by Brea Viragh
Morgan always remembered to shave, if only to show off the angular jaw and dimple in his chin. The patrician nose, heroic in a way, was the most prominent feature of his thin face. On those long weeks toward the end of each semester where he literally forgot to eat, the hollows of his cheeks deepened in what he considered his “hungry educator” look.
Yes, it was a good face, and only slightly different from his real one. Oh, he’d tweaked here and there so no one would recognize him, but kept a great deal of his natural features. He liked the man he’d made of himself. Not for the looks or the lanky body but for the skills he’d acquired on his own. No special powers, no magic granted by his parentage. His knowledge came from hard work and years of pushing himself through life the hard way.
The human way.
That meant hard work and a lot of sleepless nights. Morgan still believed it was worth accomplishing a goal through grit and fortitude. It meant more when he reached the finish line.
Now he was in a position to do what he wanted, when he wanted. And at the moment, though he’d initially been forced into it, Morgan wanted to help Karsia find the information she desired.
Centuries had passed and with them Morgan became quite adept at reading people. Body language was everything. Especially when dealing with the gods. That lot had more twisted sides to them than a Rubik’s cube. Their words flowed fluidly and it didn’t matter whether they were true or not. He’d never met a bigger group of men and women who could so easily spin a story on the spot and believe their own words with absolute certainty.
Morgan shook himself out of his memories and tried to use his instincts to determine fact from fiction in this case. Karsia was infected, no doubt about it, in a way that would not be easy to fix. Something brewed beneath her surface. Something foreign. He wasn’t one-hundred-percent clear about the source of the issue. Trying to get any kind of good information out of her would take a lot more work.
However, if she felt the answer to her condition lay in an obscure stone tablet, then he would oblige her. He would do anything to see the flash of light in her eyes and the small smile showing a glimpse of straight white teeth. His groin throbbed in response.
“Get it together, man,” he admonished, glancing around at the organized chaos of his home office. “Time is ticking away. There’s no room for fantasies.”
Though he remembered the gist of his translation of the tablet, he could use a refresher. If only he could find his original notes. Most likely they’d been turned into bedding for some mouse family. With the notes in his hands, he’d have a better grasp of what to tell Karsia when she popped in on him again. He had a feeling she wouldn’t take “I’m still working on it” or “I’m sorry, I forgot” for acceptable answers.
Part of him, the immortal half of his soul, bequeathed the masses with sweet dreams around the clock, running on a kind of god-like autopilot, as he liked to consider it. While his conscious mind focused on his very human lifestyle, his subconscious mind worked. Worked and worked and did what it needed to do to keep balance. But his human body still need sleep.
After a few hours to regenerate, Morgan woke early and went through the motions of his morning routine. First, there was the shower, set to an energy-saving temperature resulting in lukewarm water. His breakfast was a weight-watching bowl of oatmeal with almond butter and fresh berries, devoured quickly before he moved upstairs to dress.
Did he actually need the routine? The control? Did his waistline suffer so badly he should eat the same healthy breakfast every day? No. He found the stability helped his mind concentrate on more important matters and made up for the helter-skelter nature of his childhood. It was part of his carefully crafted control. No one determined his path but him.
Once his daily ablutions were taken care of to his satisfaction, it was down to business. Morgan kept the majority of his research materials to the confines of a single room, although it got away from him more times than not. Books and paperwork pushed the boundaries and stretched their limits to take over every inch of available space.
Today he didn’t mind the mess. He didn’t mind the work, if it meant an opportunity to get to know a vibrant young woman better.
Morgan stood in the doorway, surveying his personal domain. “All right,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s see what we can find.”
He rifled through piles of documents and records in search of the original manuscript, coming up with zilch. It took him longer to realize he couldn’t find it and needed to expend his energy on other avenues. On any given day he may resemble an absentminded professor. Morgan had never truly felt it until then, with his hair standing on end and his glasses askew.
He spoke to the chaos. “What now, eh? You’ve got to give me something. Anything. I need answers.”
The den was like a small city, with paper skyscrapers stretching to precarious heights, leaving little room to maneuver, but Morgan had no desire to entertain. He’d never invited another person into his house, considering it his personal lair. A veritable fortress of solitude. Now he’d be too embarrassed to have company over even if he wanted it.
“Hmm, where to go. What to look for…” He turned to the computer and wondered at the secrets lurking on his hard drive. Somewhere in the mess was his backup drive. And on it, for certain, a scanned copy of his original notes along with photographs of the stone tablet. Now if he could only remember where he’d put it…
When he was finally finished with his search, with little to show for it again, the sky outside was dark and his stomach rumbled ominously.
“How did that happen? Damn.” He spoke to the window, staring out on the deepening twilight. Street lamps popped to life.
When was the last time he’d stopped for a snack? He hardly remembered. The outside world was nothing more than a shadow of silhouettes accompanied by the glossy glow of white lights. Well past dinnertime.
Perplexed, Morgan looked over to the antique grandfather clock, a gift from his brother, taking up one entire corner of the room. Already after eight on a Sunday, which meant no takeout for him. Well, damn.
Removing his glasses, Morgan rubbed his eyes to clear them. They felt dry, overused. It irked him that he still hadn’t found the information despite the power at his disposal. How much more useless could he be? If Karsia came to him tonight, she’d likely go ballistic at his lack of progress. Instead of the spine-tingling response a normal person would have at that thought, Morgan smiled, once again reminded of the cute little kitten fluffing up its hair and hissing at a dust ball. Only this kitten could literally kill him.
He went into the tiny galley kitchen that went hand in hand with his old Victorian house-turned-duplex and perused the contents of the fridge. Yes, he’d suspected this very problem. There was nothing edible outside of leftovers from the night before. Thank God for foresight, he thought, tossing the pasta in the microwave. He ate standing up until sauce dripped down the sides of the container and nothing remained within. His stomach still growled. He told it to shut up.
Scraping the fork along the lines of clinging sauce, Morgan made a mental note of the things he still needed to do. Ah, yes. He’d yet to journal about his encounter with Karsia. That would give him a pleasurable deviation from the rest of his chores. He shuddered at the reminder.
After telling himself not to lick the bowl, then doing it anyway, Morgan moved back to the den, resigned but determined. He sat in the middle of the mess and opened his notebook. With careful penmanship, he began the arduous task of writing by hand.
Karsia Cavaldi is a fascinating creature. An odd mix of heaven and hell wrapped up in a stunning package, even when I know I shouldn’t be focusing on the package. She’s too young for me by a good millennium. Now I feel old.
Her face is so familiar, almost as though I’ve seen it somewhere before. I feel like I know her, like I’ve seen her in the night behind closed lids when I shrug off my human form and walk in the realm of sleep. I can almost picture her there,
waiting for me like a harbinger of destiny. Without even knowing her name, the moment she burst into my office I recognized her face in a startling flash. I would recognize it if I were blind.
So far my attempts to get her to open up have been unsuccessful. I know she is a witch. An earth elemental, by all accounts. But she’s been tainted by a darkness I’ve never seen before. She appears to be something entirely new.
Her magic, according to her, springs from a dark source she views as a burden rather than a gift. Physical changes that occurred during her demonstration include dilated pupils until most of her eyes turned black, well beyond the iris; silver balls of energy held close to her palms, and control of the air; manipulation of atomic particles to the extent that she can burn a localized portion of human skin on a whim.
For all her prowess, there was a definite lack of control there, and only the smallest bit of fear, remorse. I believe she is capable of great and terrible things, the evil magic stemming from an unnatural force.
She needs my help, and I desperately want to give it. I would give her anything.
“Jeez,” he muttered, unsure about what prompted him to pen such a thing. He hardly knew the woman.
There is something inside of her, something having to do with the Cyrillic script I translated. She’s seen the stone itself, the Telos Amyet. The legend of the tablet captivates her interest. In pursuit of information, she is single-minded. In all of my wanderings across the globe, I have never met another person who claimed to have set eyes on the stone. I have been privy to hundreds of stories, thousands, but none come close to the verisimilitude of Karsia’s account. Based on what she says, I think she believes she’s become a part of the elemental balance. That she is somehow tied up in the stone and destiny and a life-or-death outcome.
Whatever the issue, I have to find an answer. I have to cure her, so she and I can have a chance to explore the very potent attraction whenever we are in the same room together.
He felt the natural reaction to his words and remembered the quickening in his chest, the way his lungs hitched whenever they were alone. He remembered the photos from social media and the smile lighting up her entire face.
Morgan slapped a hand to his crotch and sighed.
It was going to be a long night.
**
Karsia did not go to sleep. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and fighting with herself. The argument sounded staid and ridiculous. She spent the majority of her time feeling like a bipolar jumble and fighting against her new nature.
How long could she hold out before giving in to temptation? The negativity roaring inside her with the force of a wildfire ready to engulf?
Slapping her hands at her sides, she pushed away from the bed and moved to the window to stare down at the street. Sometime during the day, the skies had opened up to unload their chilly burden. A fresh blanket of white snow covered the ground and anything unfortunate enough to be caught outside. Trees stood still with the weight, the air quiet.
She’d spent most of her time recently within the confines of various hotel rooms, flipping through the five channel options on the television and feeling like a prisoner in her own skin. Threads broke and recoiled on the carpet as she paced. The clock ticked on steadily, with minutes rolling into hours, hours into days. The sun completed many arcs across the sky, and still she was no closer to answers.
Morgan needed time to work, she told herself. Which meant she should leave him alone.
Unfortunately, she was terrible at waiting—and the equinox loomed. The time came where she could not stay in this room any longer for fear of hurting herself. Urges surged to life and her fingers, of their own accord, dug deep grooves in the sensitive skin of her forearm. She itched for action, for movement, her patience tested beyond endurance. Sorry, a sly voice whispered through her subconscious. No more waiting.
She slipped into the rest of her soiled clothes and pushed out the door.
Part of Karsia hated to mar the beauty outside, seeing the freshly fallen snow as a blank slate. The other part urged her to destroy. A simple line of footprints or the complete decimation of a newly constructed snowman. Oh, the tears on those little faces, she thought with savage glee. She would give anything to see their misery bloom and grow.
It was so simple, taking something beautiful and turning it into something ugly.
She tried not to give in, marching steadily onward. Children would be running around their yards tomorrow, delighting in the snow. Working people would test the limits of their vehicles—and their nerves—to see if it was safe to drive to work.
Her life had been that simple once. But that was before. Now she raked her nails along her skin instead of someone else’s and tried not to cause any winter-related accidents.
Three good inches of powdery snow blanketed her beater car. Uncaring of curious eyes, Karsia summoned the wind to kick and blow until the snow pulled back to reveal rusted hunter-green paint.
“You’ve had long enough,” she spoke to Morgan even though he wasn’t around to hear her. “Now you’d better prepare for a visit.”
She drove unerringly to the small duplex in the heart of an old neighborhood. Here the large homes had been divided into separate dwellings made more affordable because of the split. Great oaks and maples bore the snow like graceful old women draped in ermine.
She’d never set foot in his home before, had never looked it up on the map, but she easily followed Morgan’s energy signature. It wound through the town and down curving side streets, clear and strong. It was uniquely him and as powerful as any witch she’d ever met.
Soon the Victorian came into view with its plethora of gables and turrets. Once it had been beautiful and full of graceful lines and bright colors. Now the fence needed mending and only a hint of the former glory remained in the alligator-like scales of peeling paint. Shingles hung at lopsided angles, begging for a nail and hammer.
She felt the same way.
Pulling into the driveway, Karsia cut the lights and listened to the engine sputter and die. She closed the door behind her and stalked toward the front door of the lower apartment. Propriety dictated she knock, go through the pleasantries, and wait to be invited inside.
She pressed ahead, the tumblers of the lock undoing themselves under her manipulations. Using her shoulder, she pushed the door open and took in the tiny entry foyer. She caught glimpses of antiques piled with knickknacks collected over a lifetime. The house smelled of dust and pine-scented cleaner and history. Oak floors original to the house had been stained and sanded innumerable times. Red-and-gold runners protected the halls from wear and tear.
Karsia turned right.
Morgan sat amidst his books, a sinking ship in a sea of paper, cross-legged in the middle of the floor. His glasses slid low on his nose, prompting him to push them up repeatedly.
“Somehow I knew you would find your way here.” He didn’t look up with the greeting, flipping through pages and finding nothing of value. “I didn’t think it would take you this long.”
Her brows knit together. The last thing she wanted to be was predictable. “Professor Gauthier.”
“Miss Cavaldi.”
He motioned her toward the only area of the den with room to spare. “Tread carefully and make yourself at home, although I don’t know where you’ll land.”
“You’re not going to ask how I knew where to find you? How I got into your home?” She cocked her head but moved where he pointed.
Winding amidst the piles, Karsia made it to the desk and hoisted herself up, with only several items knocked out of the way. It didn’t faze her when she knocked a purple-flecked geode to the floor and watched pieces break off.
“I had a feeling you would come, so no, I don’t need to ask. Call it intuition. I’d offer you something to eat but it seems I devoured the last of the leftovers. My apologies.”
“I’m not hungry. Are you having any luck?” Karsia lifted a large tome and perused the pages, fighting back
a sneeze when flecks of dust rose from the binding.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I say no. I’m realistic, not optimistic.”
No argument there, Morgan decided, and glanced up at her. “No doubt. You don’t exactly exude warm and sunny perpetual cheer.”
She grinned evilly and shucked her coat aside. “What an insightful impression, Professor. And who said you needed those bottle-cap glasses? You obviously have a keen sense when it comes to deciding a person’s true nature.”
“Mm. Funny. Maybe I’ll rethink the cheer part.”
“That’s me, a bucket of chuckles. You should see me on a good day.”
Morgan surprised her when he changed the topic of conversation. “I heard about the cows.”
Karsia set down the book and picked up a small silver coin instead, turning it between her fingers. “Excuse me?”
“The cows you decided to explode last night after dinner. If you were still hungry you could have stayed, although I’ll have you know nothing went to waste. I brought your food home with me.” Morgan scratched his head and looked at the piles again. As though determined not to get upset. “Ate it tonight for dinner. Still scrumptious the second time around.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said slowly. She jerked her head and stared at the nearest stack of books.
“The manifestation of your dark powers. It’s been on the news today. One of the farmers out on Highway 9 came out to feed his herd this morning and found each one of them looking like they were blown apart by a bomb. My favorite theory on the Internet was the alien abduction one. Made me laugh.”
“I would never do anything like that,” she told him, furious at the accusation. “Whatever happened to them was not my fault! Not my fault!”
Be patient, Morgan warned himself when her voice rose. The woman in front of him was set to go off at any moment. Then he saw it. She wasn’t fuming mad; she was scared.
