Home > Treasured(6)

Treasured(6)
Author: S.J. Himes

A long wooden table beneath a wide wall of windows held a handful of documents spread out on plastic sheeting, and a box of white gloves and wet wipes sat to the side. The scent of old paper wafted up, reminding Alaric of a library as he approached the table. He frowned at the gloves. “I need to touch them. I can’t sense anything without physical contact.”

Ms. Kestreen gave him a scathing look from head to toe, and Alaric flushed, this time from shame and the sharp sting of humiliation. Not even a whole day into his new job and he was being found wanting. A sharp growl cut through his misery, and Tarquin stepped in front of Alaric, obscuring the sight of a shocked Ms. Kestreen. Tarquin smiled down at him, and Alaric found himself smiling back, relieved at the gesture, feeling better the second he knew Tarquin was looking out for him. “Just wipe your hands and dry them before touching the paper. They aren’t so old as to disintegrate with careful handling.”

Alaric nodded at Tarquin gratefully and did as instructed. Hands clean, he sat in the tall chair set at the table and reached for the first document on his left. It was aged paper, with an old monogram emblazoned at the top, cursive lettering so heavily flourished he couldn’t decipher the letters. The entire document was in French, too, so that didn’t help him. The date was easy to discern, though, and according to the document, it was penned and signed in 1923. Yellowed and slightly wrinkled, the ink had shifted from black to dark blue with age. Or it was a very impressive forgery, but with luck, he would know in moments.

Two fingertips to the nearest bottom corner of the document, and he closed his eyes. Breathing slowly and evenly to settle his nerves, he lowered his mental shields and extended his senses.

An explosion of white-hot power washed over his mental senses and he swayed in the seat, grabbing the edge of the table with his free hand. He gasped and pushed back at the tsunami of power threatening to swamp him. It was Tarquin, the dragon’s power registering to his gift, something he had never experienced before, and it was nearly too much. Never before had another being’s power affected him so strongly, and his body, spirit, and mind soaked in the energy, almost overwhelming him. The power called to him, and he instinctively reached for it, needing it. A heartbeat passed, and it subsided a smidge, but the dragon’s power still consumed his thoughts.

He shivered, and then a big hand came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing. As suddenly as it came, the power pulled back, simmering gently just past his mental boundaries. He was himself again, but his awareness of Tarquin was anchored deep into his whole being.

His shoulder buzzed from the contact with Tarquin, and he told himself sternly not to get excited or distracted and turned his attention to the task at hand—even though he wanted nothing more than to open his magical senses up completely and beg the dragon to keep him. The way they connected on a magical level left his heart leaping in joy, exhilarated, and he had no idea why, nor did he understand why he was picking up so much from Tarquin. It was something he could obsess over when he got home that evening.

With his ability free from distractions, he sent his awareness out, just past his fingertips, and listened.

A low fire burned in a brazier, coals glowing. Wind lashed at the walls and shook the window, the shutters standing against the worst of winter. The lamp on the writing desk was bright enough to see the paper as the clerk transcribed the official heading at the top of the paper, humming as he worked.

Alaric pulled his hand back and rubbed his fingertips. “That one is authentic.” The hand on his shoulder gently squeezed in what felt like approval, and he made a soft, unhappy sound when Tarquin began to lift it away. A moment of hesitation, then the hand returned, a comfort he hoped wouldn’t reveal how stressed out he was on his first job. As if he said that desire aloud, Tarquin’s hand stroked the back of his neck, calming him further, and returned to his shoulder to hold firmly, the steady pressure helping to settle his nerves.

He didn’t need to reach out again with his senses, his gift already near the surface, so when he touched the next deed on the table, he was swamped by a disco pop playlist and the barking of a chihuahua and the forger’s frustration with his client. Alaric yanked his hand back and pointed at the offending piece of paper. “This one was made a few weeks ago by some dude living in his grandma’s basement. The grandmother’s dog annoyed him.”

“Interesting,” Tarquin rumbled, and Alaric shivered delicately at the displeasure he could hear beneath the word. Alaric hoped it wasn’t aimed at him but seeing as he was probably saving Tarquin a ton of money, he was likely pissed at the person trying to swindle him. “Keep going, trésor.”

That word sounded French, and he had no idea what it meant, but he liked what it did to his nerves. Alaric bit his lip, holding back the need to ask what the word meant. He steadied himself, and feeling more confident, reached for the third deed.

This one was harder to read, though not visually—the ink was brilliant and glimmered with a rainbow sheen like oil on water. This one was in English and French, dated 1919. He felt old, faded hints of spells woven into the paper, protecting it from time and damage. He brushed a fingertip over the edge of the paper, and received the faintest of echoes in return. This one had passed through many hands, though there was less emotional baggage attached to it than the previous one. He closed his eyes and nudged, and it felt like a wall fell away at his touch.

Damp air and people yelling. A heavy satchel, leather and oil, a tight grip and sweat. A building in the distance, a building frame raised against the sky, soot and clouds and the sounds of hammers on stone. A city rose in the distance, obscured by soot and smoke from coal fires.

He yanked his fingers back. “Real.”

“Well done, Mr. Keening,” Tarquin rumbled and Alaric blushed. “Can you do the rest, or do you need a break?”

He shook out his hands, then eyed the remaining three deeds. The next one felt just like the last one, and it looked like it was penned by the same company or person, and the lot numbers were consecutive. Same owners and history for certain. He touched the corner of that one, and was almost pulled into the same vision as the previous, confirming his theory.

“This one is real as well, same echoes as this one here.” Alaric gently pushed the deeds away to the left and reached out for the next two. Ms. Kestreen helped, putting on a pair of white cotton gloves before sliding the two remaining deeds in front of him and collecting the others. “I’m a bit tired but these are easier to read than I was expecting. I’ll be fine.”

He should be exhausted and sporting a headache, but he wasn’t—just feeling a bit stretched thin, thanks to using his gift with focused intent for the first time in a long time. He usually expended more energy shielding himself, so he wasn’t bombarded by images. This time was different, and the power he could still sense coming from Tarquin seemed to be bolstering his strength.

“Alright,” Tarquin said, interrupting his internal musing, and Alaric looked up at him over his shoulder. The dragon smiled down at him, and Alaric struggled to control his rampant blushes and goofy smile in response to the blatant approval radiating from Tarquin.

Alaric sighed happily, proud of himself for the first time in months. He spun back to the table, determined to finish and keep that approval coming from Tarquin.

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