking. “What did you do when you touched me?”

“Oh, it was about to blow anyhow. You’ve been keeping it tamped down for too long. Anyone within fifty miles from here could basically feel the oncoming explosion,” the man chuckled. “You never learned to control it, did you?”

“I can’t get it to stop!” the man was waving his hands around. The smoking had increased. He dropped to his knees and pressed his hands down into the soil. For a moment, he looked relieved, but upon raising them up, flames spread across his palms.

“Fuck!” the man yelled. The gray man looked back at his companions and smirked.

“Alright, you want us to take it now?” he asked, trying to sound sympathetic, but Patrick could feel the condescension.

“You’ll just take it?” the man didn’t look up from his flaming palms. “That’s all?”

“Yup. That’s all.” The gray man smiled.

“Okay, please, take it,” the man said.

Fuck, Patrick thought, it’s now or never.

“Stop!” he yelled, jumping out from behind the trees. Everyone in the clearing looked shocked.

“What-who?” the gray man said.

“Is that really all?” Patrick asked. “He’ll be fine? Just go back to his normal life?”

“Uh, yeah,” the gray man said, clearly confused.

“Or will it kill him to lose his magic?” Patrick asked, realizing he was standing, defensively, in front of the man. He glanced back at him. The man was also confused but was still concerned with his flaming palms – and, now, forearms.

“I- wait,” the gray man said. “I remember you…I took your boyfriend’s magic. How’s he doing?” the gray man laughed. The woman joined in.

“Very dead,” Patrick said, steeling himself for whatever came next.

“Sad,” the gray man laughed. The façade had fallen. “You look like you can maybe do some parlor tricks at best. I have no qualms going through you to get Mr. Fire Hands there.” The gray man turned to and was whispering with his companions. Patrick did the same and turned to look at the burning man.

“I’ll explain later. Trust that I’m here to help,” Patrick said. The man raised his eyes to actually look at him. The eyes. They were the same as in Patrick’s dream. They were a warm brown, but the pupil was ringing with gold, and Patrick could just barely see flecks of red in the brown, like embers in a dying fire. As they locked eyes, Patrick felt the pull in his chest. The accompanying emotions bloomed within him. He had to protect him.

Clearly, something happened to the man as well, as his expression softened. The accusing confusion in his eyes dissipated replaced with a nervous hopefulness. He nodded.

“Okay,” he said, more calmly than Patrick had heard him. There was something in his voice, like his eyes, that triggered the same response within Patrick. He knew him. Or, he had to know him. He would know him.

“Good news,” the gray man said, facing them again. “Irakli will deal with you. So it’ll be quick.”

The muscular man, Irakli, stepped forward. He looked determined and made fists as he slowly walked forward, flexing his, quite large, arms. Patrick took a deep breath. His flora magic wouldn’t be much use here, and he still, years later, felt James’s admonishment not to reveal his power over plants. James had once taught him some defensive magic.

“Wards are the best option for those whose magic is…less than ideal for combat.” He had said, holding his right arm forward, palm facing Patrick. “Punch my hand.”

Patrick did as he was told. About an inch away from James’s hand, he had been stopped by an invisible force.

“This kind of ward is simply your magic made physical. It’s not complex but requires a significant amount of magic to produce. You don’t suffer from a lack of magical energy, but even you need to be mindful. A ward is best cast only when needed, seconds before if you trust your timing,” James explained. “It’s also best to keep it as small as possible.”

Irakli was still approaching, taking his time. This was clearly a tactic, using his size and the confidence of his stride to intimidate. Even though Patrick understood the tactic, he was still affected by it. His friend Rubén was a boxer and had tried to teach him some moves. Patrick was…not great, but at least he remembered how to keep a defensive stance. He kept his palms facing out instead of fists. Much better for casting wards.

Irakli, now directly before him, looked at his poor boxing stance and threw a quick punch. There was little art to it; this was all about strength. Patrick said a quiet prayer as he went to intercept the punch, willing a ward a couple of inches thick out of his palm. He caught the punch, the ward taking most of the force, but it still reverberated through him, and he felt his right foot sliding back.

Irakli, for his part, looked a little surprised, but quickly pulled back and delivered another punch. Patrick properly dodged this one, as Irakli was clearly relying on strength over speed. The next punch came more quickly, and Patrick only caught it just before it made contact with his face. Irakli grunted, going in for an uppercut. Unfortunately, given his height, Patrick saw it soon enough and pulled his head back. He felt he’d certainly gotten lucky so far, but he couldn’t rely on that. He needed to be smart.

“Nothing limits the shape of your ward except you. If you have the power and control, you can do with it whatever you want.,” James had said.

Something occurred to Patrick. He’d never tried it, but it should be possible given how wards worked. Irakli threw another uppercut, which Patrick dodged. It wouldn’t work with his plan. He needed one of those nice straight punches Irakli had thrown at first. Patrick took a step back, hoping to bait him into throwing one.

It worked. Patrick reached out, intercepting the punch with his ward. This time, however, he clamped his fingers down around the fist and willed the ward to spread up Irakli’s arm. Irakli could feel what was happening and looked confused. He tried pulling back. It took all of Patrick’s magic and physical strength to keep from being pulled forward. He had to act quickly before Irakli threw a punch with his other arm. Patrick took his free hand and brought it down as hard as he could on Irakli’s forearm, where it was wrapped in Patrick’s magic. At the same time, he willed the ward to bend at the point of impact. And it did.

Patrick heard the clean snap of bone and released the ward, letting Irakli’s arm loose. For a moment, Irakli stood there, but then the realization, and pain, dawned on him. He let out a howl and dropped to his knees, holding his broken arm with his good one. He was down for the count. Patrick felt relief, but that was immediately followed by exhaustion. He had used most of his magic creating such an extensive ward with so much force behind it. He felt spent.

Behind Irakli, the gray man tilted his head, thinking. He smirked.

“I didn’t expect that. How interesting,” he looked to the woman. Irakli was walking slowly back to them. “Alexandra, help Irakli. I can handle this myself.”

Fuck, Patrick thought. This was the one who resisted James’s magic. Patrick wasn’t sure of his power, but certainly he had plenty of it. He turned to look at the man on fire, partly hoping he had slipped away in the brawl, but know he hadn’t. He was still there, fire now completely up to his elbows. The man was on his knees, staring dejectedly down at his burning limbs, clearly giving himself over to the slow crawl of the fire covering his whole body.

“Hey, we may have to run,” Patrick said. The man looked up. He looked tired, but the fear was still there.

“But what if I can’t stop this?” the man asked.

“Hey! What’s your name? Trying to decide if I take your magic or just go straight to killing you,” the gray man shouted.

“How about you just leave?” Patrick asked. He tried to sound tough, but it would be impossible not to call his bluff. He’d very clearly spent all his magic fighting Irakli. The gray man laughed. He’d taken a few steps forward.

“How about this instead,” he said. His eyes widened, giving away what was coming next. Patrick closed his eyes, throwing up all his mental defenses. The impact came a moment later. Clawing and scratching at the edge of his mind. The man was a psychic. That explained how he resisted James’s magic. In the back of his mind, Patrick was glad he’d dated a psychic and had refined his mental defenses. He could only last for so long without his magic to strengthen him.

The gray man changed his tactic, now a feeling like electricity was prickling around Patrick’s mind. He could taste the gray man’s magic. It was like burning rubber. All the while, the gray man’s hold on Patrick’s mental defenses was tightening like a vise, hoping to find cracks—or just crack the whole thing. Patrick could barely move; every fiber of his being was being used to hold the gray man off. He was vaguely aware of the gray man slowly approaching, not nearly as hindered by the need to focus. If he made physical contact with Patrick, it would be over. Honestly, if Patrick had to hold him off like this for much longer it would be over anyhow.

“I don’t think I can hold it in anymore,” the burning man said. “It’s going to take over me.”

Patrick wanted to tell him to release it, to channel it at the gray man, but he couldn’t speak, and he didn’t imagine he would be capable of controlling the magic that well.

The pull in his chest came back. He remembered his burned palms. He realized what he had to do. He willed all his strength and pushed back against the gray man, just long enough that he could turn to face the burning man and drop to his knees as well.

“Trust me?” he asked quickly through clenched teeth.

“Yes,” the burning man said immediately.

The gray man was back in Patrick’s mind, but this time Patrick had no defenses. He could feel the vise just as he reached out, grabbing the burning man’s hands.

His mind was not crushed. His hands did not burn. Instead, the fire flowed into him. Or the magic, rather. He felt it fill him. It cleansed his mind of the gray man’s magic, burning away any taste of his power. Patrick had never felt anything like it. Every inch of his body was buzzing with it. He felt powerful, more so than ever before. The magic didn’t taste like smoke now. Instead, it smelled not of fire, but the sun. Sun on leaves and damp soil. Sun on the sea. Sun on skin. It was intoxicating. It was also too much.

Patrick looked around. The gray man was still approaching, but with trepidation. Alexandra was walking towards them as well. The power was pushing against him, trying to be free. He looked at the burning man, no longer burning, who nodded. Patrick held out his right hand towards the encroaching Hunters, keeping his left in the man’s. He closed his eyes and let the magic out. It was fire, but it was also light and warmth and pure energy. He heard a shriek from the gray man, who was now running from the coming ball of fire. Alexandra as well had turned and was now helping Irakli up. They were retreating.

Patrick kept the fireball moving slowly forward, chasing the Hunters away. The magic felt endless like he’d tapped into an ocean of power. He could tell the Hunters were running away, farther and farther away still. Only once he could feel they were no longer in the forest did he stop the fireball, letting it dissipate.

He looked back at the man, who smiled weakly.

“Hi, I’m Patrick,” he said, shaking the hand he was already holding. The man chuckled.

“I’m Omar.”

“Nice to finally meet you.”