Esteban looks comically aghast. “It’swhatever?Obadiah, this is the first time any of us have ever seen you with a significant other! That is very muchnot‘whatever’!”
“And by ‘any of us,’ you mean…?”
Nick rolls his eyes. “The food truck group chat, obviously. Do you even have to ask?”
“But you must really like him, yes?” Esteban looks almost… hopeful. Like he really wants Obie to be happy with his nonexistent boyfriend. “You would not have introduced him to your friends if you didn’t!”
Obie spreads his arms out wide, defeated. “Sure. You may report back to your group chat that I’m in rapturous new-relationship bliss with my himbo.”
“Excellent,”Nick says, whipping out his cell phone and furiously typing in a new message.
“Speaking of which,” Obie adds, “are you even allowed to wear a crop top like that in food service? Isn’t that, like, a health code violation or something?”
“Meh. I wear an apron over it. No one has snitched yet,” Nick says cheerfully. “Speaking of which, though, I should probably go rescue Jacob and Andrew from the afternoon rush. Au revoir, Esteban! Enjoy your boy toy, Obie!”
“Take care, Nick!” Esteban calls, watching forjusta beat too long as Nick saunters away.
Obie sidles a few steps closer to the counter. “So have you asked him out yet?”
Esteban’s face reddens. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well, he’s not going to askyouout,” Obie says plaintively. “He’s already been abundantly clear about his intentions, so the ball is in your court now. If you want something to happen?—”
“Nothing is happening!” Esteban insists.
“Quit messing with him, Smith,” Chester says.
Magnanimously, Obie drops the subject. “If you insist. Can I please get a taco meal to go with chicken and—hold on, let me check what my friend wants,” he says, pretending to look down at his cell phone.
“A taco meal with black beans,” Chester says. “Thanks.”
Obie dutifully repeats Chester’s order to Esteban, adding two churros for good measure. Within minutes, they’re walking away from the food truck with two bags of plunder, homing in on an abandoned table in the far corner of the Courtyard.
Obie makes sure no one is watching before holding Chester’s bag under the table. “Here. As long as you keep this on your lap so it’s touching you, no one will see you eating.”
“Oh—” The bag is lightly tugged from Obie’s hand and promptly vanishes into thin air. “Thanks, Obie.”
“No problem,” Obie says, digging around for a blank piece of paper and setting it on the table. “I’m going to request the spell from the Deep now. Be quiet for a few minutes.”
“You have to supply your own paper? The Deep doesn’t even give you that?”
“That’s not being quiet, Locke.”
“Touchy.”
Chester miraculously falls silent as Obie closes his eyes, mentally reviewing the spell one last time. He spent most of Chester’s shift today fully soundproofed and practicing the incantation, but it’s really not that complicated.
The only difficult part is tapping into the Deep itself, and even that is less “difficult” and more “delicate.” Obie lets out a slow breath, probing the veil between Earth and the Deep with his magic. He’s tapped into magic reservoirs a few hundred times over his many millennia in this dimension, but for some reason, the Deep has always been his favorite. It feels almost… familiar, somehow.
Like home. “In the name of the Fourteen,” he whispers, biting back a grimace when the crinkling of Chester’s paper bag abruptly stops. “I call upon the power of the Deep…”
Obie flows through the incantation as quickly and quietly as he can, trying not to give Chester any opportunity to memorize his words. Within seconds, he feels a faint thread of magic thrum through him—the Deep responding to his spell. Since it doesn’t kill him on the spot, Obie can assume that his request was honored, and when he opens his eyes, it’s to see the binding spell in question emblazoned in black ink on the piece of paper.
“Whoa,” Chester breathes, crowding in close next to Obie to look at it. “That’s really cool. Does the Deep have its own handwriting?”
Obie shakes his head, surprised by Chester’s perceptiveness. “It takes the handwriting of whoever casts the spell,” he says, wrinkling his nose down at the paper. “Although I’ll readily admit that it’s a lot neater than my usual handwriting.”
“Makes it easier to read, at least.” An edge creeps into Chester’s voice. “But this… looks identical to theMagic-Weaver’sspell. Didn’t you say it would be different?”
