by Ann Macela
Exactly what she needed to hear, Gloriana thought as her mouth twisted wryly. Daria would go on about the glories of “soul mate-ness” for hours if you let her. Time to change the subject to the one sure to distract her older sister. “So, how are you feeling, Little Mama?”
They discussed gynecology and obstetrics and pregnancy until Gloriana thought she’d scream. She finally hung up the phone with Daria’s admonition—and where had she heard it before?—to get to know the man.
“Yeah, right,” she muttered and left the kitchen. Thinking she’d simply read in bed, she grabbed a couple of professional journals off the kitchen table. Delilah still didn’t move. Some loyal companion she’d turned out to be, her affections stolen by a flashy red and white male.
As Gloriana lay there later, totally unable to concentrate on the scholarly articles, a wave of loneliness washed over her. Its source? There could be only one: she envied her sister with her soul mate and a baby on the way.
She would find her own soul mate, one day. She knew that as surely as she knew she could spell plants to make them grow. Her mate didn’t have to be Marcus Forscher. These debates would be a good chance to meet all sorts of possible soul mates. She’d keep her eyes open, take advantage of the opportunity.
A little pin poked her in the breastbone.
“Oh, stop that,” she ordered before turning out the light. She resolutely closed her eyes and concentrated on her next-day tasks until she fell asleep.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
After a restless night and dreams of an emerald-eyed, chocolate-haired woman that left him aching with need, Marcus thought of begging off the invitation to his mentor’s for dinner and a chess game on Sunday evening. Despite a morning spent unaccountably unable to concentrate, he decided to go. Seeing George and his wife, Evelyn, might take his mind off… other things.
With a warm smile, Evelyn, a well-rounded woman in her early sixties with light brown eyes and graying brown hair, opened the door at his ring. After he entered, she gave him a big hug. “It’s good to see you again, Marcus. We need to get together more often.”
In contrast to her high-powered, energetic, twelfth-level, professorial husband, Evelyn was a laid-back, fifth-level practitioner and a public school first-grade teacher. She exuded calmness and competency, and Marcus felt more himself—in control—immediately. Ever since George had brought him home for dinner right after his arrival on campus, he had looked upon the two of them almost like a second family—or perhaps more than that. With the Bernhards’ son and daughter long out of the nest and living far away, George and Evelyn had in essence adopted him. Indeed they helped him to stay “balanced” in a way he couldn’t define—or didn’t want to.
“I agree.” He returned the hug, held it for a moment, curiously reluctant to let go. “You’re looking good.”
“And you look tired,” she replied as she closed the door. “The end of the year always keeps you professors hopping, and with the debate on top of that, I hope you’re taking time to relax.”
“Evelyn,” George called from deeper in the house, “bring him back here. He needs a drink, and I do, too.”
The dinner went pretty much like all their time together did—lively talk about the university and politics, both legislative and academic, sales of Marcus’s latest sci-fi book, and, of course, about the debate. They both wanted to hear his side of the event and the subsequent controversy.
Marcus related the tale of the meeting with Ed and his visit to the Morgan farm—leaving out his attraction for his opponent, of course. Some things were nobody’s business except his. He concluded, “I think we have the situation as much under control as we can get it. If Ed can only keep order and we choose the audience participants carefully, we should be able to get through the events with a minimum of fuss.”
“I hope so,” George said with a speculative expression, “but I doubt it will be that easy. Not if the first debate was any indication for the future.”
“I wish I could be there,” Evelyn interjected. “A few of the calming spells I use on my students might be in order.”
“Honey, the Swords won’t allow spell-casting,” George said and patted his wife’s hand.
“Maybe they should,” she replied. “Contentious people in a group can regress to the equivalent of my first graders who haven’t had their naps. Enough unpleasantness. Let us have some dessert, and you must tell me what Antonia Morgan served for lunch and what their house looks like. I use their herbs and spices all the time.”
After dinner, Marcus and George retired to the study where the chessboard was waiting. “Next time,” George suggested, “you’d better take pictures of the Morgan place and ask for the recipes.”
“Yes,” Marcus groaned. “I have no idea what was in that chicken salad.”
“Men never do, according to Evelyn. Here, pick a color.” He held out his fists with a pawn in each. Marcus chose, took the white, and they began to play.
Some time later, George said, “Checkmate.”
“What? How did that happen?” Marcus blinked at the board. Damn. He’d waltzed right into the other man’s trap.
“All right,” his mentor said, “what’s the matter? Something’s bothering you. After the first ten minutes, you haven’t been concentrating. I didn’t think you were worried about the debates, or are you?”
Marcus leaned back in his chair and rubbed the itch at the end of his sternum. George had won in record time. Where had his mind been?
He’d been gazing at the painting above the mantel as he usually did when waiting for George to make his next move. The picture, portraying members of George’s family from the early eighteen-hundreds sitting around a picnic table in a colorful garden, was pleasant enough. He’d seen it often and no longer paid attention to it, but he’d found if he looked away from the board for a while, he could more easily see new possible moves when he faced the chess pieces. Tonight one of the women had drawn his eye. She wore an emerald green dress, and her brown ringlets fell about her face in artful disarray.
Although the painted image looked nothing like her, he had been imagining Gloriana Morgan in that picture.
And his thoughts had gone right after her.
George glanced at the picture, then at him, down to his hand, and back to his face. “No, I don’t think it’s the debates. It’s Gloriana Morgan, isn’t it?”
Marcus felt his face grow warm. He carefully clasped his hands loosely on the table, but kept his gaze on the board. “What about her?”
“How old are you, Marcus?”
The absurd question caused him to meet the older man’s eyes. “Thirty-four. Why?”
Grinning, George said, “Don’t you think it’s past time for you to meet your soul mate?”
“What?” The question shocked Marcus so much he jumped to his feet and had to grab the chair to keep it from falling over. “My soul mate? Who? Morgan?”
“Yes, Gloriana Morgan.”
“Oh, no!” Marcus turned his back on George and stalked to the window. Because of the darkness outside, all he could see was his reflection on the glass. He watched himself take deep breaths and rub his itching breastbone while he tried to regain his equilibrium.
George had gone senile, right in front of him. That was the only explanation for such a ridiculous notion. Either that or the older man was teasing him—yeah, that sounded better than senility. George was trying to shake him up the way he sometimes did, claiming it did a “youngster” good to lose control once in a while. He wasn’t going to let it happen this time, however.
He sauntered back to the table, sat down, spread his arms wide, and shook his head. “Okay, George, you got me. Good joke. I overreacted. That’s what you wanted me to do, wasn’t it? I have to tell you though, I don’t find anything funny in your question.”
“I’m not joking,” George replied and held up both hands when Marcus opened his mouth to protest. “Hear me out.”
“Hmph,” Marcus
grunted, and he shut his mouth and crossed his arms.
“Despite the very large role she plays in the upcoming events, you barely mention Gloriana by name. When you say her last name, your voice changes its timbre, its crispness, becomes deeper. Also, almost every time, you rub your magic center.”
As George said the last two words, Marcus fisted his hands to keep himself from scratching that persistent itch. “So?”
“Don’t you know, one of the first signs of the soulmate imperative is an itching or hurting magic center?”
“That’s ludicrous.” Wasn’t it? He’d never heard of that before. Certainly his father hadn’t mentioned it in their obligatory discussion on sex and soul mates when he was thirteen—a discussion never repeated with either parent.
“You look tired. Not sleeping well? Or having dreams that leave you aching?” George paused and smiled, but he seemed to be looking inward to himself more than at Marcus. “I remember when I first met Evelyn. I was a senior in college and, man, did I have X-rated dreams about her.”
A vivid memory of the night before flashed through Marcus’s mind, and his body hardened in an instant. He even had difficulty forming the words to deny George’s assertions. Finally he managed to say, “Morgan can’t be my soul mate. The phenomenon is all about instant attraction, total concentration on the mate to the exclusion of everything else, and a whole boatload of similarities between them. None of that applies here. Leaving out the dogs and our teaching professions, we have little in common, especially with regard to magic. We’re not concentrating only on each other or excluding our friends. We’re doing our jobs and this damned debate. We’ve hardly seen each other. Hell, she’s not even attracted to me.”
“Are you sure?”
“She hardly ever looks me in the eye, she always has an expression like she’s playing high-stakes poker, and she doesn’t want somebody to guess what she’s thinking. Furthermore, she never gives off those little signals a woman does when she’s interested—smiling, asking personal questions, coming a little bit closer than necessary—that sort of flirting.”
“Every time you’ve been together, there have been other people around, and you’ve been discussing the debates, where you and she are on opposite sides. Maybe she simply hasn’t had the opportunity. Haven’t you been alone with her at all?”
Marcus was about to shake his head, but remembered … “Only when I picked her up at her house to go to her parents’ place yesterday. Samson met her basenji, Delilah, and the two of them took off running. They were out of sight before I could move. All she did was smirk and tell me her dog would bring him back safely. If she was attracted to me, I certainly didn’t see it.”
George grinned. “Samson and Delilah? Both basenjis? Oh, that says it all right there. She’s your soul mate, no doubt about it. I wouldn’t worry about lack of overt attraction. She’s probably one of those witches who’s slow to react—or maybe you’re the one who’s not giving her signals.”
The conversation had gone from ridiculous to bizarre and was headed toward grotesque, Marcus decided. It was time to bring it down to reality.
“Listen, George, you know how I feel about the whole soul-mate business. For all the good that people claim it brings, from my point of view, the damn imperative is a menace. You know what it did to me and my parents, and that I don’t want to deal with it. In the present situation, I think you’re wrong. My reaction to Morgan has a simple explanation: I need to get out more on dates. For the moment, if you don’t mind, let’s change the subject. You’re white this time. Let’s play the game.”
George studied him for a few seconds, and Marcus could almost hear his mentor analyzing the facts, arranging them in a logical progression. He braced himself for an argument, but the older man picked up the chess pieces and said only, “I’m here if you ever want to discuss it.”
Walking Samson later that night, Marcus thought over what George had told him.
Morgan was his soul mate? He’d never even considered the idea up to now—never saw his attraction as part of the soul-mate phenomenon. Was he blind? No, nor ignorant, nor unaware. Why hadn’t he thought of the possibility? Because she wasn’t, of course. Couldn’t be, for all the reasons he’d given George. No way. No way in hell were they soul mates. Soul mates! The absolute last thing he wanted. Or needed.
No, he’d resist the very notion to his dying day.
Then there was Morgan, the woman herself. How simple things would be if she wasn’t a practitioner. He’d be free to take her to bed with no repercussions. It was his bad luck to be attracted to a woman he couldn’t have. Female practitioners never had sex except with their soul mates, and when they did … Bam! Bonded for life.
To the exclusion of all others. Even …
No, he’d continue on his plan to have as little to do with Morgan as possible.
A small pain struck him in the chest, and he groaned. It subsided when he rubbed. That wasn’t a pain in his magic center—more likely his dinner settling. The whole business was giving him heartburn, and not of the amorous type, either.
CHAPTER
NINE
Monday afternoon, back in Austin at her condo, Gloriana finished the paperwork for her last class. Her only remaining task was to hand in the grades and other reports, and she was done for the school year. She leaned back in her desk chair and stretched, pushing and pulling against it to loosen tight muscles. She’d take Delilah out for a run in a while and blow her mind clean of the mishmash of weird thoughts she’d been plagued with ever since her parents said the words soul mate.
First, her e-mail. She flipped on her laptop, and when the list displayed, she groaned. More on the debates. Weeding through the senders, she took care of those related to her school work and moved on to those from friends. A couple of the latter offered her a place to stay if she came to their cities on the tour; she declined with thanks.
Second, the debate messages—quite a number since she’d ignored them over the weekend. To those who signed their names, she replied with her standard message referring them to Ed Hearst. The rest she deleted after skimming the contents.
Hmmm, one from Loretta Horner pledging Traditional Heritage Association support in “your courageous battle for traditional magic.” Ugh. Gloriana sent her thanks for the good wishes and reiterated that they were in a discussion, not a battle. Whatever she said, she was certain Loretta would pay absolutely no attention to reason, nevertheless, she felt she had to try to remind her of the original purpose. Keep the channels of communication open, if possible. She read over her message several times to make certain neither the Horners nor their adherents could “lift” part of it to make her sound as if she was on their side.
The next one didn’t have a name in the sender column, only some numbers. “Debate” was the subject. The message was written in a bold purple font: “Horner’s Harpies Are Half-Baked Henchmen Whose Hope Is to Heave Our Practice Back to the Hackneyed Habits of History.”
Somebody really liked the letter H. She chuckled at the “half-baked henchmen.” The remainder of the message glorified the benefits to be found in the “Futuristic Formula.” No mention of the formula’s originator, she noted, but plenty of the Future of Magic and Bryan Pritchart. Neither did the sender identify him or herself. Delete.
Most of the messages, from both THA supporters and FOM adherents, were unsigned. “Cowards,” she muttered. At least it was quick to go through them. By the time she reached the end of the list of forty or so, she needed either a nap or a drink to recover from the onslaught of poorly written prose.
One aspect of the letters she hoped did not signal a trend: the tone of the last few on both sides became more strident, slung more mud, sounded angrier, less rational. Assuming the worst—each side moving in the direction of the last letter writers—it would become more important than ever to keep control and order in the debates.
Meanwhile, she had questions to work on to focus the discussion. How can we help each individua
l practitioner cast in the most efficient and powerful manner? How can we transmit to our young people the scope and beauty of magic? She worked on the questions after dinner and went to bed feeling good about her progress.
The next morning she sent a copy to Forscher, who responded in an hour with his questions. His were more explicit, more focused on his formula and the need for experimentation. She was reading over them when the phone rang.
“Hello, Gloriana,” Ed responded to her greeting. “I have Marcus Forscher on a conference call with us. I thought you two would like to hear the schedule I’ve put together.”
“That’s fine with me,” she said.
“Okay here,” Forscher’s deep voice acknowledged.
A shiver ran down her spine at the sound. “Stop this,” she mumbled to herself.
“Pardon?” Ed said.
“Nothing, I moved something on my desk.” She rolled her eyes at the lie.
“Here’s the schedule, beginning the first weekend in June as you requested. We’ll go every weekend for five weeks. Boston first, Denver, Chicago, Atlanta, and end with San Francisco. We’ve reserved the largest ballrooms at the HeatherRidges and arranged for TV feeds to other rooms if necessary. I’m starting a registration page on our Web site.
“So we don’t have audiences loaded with the same people every time, we’re limiting attendees in the main room to people who live in the area and the immediately surrounding states. It’s not first-come, first-serve, either. We’ll choose randomly from those who register on our Web site or by mail. Only those in the main room will be able to actively participate. I’ll be careful whom I pick to comment. We want to ensure a balance.”
“Good idea,” Forscher said. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Neither did I,” Gloriana echoed. “Are you anticipating objections to the plan?”
