“No,” he said agreeably. “I’m fairly sure I’m not.”
“What about Dis? The place Christians call hell. It leaks into our world sometimes.”
“I’m not demonic, either. No more than Molly is.”
She looked startled.
“I told him,” I admitted. “Not the details, but it did seem he’d a right to know, if he’s to stay with me awhile. Now, let’s try applying a little reason. Magic is useful, but logic has its place. Michael said—”
“He’s remembered his name?” Her eyebrows made a skeptical comment on that.
“I named him, for now.”
Erin’s eyes narrowed, for names and naming have power, so I hurried on before whatever lecture was simmering could boil over into speech.
“As I was saying, according to Michael, the energies here aren’t what he’s used to. And he tastes different, unlike anything I’ve ever—”
“Molly! He’s injured.”
“I haven’t been nibbling,” I said, testy. “But I’ve touched him. I’m sure I’ve never encountered his like before—and my experience covers rather a lot of ground.”
She nodded reluctantly.
“I don’t know what he is, but I know some things he isn’t. He’s not Gifted, not in the sense we use that term, at least. He’s not Lupus. And he’s not a sorcerer. Last night he unlocked my door without being aware he’d done it, and sorcery requires focus. So does telekinesis. Poltergeists, though—”
“He is so not a poltergeist.”
“Will you stop interrupting? Of course he isn’t. But he may be from the same place, or a similar realm.”
“Or he may be lying.”
“No.” That came from Michael, who spoke with simple assurance. “I do not lie.”
Erin’s lip curled. “What, you’re from the angelic realm?”
I suspected I knew what lay behind Erin’s antagonism, and it wasn’t getting us anywhere. I spoke firmly. “That’s what you’re going to find out, I hope. Are you ready?”
Her brow pleated. “I don’t know, Molly. I’m tied to this world—my knowledge, power, and rituals are all of this realm. He uses node magic, not earth magic. If he really is from elsewhere, how much will I be able to learn?”
“Ritual magic is practiced in forty-two realms,” Michael said suddenly. “Many are variants of Wicca. Depending on how one defines the parameters, between eight and seventeen religiously oriented magical systems bear strong similarities to it.”
“Forty-two realms?” Erin shook her head. “There aren’t that many.”
“Where did that come from?” I asked.
Frustration was plain in his eyes. “I don’t know. It was just there, but when I try to follow it . . . nothing.” He spread his hands. “I, too, want very much to know what manner of being I am.”
Erin studied him a moment, and I suspected she was using other senses than sight—including, I hoped, the compassionate sense of the heart. Maybe she was finally considering the possibility that he was telling the truth. Erin has a problem with good-looking men. “I’ll do what I can,” she said at last, and began to unpack her bag.
The tradition Erin follows requires nudity only for major workings, when the god and goddess are called rather than simply included in the rite. This was a spell, not an act of worship—though the two are not entirely distinct with Wicca—so she and I kept our clothes on. Michael sat up on the couch with the blanket providing a modesty drape. Not that he had any, from what I’d seen. Modesty, that is. He was well provided with what the blanket was there to conceal.
Erin took out her athame, a glass vial, a black candle, a little pouch, and two silver bowls, each smaller than a cupped hand. “Stand to the south,” she said, nodding at me. “No, a little more to your right. That’s good. Michael—you have no objection to that name?”
“I’m content with it.”
“I’ve set wards outside Molly’s home for protection, and will cast a circle around the three of us to contain the spell. It’s vital that you not break the circle once I’ve set it. You break the circle by stepping outside.”
He looked insulted. “Actually it is a sphere, not a circle, but I understand you are using the accustomed term. What type of spell will you be casting?”
“A basic truth spell. It will urge but not compel the truth from you. If you knowingly speak false, I’ll see it. With your permission, after a few questions I’ll take the spell deeper. That can feel uncomfortable, intrusive. I’ll be trying to bring truth up from wherever it’s hiding inside you.”
He considered that, then nodded. “A great many things have hurt since I woke and saw Molly. I can abide a little discomfort in order to learn what I am and whether I brought danger here with me.”
“Also who you are, I hope.”
“I am now Michael. As I said, I am content with that.” He looked at me then, and his smile burst over me with the pungent sweetness of summer berries.
I was going to have to be very careful.
Erin doesn’t use a compass. The direction of the cardinal points is as obvious to her as sunlight is to others. She put her bag on the floor and knelt beside it, then removed her portable altar—a hand-cut, hand-polished square of oak about ten inches on a side and one inch thick. It went on the floor between myself and Michael. On it she set her tools. The two silver bowls were filled with water and salt—salt for the earth, and the north; water for the west. She put a stick of incense in the altar’s east quadrant for air, and a candle in the south for fire. Then she waved her hand.
Like a faucet springing a drip, the candle’s wick acquired a flame. A thread of smoke drifted up from the incense. She took up her athame and turned in a slow circle, her lips moving, pointing outward.
Michael’s eyes followed, not Erin or the athame, but the direction she pointed. I knew he must be looking at the energies she roused, and envied him. I’ve always wanted to see the colors of magic.
Erin circled three times, then put her athame on the altar with the knife’s tip pointing at Michael. She opened the vial, dampened her finger with the contents and touched each of her eyelids. Then she stepped forward and did the same with each of Michael’s lips. “As I will, so mote it be.”
His eyes widened, though whether he was startled by her touch or some other sensation I couldn’t tell.
She nodded, satisfied. “Molly, you ask the questions.”
“All right.” I licked my own lips, nervous for no good reason. “Michael, do you remember anything of your life from before you arrived here?”
“The first thing I remember is your face. Your skin looked very soft and your eyes were sad. I couldn’t see what color they were, and that was strange to me—I think I’m not used to losing colors in the dark. There was a pucker between your eyebrows. I like your eyebrows,” he added. “They have a pretty curve.”
The eyebrows he’d complimented shot up. Those weren’t the curves most men noticed. “You don’t know your name from before?”
“No.”
“Where do you come from?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember it, but it was different from this place. But I do know about this place.”
“What do you know?”
“Languages. Facts. Not always the most useful facts,” he said ruefully. “And I don’t always know that I know until something floats up.”
I exchanged a glance with Erin. She nodded, telling me what I was already sure of. He wasn’t lying.
She spoke, her voice cool and soothing. “I’m going to take the spell deeper now, Michael. Molly will continue asking questions, but I’ll be helping you find the answers.”
He nodded fractionally. His eyes never left mine.
“Who gave you those wounds?” I asked.
“I . . .” He licked his lips. “She? Yes, I think . . . I was escaping. That made her angry.”
“What is she?”
“I don’t . . . that’s not coming. But I have the idea she’s strong. V
ery strong.”
“Who is she?”
A fine dew of sweat sheened his forehead. “I don’t know.”
“What do you know about how you got here?”
“They were . . . someone was . . . they want to catch me. Keep me.”
“Not to kill you?”
“No, they want to—want to—” His head swiveled towards Erin. “Don’t!” And he heaved himself sideways, one arm outstretched like a drowning swimmer reaching desperately for rescue.
The circle broke.
Chapter 4
THE pop! was like clearing your ears during an airplane’s descent with a jaw-cracking yawn, except that it happened under my solar plexus. It should have been similar for Erin, though with more of a sting.
It should not have made her eyes roll back in her head as she sank to the floor in a faint.
I jumped and managed to keep her from hitting her head, ending with both of us on the floor with her head in my lap. Michael rolled off the couch so awkwardly I thought something had happened to him, too. But no, he’d simply made an odd dismount, for he fetched up on the other side of Erin’s lax body and sat, staring at her in appalled fascination. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “I didn’t mean to do it.”
“Breaking the circle shouldn’t have harmed her.” I checked her pulse. It was strong and steady, thank goodness.
“No, it wasn’t that. But it wasn’t me, either—at least, it came through me, but I didn’t will it. Maybe . . .” He put his hands on either side of her face and focused intently on her.
I looked at him sharply. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to fix her. Be quiet.”
Should I let him try to repair whatever he’d inadvertently damaged? Or prevent him from doing more harm? Before I could decide, Erin blinked herself back to us. “What . . . Molly?” She put a hand to her temple. “I have such a headache. What happened?”
“I don’t know. Michael broke the circle, and you collapsed.”
“Michael? Who’s Michael? And what,” she demanded, “am I doing lying on the floor with my head in your lap?
“You don’t remember?”
She shook her head.
I considered going back to bed.
“The amnesia should be temporary,” Michael said. “I think.”
“You probably can’t remember.”
“I believe that’s sarcasm.”
“Good call.”
Erin sat up, pushing her hair out of her face. Her headband had come off. “The last I remember, you’d woken me up at a godawful hour to ask for help. How did—”
Someone knocked on my door. We all jolted.
“Michael, get on the couch and look like an invalid,” I said, scrambling to my feet.
“What does an invalid look like?”
“Pale. You’ve got that part down, so just lie still and pull the blanket up over you. Make sure your wounds and genitals are hidden. Erin—”
“Not wearing a stitch, is he?” She watched Michael’s beautiful backside as he moved to the couch. I couldn’t blame her for finding the sight distracting. “But I’m clothed, so we weren’t performing a ceremony.”
“No, we—” The knocking came again, louder. “Be right there!” I called. “Erin, I know you need answers, but for now pretend you’re here to help me with my nephew Michael, who’s recovering from a mysterious fever. I thought he’d been cursed, which is why I called you.” I headed for the door.
“You don’t have a nephew,” she informed me.
“That’s a fiction,” Michael said. “We are supposed to fool whoever is at the door.” He pulled the blanket over himself and lay down as stiff and straight if he’d been encoffined. “Do I look ill?”
Erin was staring at him. “If you had a fever, there wouldn’t be anything mysterious about it. Not with those wounds. What—”
“Shh! Michael, until our visitor leaves, speak Gaelic.” I jerked the door open and sang out a cheery, “Good morning!” to the stranger on my stoop.
He was alone, so he wasn’t from the Mormons. Probably not a salesman, either, not in that suit—gray wool, not top-of-the-line but not shabby, either. Either a Baptist or a business clone, I concluded. Probably the latter. Houston was only forty-five minutes away, and the dress-for-successers there wore suits in spite of our subtropical weather. This was not a testament to endurance; they simply never experienced more than a nibble of it, moving as they did between air-conditioned house, air-conditioned car, and tall, chilly office building.
Or maybe they were icing down the parking garages now, too. “Such nice weather we’re having,” I told him.
“Lovely,” he agreed politely. He was about thirty, with seriously thick lenses on his gold-rimmed glasses. “I need to speak with you a few minutes, ma’am.”
“This isn’t a good time. Have they started air-conditioning the parking garages yet?”
“Uh . . . not to my knowledge. Perhaps I should introduce myself.” He reached into a breast pocket, then held out a leather case. “Agent Rawlins. FBI.”
Going back to bed was sounding better all the time. “A real FBI agent,” I said weakly. “How exciting. Are you looking for kidnappers? Terrorists? The Mob?”
“Not today. May I come in?”
“Oh, dear. I don’t think my nephew is contagious anymore . . .”
“Pete?” Erin said from behind me. “Is that you?”
The professionally stern face startled. “Lady? I mean—Erin?”
“Ná hinis faic dhó,” said the naked man on my couch.
I sighed and stood aside. “Never mind, Michael. Either someone here has some very odd karma, or God is feeling playful. It seems Agent Rawlins is in Erin’s coven.”
Chapter 5
“THANK you, ma’am.” Pete took the mug of coffee I held out. He was sitting on one of the bench seats at my dinette, looking uncomfortable. “Lady—Erin—I need to know why you’re here.”
“So do I,” she said, accepting her mug from me.
He blinked.
“You performed a truth spell on Michael,” I told her, settling cross-legged beside Michael on the couch—which put me next to Pete as well, since my couch butts up against the dinette on one side. My quarters are small. “He has amnesia, too, but rather more thoroughly than you.”
“You learned I was telling the truth about that,” Michael said.
I nodded. “And then you took the spell deeper, trying to unearth those buried memories. But something went wrong. He broke the circle—”
“I was trying to stop the—the—I can’t find the word,” he said, frustrated. “It slapped Erin away and she passed out. It’s supposed to protect me, keep me from being read without permission.”
Erin’s brows drew down. “I had your permission.”
“You remember!” I cried.
“Some of it,” she said grudgingly, and sighed. “Most of it, I suppose. I’m pretty sure he’s not evil, not inherently. But he’s barricaded like crazy. I never saw such shields.” She sipped from her mug. “Molly, you make the best coffee. The fumes alone are curing my headache.”
“I helped.” Michael was pleased.
Pete was lost. “Who are you?”
“Michael.”
“Last name?”
“Not yet.” He looked at me inquiringly. “Do you wish to gift me with one?”
“We’ll worry about that later. Pete—”
“I’m here as Agent Rawlins.”
“Don’t be stuffy,” Erin told him. “We have a situation here. We could use some help. Probably it would be best if you started by telling us why you’re here.”
Pete frowned at his coffee. “I can’t tell you that.”
“You’re putting him in a difficult position, Erin,” I said. “He owes you truth and all reasonable assistance, but he has a duty to the FBI, too. Pete, perhaps you could ask me whatever you came to ask, and I’ll be a difficult witness or informant or whatever and insist on knowing more before
I answer. Then we can trade information. Will that work?”
He started laughing. It transformed his face, waking a spark of interest in me. I hadn’t supped, as Michael put it, in a couple days. Not long enough to be a problem normally, but my appetite had been roused by Michael’s presence. And Pete was really quite attractive when he forgot to wear his official face. . . .
Erin poked me in the ribs.
Pete shook his head, still smiling. “I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, haven’t I? Okay, we’ll give it a try, though I can’t promise to tell you everything.”
“That’s all right.” I leaned towards him and patted his hand. “I doubt we’ll tell you everything, either.”
PETE was quite forthcoming about himself. He’d been born into a Wiccan family, but had inherited only a modest Gift—little more, he said, than many people unknowingly possessed. But that little had been well-trained, which made him valuable to the FBI. All of which Erin already knew, so his frankness didn’t earn him any return information.
He was much vaguer about his reason for knocking on my door. He was speaking to everyone at the Village, he said, because of a report of possible sorcerous activity. He glanced at Erin when he said that, troubled.
“For goodness sakes, Erin didn’t do it,” I said. “As you ought to know. Not that there has there been any sorcery—at least, a node was involved, which I suppose is what you mean. But that isn’t sorcery in and of itself. The current legal definition is absurdly broad.”
“How is sorcery defined?” Michael asked curiously.
Pete cleared his throat. “Sorcery is magic that is sourced outside the performer.”
I grimaced. “An accountant’s way of seeing the world. Follow the funding, ignore everything else.” Technically, the law would consider me a sorcerer—if it admitted I existed, which it doesn’t. Which is ridiculous. My abilities and disabilities are innate, not learned.
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