How do these people rattle off these numbers like that?
“Your conclusion seems sound. You certainly did a remarkable job with the paperwork. Particularly considering how long you have been away from the Craft. Where did you learn to pay such attention to detail?”
“Filing insurance claim forms.”
“That would explain it.”
“Do you need anything else?”
“No, no. You answered all of our questions. Of course, you do understand that this conversation never occurred.”
“What conversation?”
“Excellent. I apologize for the intrusion into your day, Madame Warlock. The circumstances of the Inquest required we resolve these formalities promptly.”
“Of course,” I say, as if the news that they were running an Inquest involving my apprentice’s mother was no big deal. The only reason for an Inquest all these years after her death is if they think she has ascended, or will ascend. Suddenly all of those deleted emails don’t seem so gossipy.
My head hurts.
May 13th
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” asks Houston while repairing one of the shop’s display cases.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say as I look up from the box of vials I am unpacking. Houston tilts his head and squints.
“Stop reading my surface thoughts.”
“I’m not reading your mind. I’m reading your face.”
“Nothing for you to worry about.”
He puts down the screwdriver and folds his arms. “Look, I’m supposed to be your apprentice. I think that means you should be able to trust me. I shouldn’t have to guess what is going on or read your mind. I can’t learn anything if you don’t talk to me, right?”
I sigh. “I had a conversation the other day with an Advocate for the Nine.”
“OK, and what does that mean? Who or what are the Nine?”
“The Nine oversee all magic. For the most part they stay out of the way, but they get involved in matters that could escalate.”
“Escalate? Like a mage war?”
“Escalate as in upset the balance in some way or reveal the existence of magic.”
“And a magic shop doesn’t do that?” He waves his hands around the shop.
“No, that’s not the same thing. We’ve had this conversation. What we do here is of the hide-in-plain-sight variety of magic. It’s subtle, undetectable, easily explained away and rationalized. Shops like this actually help maintain the status quo because it’s all dismissed as spirituality or New Age mumbo-jumbo. The Nine concern themselves with displays of vulgar magic. Stuff that can’t be easily dismissed. Stuff that, if it ended up on a YouTube video, could cause a panic.”
“So what did these guys want?”
“They just had some questions about your apprenticeship. You’re an unusual case so they wanted to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.”
“I don’t need to do more blood tests, do I? That doctor creeped me out and I swear he took more than he needed to for whatever he was doing.”
“No, no. They were perfectly happy with the test results. And no, Dr. Moriarty only took how much was needed for the tests. I counted the vials and signed off on the test kit personally.”
“I just don’t like the idea of a necromancer collecting my blood,” he says as he rubs his right arm over the spot where the blood was drawn. “What if he cloned me or something?”
“You aren’t going to be cloned. He’d need skin samples as well as blood to even attempt it.”
Houston’s shoulders slouch. “Um, the point was sort of rhetorical. I…um…necromancers can clone people?”
“Don’t worry about the cloning. It’s time consuming and expensive and not something necromancers do just for the hell of it. Too much risk of backlash.”
Houston shakes his head and rubs a hand over his face. “So are the Nine…human?”
I shrug. “Mostly.”
“So who are they?”
“What do you mean, who are they? They’re the Nine.”
“No, I get that. ‘The Nine’, yeah,” he makes quote marks in the air. “But I mean, who are they? Their names? Where their offices are? What are their favorite sports teams? You know, who are they exactly as people?”
I honestly had never thought about it. The Nine have always just been The Nine. “I don’t know their names. I don’t even know if they have names.”
“How can they be the leaders of the entire magical universe and you not even know their names?”
“They just…are. They’re the Nine.”
“Are you listening to yourself?”
“They have transcended the need for names,” I say, trying to sound intellectual.
“Like that musician who changed his name to a symbol back in the 90’s.”
“You mean Prince?”
“Or the Artist Formerly Known As?”
“No, he’s gone back to using his name. But that is not the same thing.”
Houston rolls his eyes. “So why are these guys who are too important for names interested in me?”
“Your mother was the first new documented Rank One Psionist in like two hundred years. Of course they are going to dot their i's and cross their t’s on this.”
“You think they had anything to do with my mom’s death?”
“Now you are being silly.”
“That wasn’t a ‘no.’”
I collapse into my chair. “I don’t think they had anything to do with your mother’s death. But I think they know what happened.” I pause to collect my thoughts. I’m not sure if this is a good idea, but he’s right. I owe it to him as my apprentice to be honest. “And I think her suddenly crossing the Veil like she did was more than a case of maternal devotion.”
“What are you saying?”
I don’t know what to say to him. The day after my impromptu meeting with the Nine, I got a call from Gavin Schrage, Rank Two Theomancer and Dean of the College of Divinities. He was very concerned about Houston’s tagging power.
“Houston, did your mother explain to you why she taught you how to tag and track magic users?”
“Not really. She just said it would help me locate people who could help me.”
I rub my face and take a deep breath. “That is a witch hunter power. That power hasn’t been seen in three centuries, and even then only from Theomancers.”
Houston looks down at the ground, his eyes shooting back and forth as he processes what I said. “But I would never hurt anyone.” His voice is almost a whisper.
“I know.”
“What does it mean?” He looks up at me with those beautiful blue eyes and I feel like I’m melting in my chair. The way the light is coming through the window creates a soft glow around him, almost like looking at him in a dream. My mind wanders down a road that has become rather familiar over the last couple of weeks.
His face suddenly flushes bright red and he looks away.
“What did I tell you about reading my thoughts?” I jump up out of my chair and go back to my partially unpacked box.
He rubs a hand through his hair and smirks. “Sorry. It still pops on by itself sometimes. I’m working on it.” He turns back to the display case to resume the repairs. “You know, if you would prefer for me to work shirtless—”
“Oh by the gods!”
“I can be accommodating is all I’m saying.”
I wad up a piece of packing paper and throw it at him. “Finish fixing that and keep your shirt on.” I utter the Iron Wall incantation.
Houston kneels down to adjust some screws at the bottom of the display. “You do realize that for now on whenever you do that, I’m going to assume you’re fantasizing about me, right?”
“Oh you can assume whatever you want.”
“Well, in that case—” He leaves the sentence unfinished to annoy me.
Mother Knows Worst
May 18th
I lean toward Houston with my back to the counter. “You sure
you’re gonna be OK?” I ask.
He tilts his head towards me but keeps his eyes on Anastasia and Tiffani, who are doing a poor job of containing their love struck giggling on the other side of the glass display. “I got this, boss.”
“Chase them out if they get on your nerves,” I say as I grab my purse. “And stay out of their heads.”
He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t want no part of whatever is going on in their heads.”
I pat him on the shoulder and leave the shop.
Today is Houston’s first day running the shop by himself. OK, technically, it’s his first half a day, since its 3:30 in the afternoon and we close at 8 pm. The girls came in right after school and have been lurking around the aisles pretending to shop. I caught them craning their necks at one point as Houston bent over to stock a shelf.
I don’t know why I’m worried about leaving him alone. He’s perfectly capable of running a register and dealing with the clumsy flirtations of teenage girls. And as he pointed out, I won’t even need to worry about shoplifters. He’ll know what they are intending to do before they even attempt it.
I have a 5 o’clock appointment with the Andersens. Apparently Mrs. Andersen read an article called Five Signs Your Man is Thinking of Cheating in some trashy “women’s” magazine and Mr. Andersen has three of the five signs. Ever since, they have been fighting over the possibility that he is thinking of cheating on her, and now they need me to sort it out for them.
There is a special place in the lower reaches of Hell for women’s magazines. There are few things in modern culture that have done more damage to the collective psyche of women than Glamour Magazine and its ilk. I’d venture so far as to say a third of my female clients could resolve their interpersonal relationships without me if they would stop reading advice columns in women’s magazines and start talking to their spouses.
Then again, that is a whole lot of billable hours I wouldn’t get paid for…
I originally planned to stop and pick up coffee and a few other things for the office, but construction near the bridge slowed traffic to a crawl and I abandoned that idea to instead head straight to the office. I make good time and arrive earlier than I expected, which is good since the Andersen’s are already there. Isabel looks surprised for a moment as she turns her attention away from her conversation with Mrs. Andersen.
“Good afternoon, Doctor!” she says. “You’re early!” She hands me a small stack of messages and my mail.
“Thanks, Isabel,” I say. I turn to the Andersens. “Well, I’m glad I don’t have to keep you waiting.”
“Actually, we were just leaving,” says Mrs. Andersen as she shoves some papers into her purse.
“Is everything alright?” I ask. I reach out to touch Mrs. Andersen on the arm. She steps back reflexively.
“We sorted it out, Doctor,” says Mr. Andersen. “We just thought…” he looks at his wife and then at Isabel before continuing. “We thought it best to thank you in person for all you’ve done.”
Isabel looks down at her desk, pretending to sort papers. The situation is awkward.
“Well, I appreciate that. I’m glad you’ve been able to work on your interpersonal communication. But are you sure there is nothing else we need to discuss?”
“We should be going, dear,” says Mrs. Andersen to her husband without acknowledging my question.
I wait for them to leave before turning to Isabel. “Did they say anything to you before I got here?”
Isabel doesn’t look up. “Just made small talk.” She fiddles with her computer mouse. “That was uncomfortable.”
“I’m sorry about that, Isabel. You shouldn’t have had to sit through that.”
“Do you want me to invoice them for the appointment?”
“No, no. I’ll give Mrs. Andersen a call in a few days and see if she wants to talk. Her husband has never really been interested in the couples’ counseling, but she may want to continue one-on-one. Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh course, Doctor.”
I go into my office and start working on my monthly expense reports. I run the numbers multiple times and realize that I’m just breaking even this month. I knew reducing my patient list would eat into my bottom line. But it occurs to me that besides the patients I’ve given referrals, I’d also lost five couples this month. It isn’t uncommon to have a couple drop out of therapy unexpectedly. People have as many reasons for dropping out of counseling as they do for seeking it in the first place. But that many couples over such a short period of time made me uneasy.
You should go shopping.
“I should go shopping,” I think. For a split second, I believe the idea is my own.
Maybe pick up something special at Victoria’s Secret.
I shake my head. “Mother!”
I get no reply.
No, that wasn’t Mom. She would be too busy laughing at me for falling for the mind trick. And she hated Victoria’s Secret. I once tried to stop in one of the stores while we were shopping together and she said people would think I was a hussy if they saw me go in there.
“Madame Vivika?”
Still no answer, but I feel a presence leave the room.
I get up and check the lock on the window. I don’t know why. Not like a window can keep out a spirit. But it gives me a sense of control, however false it may be.
“What are you up to?” I ask.
May 19th
“Houston?” I ask as I open my eyes to find Houston standing over my bed, shirtless, with confused look on his face.
“You OK?” he asks.
“Why are you in my room?” I pull the blanket up to my chin.
“Why did you call me in here?”
“I didn’t call you. When did I call you?”
“Just now. You told me to ‘get in here’ and I thought something was wrong.”
“I didn’t call you.” I rub my eyes and look at the clock. 3 AM. Of course it is.
“Of course what is?”
“What did I tell you about that!?”
“Sorry!”
I sit up, careful to keep my blanket in place. “OK. My room. OFF limits.”
“But you called me.”
“I didn’t call you!” I say and then invoke the Third Eye incantation. No obvious signs of a spirit, imp, quasit, or other miscellaneous problematic paranormal entity. “Have you talked to your mother recently?”
“My mom is dead.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Oh, you mean like that. No. She hasn’t contacted me. Why would you ask—”
I notice the tear in the Veil too late. A sudden vertical flash of white and blue sparkling lights followed by wisps of translucent charcoal gray energy. I can’t see exactly what is behind Houston, but I sense something there. Houston falls forward as if pushed. He tries to avoid falling directly on top of me but overcompensates and ends up falling diagonally across me with his stomach against my lap. For a moment, he’s in the perfect position for a spanking.
“Oh come on!” he exclaims as he scrambles off the bed and ends up on the floor on the opposite side of the room. “That wasn’t me!”
I don’t know whether to be angry or start laughing. I laugh as I decide I’m furious.
I jump out of bed and start to examine the area of the tear. It closed as quickly as it opened, but the amount of residue left behind indicates whatever entity did it put an incredible amount of force behind it. Creatures that are native to the Aether don’t actually need to tear the Veil. They can pass through it naturally. But entities not native to that realms, such as the spirits of the dead, require force of will to move into the material plane unless they have assistance from a skilled medium. To actually manipulate the physical world requires a Herculean effort on the part of a ghost. And that’s just to do the typical “ghostly” activities of opening a window or flicking a light switch. To push a grown man so hard that he falls flat on his face (or across his boss’s bed) would require an incredibly powerful anchor and
an incredibly willful spirit.
Like one would find with a Rank One Psion who had recently imprinted on her only child.
“Your mother is starting to work my nerves.”
“Huh? What does my mom have to do with this?”
“Did your mother practice Erosmancy?”
“Huh?”
“Sex magic?”
“I don’t know! Why would you ask me that!” Houston gets himself off of my floor, rapidly rubs his hands over his arms as if removing something gross, and takes a few steps toward me before the implication of my question finally sinks in. He tilts his head and leans forward. “Are you suggesting…um…that my…um…mom…my mother…wants…”
“Wants us to have sex. Yes. That is what I am saying.”
“Yes…um…no. Not…well…I mean. Not that it’s an unpleasant thought. You’re a beautiful woman and all. Particularly in…in that.”
He waves a hand toward me and I wish I had listened to my mother about wearing more practical pajamas instead of a frilly nightie. One day your house is gonna catch on fire or something and you’re going to have to jump out a window with your ass showing to the whole world. Mother had a flare for coming up with strange scenarios. But she was right. Kinda.
“It’s OK, Houston,” I say as I grab a robe. “You don’t need to explain. I don’t want to have sex with you, either.”
“OK.” He rubs his hand through his hair and fights back a grin.
“Oh, no. Harmless fantasizing is not the same thing as wanting to have sex with a man.”
“OK.” He folds his arms in front of him and flexes his biceps.
“I find plenty of men attractive. That doesn’t mean I would have sex with all of them.”
“OK! You’re arguing with yourself.”
I sit on my bed. Houston leans against the door. “Alright. Your mother is up to something. I don’t know exactly what her end game is yet. But for some reason she is very keen on the two of us hooking up. I tried to call my mom earlier and got static and couldn’t get through.”
“Your mom is dead how did you…oh…OK. Magic static. Got it.”
I nod. “I think your mom was in my office yesterday. Come to think of it, I think it was your mother that suggested you stay here. And the more I think about it, the more I realize my mom would find your living arrangements unseemly. She wouldn’t have suggested it.”
nancy werlock's diary s01 - episodes 1-7 Page 5
