He circled the pair, trying to spot whatever elusive charm point had his Mischa so beguiled by the skinny snot. No power in this one--nothing that was his own, at least--no glimmer of anything besides sheer, dull mortality. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Nothing deserving tolerance.
...except that there were rules. Prerequisites. Restrictions and margins set down by the one holding his leash. Among the most glaring was the distinct inability to bar mortal allies from the premises. He could not expel the boy, could exert no supernatural influence, unless something in the mortal activated January's ordered guidelines.
Oh, but let him make one ill move...let him show a single weakness...let him prove wrong for just a heartbeat...
Do it, January urged the boy silently, knowing the words held no effect yet unable to resist them. Fuck up.