It wasn’t always like this. When I first came into my magic as a toddler, Tiras—or Mr. Williams, as I called him then—would play games with me when I conjured him. We’d toss around a ball or have tea parties with my stuffed animals, whatever my little heart desired. No one cared what we did or how long we spent together, not even my parents, because everything was innocence and light in those days. Besides, Mom and Dad weren’t about to deny themselves a free babysitter.
Things changed, however, when I turned eighteen. I hadn’t noticed when I was younger, but Tiras is gorgeous. Jet-black hair, taut, toned muscles, and an ass so firm it sends my hormones into overdrive. Oh, those nights with Tiras… Those are times of self-discovery and self-gratification. Or, I suppose you could call it conjured gratification. I mean, in a way it’s self-created, but Tiras has his own mind, own thoughts—his own hands. My Gods, those hands…
That’s when Mom and Dad stopped calling me a prodigy and started calling me a whore.
The first time my parents caught me, they grounded me from magic for a week. The second time, they sent me to counseling. The third time, though?
The third time I was committed.
You see, mages are supposed to use their powers to help others. We’re considered a gift to society because we’re born with special abilities. Tiras, in my parents’ opinion, should have been put to work earning a wage for our family, like most conjured beings were. I couldn’t bear to subject Tiras to indentured servitude, though, especially not once we fell in love.
Loving a conjured being is forbidden. There’s all sorts of rules against it, hence the asylum and the serum. The asylum isn’t too bad, once you look past the magic-sapping serum and the pyro twins down the hall, who never miss a chance to mock the “nympho conjurer.” I do my best to ignore those two. At least I never killed anyone with my magic. Harm none, bitches.
Mom and Dad have never visited me here. I’m nothing more than an embarrassment now, a black sheep, a skeleton in their closet.
A closet named Palmore’s Home for Wayward Mages.
I lie there in the dark, pondering the possibility of escape. Every once in a while, I think about getting out of here. Running away with Tiras. Being free.
Then I remember that there are seekers who would find us in a matter of days, if not less, and I know it’s nothing more than a pipe dream. Besides, what would Tiras and I do for food, for lodging, for a living? Tiras has a uniquely—specific—skillset, none of which are marketable to potential employers, and so far, I’ve been unable to conjure anyone other than him. So much for my prodigy status.
As the serum takes full hold of my faculties, thoughts of my parents fade from me. I drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I wake as dawn’s first rays break through the barred windows of my sparse room. They cast long shadows on the dingy, once-white walls—and on Tiras’s nude form beside me. I’ve slept off the serum and conjured him in my sleep, something I haven’t told anyone, not even Dr. Palmore, that I can do.
He brushes a mahogany lock of hair out of my face and tucks it behind my ear with a gentle hand. The corners of his lips are tugged into a frown, marring his beauty.
“You should let me help you when they come for us. You’re hurt.”
“If I let you help, you’ll get hurt.” It’s an old argument, the only argument we ever have, but tiresome, nonetheless.
“I’ll heal as soon as I go back. This,” he brushes his fingertips against a painful lump on my forehead, probably obtained when one of the nurses dragged me off the bed and slammed me into the rough, worn linoleum floor last night, “will not heal anytime soon. This angers me.”
My hand shoots up to the lump, which I hadn’t even noticed before. “Oh, that old thing? That’s nothing.”
Tiras places a tender kiss on the lump and wraps his strong arms around me. “Siren, please—I can’t stand to see you hurt because of me.”
I melt at the sound of my name on his lips. My chin tips up, and I stretch to bring my mouth to his. With one hand buried in his silky hair, I probe his mouth with my tongue. He tastes like exotic spices, though as far as I know he doesn’t need to eat when he’s in the Ether.
For the next hour we feast on each other, our limbs intertwined, only stopping when the squeak-squeak-squeak of the breakfast cart’s wheels echoes down the hall.
As if he knows my thoughts, he sighs and strokes my cheek. “I don’t want to go.”
“I know,” I say, “but if I don’t make you go, they will. At least this way I’m not too drugged to bring you back later.” A bright glow lights my hands, and I dismiss him with a kiss. The sudden cold air against my lonely lips gives me a shiver.
I scramble out of bed and get dressed just in time. The lock clanks as Ettie, the day cook, turns her key, and the heavy metal door groans when she opens it. As has become her habit, Ettie backs the breakfast cart in and clears her throat before she turns around. She’s caught Tiras and me in a compromising position more than once, and I guess she just assumes we’re more likely to be in bed together than not.
“Good morning, Miss Siren,” she says as she picks up a tray from the cart. “Waffles for you this morning, hon.”
“Thanks, Ettie.”
She jumps when she hears my voice coming from right next to her and not the bed, where she expected me to be. “Good gracious,
