by E J Frost
I pick up the phone and hit his number on my speed dial.
“Hi, this is Peter. No, it’s not really. It’s my machine. Leave a message. If it’s any good, I might call you back.”
I grimace. His answering machine message isn’t even vaguely funny tonight.
“Peter, it’s me. It’s Tsara. I just wanted—”
He picks up with a click. “Hey, hey, I’m here. I was just thinking about you.”
Ditto. “Screening your calls?”
“Yeah. Class registration closes tomorrow and you wouldn’t believe how many calls I get from freshman—”
I can’t connect his reality with mine for a moment. “Registration, right,” I mutter.
A pause. “Hey, are you okay?”
I rub the bridge of my nose. “Not really.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
Hell, yes. And with Toby healed and returned to Ana’s and the Squire gone, there’s no reason for him not to. Except my shrinking conscience. “This is going to sound really bad, Peter—”
He chuckles. “Try me.”
“Would you mind coming over . . . and not staying the night? I really want to see you, but I’m just not ready—” What a goddamn lie. “I’m not ready for anything to happen. Is that okay?”
“Sure. Want me to bring a pizza or something?”
I start to say that I couldn’t eat so late, but a glance at my kitchen clock shows that it’s only eight o’clock.
It feels like it should be much, much later.
“How about Thai?” I probably shouldn’t even think about spicy food, given what I’ve done to my stomach tonight. But since moving to Somerville and discovering the Blue Grass Café in Porter Square, Thai green curry has become my new comfort food, second only to my Dala’s beef stew.
“You got it. See you in twenty.”
“Thanks.” A weight like the burden of millennia lifts off me. “Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“Really, thanks. I need to see you. I mean, I really want to see you.”
“That sounds . . . promising.” He laughs. That rich, masculine laugh. “See you soon.”
I greet him at the door, still in my pajamas and slippers. He’s seen me in sleepwear before so it shouldn’t be a shock, and if – just on the off-chance – we end up hugging later, well, there are advantages to be being bra-less.
I give him a cheek-peck, which he returns. “Hey, great slippers.” He nods at the fuzzy moose heads on my feet. “Where do I get me some of those?”
“Maine.” I’m too drained to come up with anything witty.
“Beware Greeks bearing gifts,” he says, handing me a heavy plastic bag.
“I thought you were Italian.”
“Same continent.”
That makes me giggle. Ugly American. I wave him inside. “Do you mind if we eat in there?” I hook my thumb towards the parlor.
“Not at all.” He takes a few steps down the hallway and looks around. “Wow, this is really . . . clean. I don’t remember it being so clean last time.” He frowns. His memory is probably a little fuzzy on that point. Guilt stabs hot and burning, like my indigestion. “You’re not one of those really clean chicks, are you?”
“Definitely not. I cleaned up for a . . . colleague.” From the Hollow Hills. “He didn’t notice.”
Peter reaches out and rubs his hands down my arms. I shiver with how nice it feels.
“How about we pretend you cleaned up for me and I tell you how impressed I am,” he says. I manage a weak smile in response. “You want to get some plates and glasses? I brought Singha, too.”
I reach into the bag and pull out one of the beer bottles. I peer at the label. Six percent. “This is rocket fuel. Are you trying to get me drunk?”
He gives me a friendly leer. “Absolutely.”
The contrast between that friendly leer and the shattered expression he wore the last time he was in my house makes my heart hurt. “Peter, I—”
He holds up a hand. “I know. You’re not ready. I’m not pushing. I just brought it because you sounded so down on the phone. I won’t try anything. Scout’s honor.”
I hate the Boy Scouts, in that moment. And anything else that prevents us from getting drunk and naked and sweaty.
“I’ll get the plates.” I go to retrieve them from the kitchen. “Alcohol’s a depressant, you know.”
That good, masculine laugh. “Yeah, I know. You wouldn’t believe how many alcohol awareness seminars I’ve had to go to. Freshman week, I tell you.”
I listen to his anecdotes while we eat. The curry’s coconutty spiciness warms and soothes me. The beer takes away my headache. Makes me feel better about the questions that are still buzzing around in my brain. Peter’s humor is infectious and I find myself laughing with him.
He sets aside the remains of his Pad Thai and leans back into the couch cushions. “How ‘bout some postprandial relaxation?” He stretches out his arm for me.
A cuddle sounds pretty great right now. I put my plate down on the end table, twist around and settle into the curve of his arm.
“Mm, you smell good,” he says, sniffing my hair. I smile up at him. So does he. Warm and peanutty from his Pad Thai with only the faintest hint of cigarette smoke. It could be a bad combination, but on him, it’s not. “You’ve been really quiet tonight. Stressed?”
“A little.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I do, but I’ve got no idea how to ask him about his connection to my tortured ghost. Not without opening a huge can of worms. “Have you ever had one of those weeks where nothing goes right and everyone’s yelling at you?” Screaming, actually, but that’s T.M.I. “And you’re really not sure what’s wrong and they won’t tell you?”
“Sure. Sounds like every tenure meeting I’ve been to.”
I chuckle. I’d rather deal with my ghost than a bunch of angry academics.
“Sometimes you just need to get some perspective,” he says. “Take a couple of days off. Let everyone remember how much they need you. How about it?”
I’m not following. “How about what?”
“How about coming away with me this weekend?”
God, yes. I’d give anything to be able to go away with him for the weekend.
“We could drive up to Portland. Hole up in a little B-and-B. Separate rooms, I promise.” He holds up two fingers again. Maybe he really was a Boy Scout. “Drink some smelly microbrew.” He tinks his beer glass against mine. “Find me some matching moose slippers. The fall colors might even have started up there. How does that sound?”
It sounds wonderful. Fall is my favorite season and I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more than drive up to Maine with Peter and admire nature’s display. But when we come back, the Dead and the fae and the occasional shifter will still be waiting for me. And for him, if he becomes part of my life.
“I-I think—”
“It would be rushing things, huh?” He blows a breath out through his nose, ruffling my hair. “I figured you’d say that. But I thought I’d ask anyway.”
He sounds so dejected I can’t stand it. I twist around in his arms. “I think it sounds amazing and I would love to go to Maine with you.”
To my horror, everything that’s gotten on top of me over the last few days wells up. My chin trembles. The first hot tear spills and slides down my cheek.
“Hey.” Peter sets his beer down and takes my face in his hands. He wipes away the tear. Smiling gently, he kisses me.
His mouth is soft and warm. Not demanding. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back. Wait for the electric sparks to rise. Sex is magic. One of the oldest and most powerful magics. Even Saul, who had no real talent at all, could call some amazing energy when we were really going at it.
Nothing happens. I lean into Peter’s firm chest, open my mouth, inviting him in. He brushes my lips with his tongue.
And there’s still nothing. No rush of energy. No spark. Is he holding back?
I break the kiss to look into his face. He’s flushed. Breathing a little fast. He doesn’t look like he’s holding back.
And then it hits me. He’s a null.
“Tsara? You okay?”
I nod, but I’m not okay. I’m anything but okay. He’s a null. I’ll never feel anything other than physical pleasure with him. No energy. No magic.
“You sure? You look like the world has ended.”
Smiling in that moment is the bravest, and most dishonest thing, I’ve done in a long time. At least since slipping the memory charm into his coffee. “Yeah, I’m just . . . wiped out. It’s been a hell of a week.”
“C’mere.” He tucks me into his nice, solid chest. Cuddles me. Strokes my hair. He begins talking again, telling me more college stories. And I cry, absolutely silently, held against that nice chest.
Some time after I run out of tears and he begins yawning, Peter finally leaves. He keeps his promise. He doesn’t push to stay the night. After a few more spark-less kisses and a promise to call me tomorrow to finalize our weekend plans, he goes gracefully. I watch him drive away, feeling sick. I’ll have to come up with some excuse why I can’t go away with him. More lies.
I plod back into my kitchen and lean against the sink while a pot of hazelnut decaf brews. I feel leaden. Drained. I could go to bed, but it’s not even ten o’clock yet and I’ll either lie awake for hours with my mind and stomach churning, or fall asleep right away and be up at three a.m. No good.
When the coffee brews, I take a cup and walk with it into my herbarium. The rich, green smell of drying herbs greets me. It always makes me feel better, the smell of my herb room. I potter around for a while, tying up bunches of mint and valerian. Slowly, I clear my worktable until all I have left is the pile of Solomon’s Seal.
I look at it speculatively while I sip my coffee. Like calls to like, I told the Squire. Solomon’s Seal to Solomon’s Seal. It should be enough to make even one of my lackluster tracking charms work.
I take a handful of Solomon’s Seal and return to my kitchen.
Tracking charms aren’t hard. But I’ve never been any good at them. My practical magic professor always said I lacked sufficient imagination. I never understood what she meant.
Which is, I suppose, why I can’t get my tracking charms to work.
I retrieve a candle from the kitchen windowsill and sit down at the table. The candle flares to life when I look at it. I stare into the flame as it grows long and yellow, letting my mind empty. When I’m calm and relaxed, I think of the ring and my mental image of King Solomon’s Seal slowly traces itself in glittering lines in the air above the candle-flame.
I pick up one of the leaves of Solomon’s Seal and hold it in the flame.
It burns without smoke, without scent, and I know the charm is working.
I focus on the bright image of the ring and reach.
I’m immediately yanked out of my body. Shit, this isn’t what usually happens when I do tracking charms. The best I usually get is a fuzzy directional sense. This is more like astral projection. Only a lot scarier, since I’m doing it without a circle of protection against anything that might come along, without even the anchor of my Dala’s bracelets to help me find my way back.
Whose stupid idea was this?
I struggle to return to my body, to regain some control. But fighting doesn’t do any good. I’m pulled along by a burning chain that stretches from the image of the ring off into the darkness. It drags me along inch by inch. The chain runs through my astral body. Right above my navel. It feels like there are hooks in my gut, dragging me along. It’s a horrible feeling, and the more I struggle, the worse it gets. And nothing I’m doing is getting me back to my body.
Finally, I stop struggling.
As soon as I stop fighting, I begin to move, faster and faster, flying over my neighborhood, through the tonier streets of Cambridge, across the darkly glinting Charles, and into the brownstones of the Back Bay. I shudder to a stop in a high-ceilinged room. Over a bed where a woman sleeps.
A pretty woman, with high cheekbones, perfectly shaped eyebrows, and hair that shines pale and silvery in the light from the street. She sleeps between satin sheets, in a bed that gleams with antique brass. A dark-haired man sleeps beside her, his arm thrown possessively across her waist.
She opens her eyes and looks up at me. “Zee-Zee?”
I snap back into my own body, and vomit that good green curry all over my kitchen table.
I wrap myself in two sweaters, my bathrobe, and my winter wool coat. And I still can’t stop shivering. I curl on my couch, rocking back and forth, holding the phone receiver between my hands. It’s after midnight, but I’m not asleep. I can’t sleep. I need to know.
Peter answers after the fifth ring. “Someone better have died,” he groans.
“It’s Tsara.”
“Oh, hey, sorry.” I hear a shuffle, like he’s sitting up. He was probably in bed. The mental image of him, in his boxers with that nice chest bare, makes my eyes prickle. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m really sorry to call you so late.” Now I’m crying audibly. I can’t help it. “I need to know something.”
“Sure. Do you want me to come back, or—”
“No, I just need you to answer a question.”
“Yeah, sure, but if it’s ‘am I crazy about you,’ you already know—”
I sniffle and shake my head, even though I know he can’t see it. “I need to know why you and Rowena broke up.”
“Oh, Jesus.” I hear him flop back on his bed. “Is that what’s been bothering you? Seriously, it was nothing. Ro and I didn’t really break up. She just sort of . . . moved on. And we were barely even together. We only went out a couple of times.”
Because she would have realized he was a null after the first time they kissed.
“What do you mean, moved on?”
“She met someone else and moved on. Heck, I introduced them.”
I shiver. I have barely a flicker of precognition, but I can feel this. Feel the weight of the question I’m about to ask and the answer he’s about to give. Feel the way the skein shifts. “Introduced who?”
“Andy Smith. I’ve known him since we were kids. I took her to a fund-raising party he was having—”
“Andy Smith?”
“Yeah, you know. Andrew Smith. You must have heard of him.”
Oh, yes, I’ve heard of him. I’ve even seen him. Every morning when I ride the T into town, his square-jawed, classically handsome face leers down at me from his campaign banners. Andrew Smith, the democratic candidate for Governor. The man I just saw sleeping with his arm around Ro’s waist.
“Ro’s dating Andrew Smith?” I ask hollowly.
“Yeah, but it’s no big deal. Look, I’m over Ro. And she wouldn’t mind us getting together. Really.”
Of course she wouldn’t. Because you’re a null, and she got what she wanted from you. An introduction to your childhood friend, Andrew Smith. Oh, Peter.
I still dream of world domination, she said.
She decided to be the power behind the throne.
I shake myself. “Peter, I’m so sorry to have called so late.”
“It’s no biggie. Hey, listen, are you sure you don’t want me to come back?”
Sadly, very, very sure.
“Yeah. I’m going to bed. I was just sitting here thinking crazy thoughts.” Like that my best friend from college has King Solomon’s ring. And she’s used it to ensnare a gubernatorial hopeful. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay. Call in the morning and we’ll talk about this weekend.”
“Sure. Sweet dreams, Peter.”
“Night. I am crazy about you, you know.”
Where I’m just crazy. “I know. G’night.”
Chapter 12
I sit at my desk the next morning, turning my empty coffee cup around and around in a wet circle. I have a cosmic hangover. Lack of sleep and the residue of power I swallowed last
night and the knowledge that Peter is a null and the suspicion that Rowena has Solomon’s Seal are all banging around in my temples like jackhammers.
I finally stop turning the coffee cup around and pick up the phone.
She answers on the first ring. “Hi, Zee-Zee. I’ve been wondering when you’d call.”
“Ro,” I say warily.
“Did you get lost last night or something? What were you doing in my bedroom?”
I opt for the subtle approach. “Ro, do you have Solomon’s Seal?”
A moment of dead silence. Then her bright laugh. “Of course I do, goosey. I get it mail order. Do you need some?”
“The ring, Ro, not the herb.”
Another silence. Then her voice. Quiet. Composed. “I guess we need to talk.”
I rub my free hand over my face. This isn’t what I wanted to hear. A derisive laugh. A flat denial. Anything but an admission. “Yes, I guess we do.”
“Do you want to come down to the shop? Do lunch again?”
“I can’t really see talking about this over Caesar salads. Can you?”
She sighs. “Okay. Look, I’m tied up tonight, but how about tomorrow? I close at eight. Is that too late for you?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Zee-Zee?” Her voice sounds very small. “It’ll be a relief to finally be able to talk with someone about this.”
“Oh, Ro—” Please, let her have a good explanation. But in the pit of my stomach, where the truth curdles, I know she won’t.
A forced laugh. “Bring a bottle of wine and I’ll get us take-out.”
“Ro—”
“See you at eight,” she says brightly. Then the line goes dead.
I sit and stare at the receiver for a while before putting it back in its cradle. She has the ring. But has she used it for anything other than attracting Andy Smith? I hope not. Please, by the God I’m not sure I believe in, please, please don’t let her have used it for anything else.
I pick up two bottles of wine at a liquor store on the corner of Boylston. The goateed slacker behind the counter looks down his nose at my selections and sneers when I offer him a credit card that isn’t gold or platinum. I’m tempted to spit at him between my fingers. See how superior he feels with a really good case of the clap. But that would probably get me arrested in this part of town. So I endure his snobbery, tuck my bottles of wine under my arm, and ignore his falsely cheerful ‘have a nice day’ as I leave.
