by Ann Macela
Her center rumbled and grumbled. She had probably eaten too many brownies.
By seven that night Gloriana was in pain.
At nine she called Ma—no, Forscher.
“What happened?” he asked after she identified herself.
“I saw Lulabelle Higgins today.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. My center’s driving me crazy.”
“Yours, too? Mine’s aching.”
“Mine’s sore and giving me little shooting jabs every so often since this afternoon. What caused it to start? Did something change? Did you learn something from the Higgins woman?”
She didn’t like his distinctly accusatorial tone. Did he think she was to blame for the imperative’s capriciousness? No way, José. “I have no idea why the SMI is giving us grief all of a sudden. Yes, I did learn something.”
She told him what Lulabelle said about the Rhinedebeck rejection and her warnings about taking their appeasement attempts too far. She said nothing, however, about his adamant refusal of a soul mate or her own ambivalence. If she was going to get the truth out of him, she knew she would have to force it, and she wouldn’t try over the phone where he could simply hang up.
“Okay,” he said at the end of her recital. “I’ll investigate Rhinedebeck, too. Did Higgins give you details about those suicides or murders?”
“No, she said those were practitioner legends, as far as she knew. Cautionary tales for the young, that sort of thing.” Gloriana paused. “Uh …”
“What?”
“What’s your center doing? Mine stopped hurting.”
He was quiet for the longest time.
“Are you there?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m here. The damn thing is sitting here, doing nothing. No aches, no pains.”
“Why don’t we get together to compare notes after the meeting Ed called for two o’clock?”
“Fine,” he said.
They exchanged good nights.
Marcus glared at the phone in his hand and then at his chest. The second he had punched the hang-up button, his center had started aching again. Not quite like it had been before she called, but definitely a presence.
Morgan’s news had not been particularly good. Not particularly bad, either. If the old witch could be believed, and he was going to check out that story for himself, Rhinedebeck had successfully opposed the imperative. Marrying non-practitioners had been a stupid move, of course.
It also sounded like the woman had come out all right. She must have, if she rejected Rhinedebeck when he came begging. The SMI had apparently left her alone and concentrated on the man.
He himself would do neither—marry a non-practitioner or go crawling back to his soul mate. He’d live a solitary life and do no harm to anyone. If the damn thing made him ache for the rest of his days, that was a small price to pay.
Morgan would be all right—much happier, in fact, without a mate who didn’t understand her or her magic, especially a man who didn’t want to be a soul mate to begin with.
The thought had barely left his head before the next thing Marcus knew, he was on his knees and holding his middle with both hands. A dull knife had attacked his diaphragm, his lungs—and his heart. It took an eternity for the excruciating pain to subside enough for him to switch to a sitting position.
Samson came over to give him a lick to say, “I’m here and your buddy,” and Marcus put an arm around the dog and held on for a while. When his center finally returned to its former dull throb and his body stopped shaking, he tried to finish what he had been doing, but he couldn’t concentrate, even to read. He gave up and went to bed.
Between the on-and-off torture and the dreams, it was a long night. When the morning dawned, Marcus surprisingly felt better. The pain had lessened considerably. If he carefully kept all thoughts of the situation out of his mind, he was able to work. It wasn’t easy. By bedtime, he was thoroughly exhausted.
“If you’re going to attack me tonight,” he mumbled as he burrowed into his pillow, “good luck.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Late Saturday afternoon, Gloriana sat in a back corner in the inner garden courtyard of the Chicago HeatherRidge. Trees offered dappled shade, and petunias, peonies, and daisies bobbed their blooms in the breeze. The warm, flower-scented air felt especially good after the frigid air-conditioning. A fountain bubbled nearby, and a few sparrows hopped around the tables, begging for crumbs. One bold bird landed on her table, cocked its head, and looked her up and down.
“Sorry,” she said, “all I have is iced tea.”
The bird flew away when Mar—no, Forscher walked up and sat down next to her. He was his usual perfect self in his starched khakis and a button-down light blue shirt that matched his eyes. His hair looked like burnished gold in the sun. Gloriana stopped her fingers from brushing at the smudge on her jeans she’d picked up discussing a problem silver birch tree with the head gardener. At least her red Morgan Farm knit shirt was clean.
Forscher waved at a waitress by the bar across the courtyard and pointed to Gloriana’s glass and to himself. The waitress nodded, and he sat back in his chair. “I don’t understand why Ed was in such a hurry to meet. The survey results were identical to the last one, except that seeing the Swords in action was a big hit. We’re not doing much differently about disturbances—a few more security people scattered around, of course. The only real change is letting Horner and Prick back in the main room.”
“Personally, I could do without the pyrotechnics,” Gloriana said.
The waitress brought Forscher his iced tea and refreshed hers. While he drank, Gloriana continued, “We’ve been getting some thoughtful comments from audience members. The teaching masters are making everyone think about how children learn. I wish Evelyn were here to add her experience.”
“I’m happy she isn’t,” Forscher said, “because that means George would be also, and I would rather not go through that rap song again.”
“You have a point.” She was going to ask about the couple when she felt a pinch in her middle. Wonderful. She rubbed the spot.
Forscher looked at her hand and pressed his fingers into his solar plexus. “Hell. Here we go again.”
“My center had been hurting off and on ever since we talked, but it stopped when I walked into the meeting room. Now it’s back.” She rubbed harder.
“Mine, too. Did you find out anything else about the Rhinedebeck matter? I didn’t.”
“No, neither did I. I did find a number of Rhinedebecks in the practitioner registry, so the name is still with us.”
“Are they related to the one we’re interested in?” He didn’t look very happy about the possibility.
“I didn’t get into the genealogical files—didn’t have time. Lulabelle didn’t call with news, one way or the other.”
“Maybe we’ll both have time next week. I have to tell you, I’m ready for the next three debates to be over. It’s impossible to get everything accomplished with no weekends.”
“I agree,” she sighed. “Delilah isn’t too happy with my absences, either.”
“Neither is Samson. He loves staying with Evelyn—she spoils him, but he’s raring to run when I come home.”
She was going to suggest he bring the dog out to the farm where both hounds could wear each other out, when he suddenly bent over.
“Damn!” He slowly righted himself.
“Did it hit again? Ouch!” She barely stopped herself from curling into a ball.
He held out his hand across the corner of the table. “Let’s see if the remedy works like it did last time.”
She put her hand in his, the pain stopped, and they both sat back with relief.
Gloriana tried not to think about how good touching him felt, even when it was only with one hand. Especially when he closed his fingers around hers. Warmth spread up her arm and through the rest of her, and contentment followed. She could feel her center hum, a faint, almost tickling vibration. She knew he
was looking at her, but she didn’t return his gaze. She didn’t want to get caught up in him in a public place. She lifted her glass and took a sip.
She felt his thumb move across the top of her fingers, the back of her hand. She snuck a glance sideways. He was staring at her hand, like he’d never seen it before. He leaned over it, raising it at the same time, looking like he was going to smell it… or kiss it…
“Hey, Forscher!”
They both jumped and snatched back their hands.
“Oh, shit,” Forscher muttered, staring across the courtyard at the man coming toward them. “Prick.”
“Marcus, Dr. Morgan, I certainly didn’t expect to find you here. And Marcus, what are you doing, conspiring with the enemy?” Pritchart gave them both what Gloriana was coming to think of as his trademark—a smirky grin. His T-shirt read: “Mathematics is the life of the gods.” It was easy to see where Prick thought he belonged.
“Dr. Pritchart,” she said in acknowledgment.
“What do you want, Prick?” Forscher asked in a weary tone.
“I came over simply to say hello, tell you what a good job you’re doing.”
“Thanks.”
“Dr. Morgan,” Pritchart continued, leaning over with one hand on the table to speak softly to Gloriana, “I have to say how sorry I am that you’re on the wrong side of the issue, advocating the Traddies’ opinions. If you want to see the light, come talk to me. I’ll be happy to explain the equation. With my expert help, you might be able to make meatballs as good as your mother’s.”
She almost moved her chair to back away from him, but she knew he’d follow her. She wasn’t about to show any weakness to this agitator. “Thank you, Dr. Pritchart. I’m not speaking for either side, and basically, neither is Dr. Forscher. We want the best for our young practitioners and magic in general. What do you want?”
Before Pritchart could answer, a hand fell on his shoulder. “What are you doing, Pritchart, harassing my most important supporter? Or plotting with the leading opponent to the THA position?” Calvin Horner chuckled in one of those false, hearty ways meant to show he was kidding.
“Mr. Horner, nobody’s plotting, and nobody’s harassing,” Forscher said. “Dr. Morgan and I were simply enjoying a moment of calm before the debate. We certainly hope neither of your groups is planning a repeat of last week.” He said the words mildly enough, but Gloriana could hear their underlying edge.
Horner, with a shark’s smile and a sanctimonious tone, ignored the warning. “Of course not. If you remember, it was the Fomsters who threw that missile. Thank goodness the Swords were able to keep them from attacking our THA people.”
“It was only a piece of paper, hardly dangerous. Walcott certainly provoked it. Give me a break,” Pritchart scoffed.
“Gentlemen, cease and desist,” Forscher ordered and stood up. “Save your comments for the debate.”
Gloriana rose with him. “Yes. We’re not the people you have to convince. We’ll see you tonight.”
She and Forscher walked away from the strange twosome. When they stopped at the bar and paid for their drinks, she could feel Horner and Pritchart’s gazes follow them out of the courtyard.
Forscher took her hand again in the elevator. Neither said a word until they reached their suites, once again, directly across from each other.
“Do you think they saw us holding hands?” Gloriana asked.
He raised their clasped hands and looked at them like he hadn’t even realized they were doing so. “I hope not. We don’t need someone asking us about our personal relationship on top of everything else.”
He put his free hand on top of hers, and the now-familiar warmth spread through her. Little fingers of contentment stretched out over her brain, urging her to relax and enjoy. She, however, kept her mind on the issue by sheer force of will. “Did you get that bit when Horner said I was his most important supporter?”
“Yes, and I’m the leading opponent.” He rubbed her hand and ran his thumb over the pulse point in her wrist.
She felt her heartbeat increase, but persevered. Resistance was possible. All she had to do was look at his hair, his ear, his jaw, anywhere to avoid his eyes. “And refuting the labels will only fuel the furor.”
“I’m afraid so. Did you see Walcott over by the bar?”
“No, I didn’t. How long was he there? That man gives me the creeps.”
“He wasn’t there long, and he left when we stood up. He glared at me like I was the devil incarnate.” Clearly disgusted, Forscher shook his head. She noticed that he didn’t meet her eyes, either.
“I was, uh, thinking about calling Prick on his assumption of your equation.” Despite her determination, she was beginning to lose track of what she was saying, and she carefully watched his lips form his next words. She couldn’t afford to miss what he said.
“You would only have prolonged the discussion, and Prick would have denied it. He’s always been more than willing to stab his colleagues in the back while pretending to be their friend. He likes to use others to do his dirty work, too.”
How did the man keep his concentration? Hers was fraying rapidly. She put her free hand on top of his, did some rubbing of her own. “So, he’s a coward.”
She finally gave in to the impulse and looked into his eyes—a mistake as usual, because he was gazing straight back into hers. She heard him say, “Yes.”
She had no comeback. Neither did he.
She had no idea how long they stood there, staring at each other, holding hands. Her center hummed while warmth spread through her from his touch.
He tugged her a little closer, and they were leaning toward each other when, down the hall, the elevator dinged, and a couple emerged and walked off in the opposite direction.
Gloriana came to with a start and a gasp. She took a deep breath and stepped back, pulling her hands from his. He let them go.
“I’d better get ready for tonight.” The words came out in a whisper. She dug out her key card and hurriedly opened her door. She turned back to him once she was inside.
“I’ll knock on your door when it’s time to go to dinner.” His voice sounded rough, low, raspy, sexy as hell.
“Good. I’ll be ready.” She gave him only a quick smile and shut the door. Breathing a sigh of relief, she walked into the bedroom. If she’d stood there much longer, she’d have been in his arms again. Not a good idea when they still had the evening to survive.
Not a good idea, period. She had to stay away from him. The imperative stole her mind if she didn’t.
Thoroughly relieved the event was over, Marcus followed Morgan into the dining room after the debate. The entire evening had been an ordeal he didn’t want to repeat.
First was dinner and sitting across the table from her, watching her talk with the others, including the Chicago Swords, Laura Wheeler and Johanna Mahler, who would be in the main hall with Baldwin. His center jabbed him off and on during the meal. The others probably thought from his fidgets that he had a digestive problem or a nervous condition.
He had a nervous condition, all right. Named Gloriana Morgan.
Glori, what a perfect name for her. Even if she was driving him crazy.
He’d wanted to punch Prick out in the courtyard when the jerk had leaned too close to her and fed her that line about talking to him to see the light. Asshole.
Then came that episode standing in the hall simply looking at each other. His center had been absolutely quiet, but the feeling of rightness about holding her hand permeated his every cell. Who knew what might have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted? He shook his head to clear it. Those kind of thoughts led to madness.
The debate, for once, had gone very smoothly. Having a few magic-teaching masters and other non-magic educators had helped focus discussion. The Traddies had made their points mildly, and Walcott had been absent. Prick’s henchman, Brad Dortman, had tried in his usual inept manner to say something provocative, but his words and delivery had fallen flat.
He was so pathetic, the Swords didn’t even ask him to leave.
All during the time, however, Marcus had been aware of Gloriana Morgan—he knew every move she had made, every time she pushed a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, every time she’d made a note, every time her body moved under that prim suit, every time she’d smiled at a man. Especially the last one.
Glori, Glori, have mercy. Maintaining distance was becoming incredibly difficult. Despite his unwillingness, hell, his outright refusal to go along with the imperative, despite his adamant repudiation of the ancient phenomenon, the damn thing was paying no attention to him. Fighting the pull to her was devouring an enormous amount of his energy and rapidly becoming impossible. What was he going to do when it conquered him?
No, if it did. If, not when. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, surrender.
He knew Gloriana was having the same problems. She’d tried not looking him in the eye, but when she did, he’d seen her pupils dilating. She couldn’t look away any more than he’d been able to. He’d heard the old saying about drowning in someone’s eyes and thought it only a literary cliché—no longer. He wanted to dive right into the dark green. She’d held his hand, and he could feel the warmth flowing between them. Warmth that swirled and pooled … and made it impossible to say a word.
Glori…
No, Morgan. He had to remember to call her Morgan in his head. She probably thought of him as Forscher, copying the way most profs referred to each other. He’d noticed that neither he nor she ever called the other by name directly. They’d adopted the same defense and distancing mechanism. It was getting harder and harder, however, to maintain the contrivance. Harder still to pretend disinterest in the presence of others. Impossible to maintain the distance when alone.
Her light-gray suit was perfect business attire. Instead of depressing his attraction, it only spurred on his wondering if her underwear was utilitarian and what he’d find under that thin blouse.
And his mouth watered.
