by Ann Macela
The old witch answered the door with a big smile. “Glori! And Delilah! I’ve been thinking about you. Come on back to the kitchen. I can tell from the look on your face that something’s happened.”
Lulabelle poured Delilah some water and sat down at the table when Gloriana refused her offer of a drink. “First, I have some news about our research.”
“The Rhinedebecks?”
“Yes, and it’s good news. I called all the Rhinedebeck numbers in the practitioner registry and found his son. He talked to me at length. Evidently, his father had spoken of the help I gave him. After Bill found his soul mate, Gladys Kowalski, again, and she rejected him, I told him to keep trying. He went on a campaign to woo her and change her mind. It worked! They married and had several children.”
“Hot damn! Marcus won’t be able to use poor Rhinedebeck for a role model anymore.”
“Oh, dear. He’s still thinking he can defy the imperative?”
“Worse than that.” Gloriana told her the story—well, almost all of the story. She omitted most of the mating details. “Then I walked out. I kissed him within an inch of his life to show him what he was missing and drove off. So, what do you think?”
“I think he’s been playing with those funny equations of his too long,” Lulabelle answered. “His mind is definitely addled. The boy is not in touch with his emotions.”
“My conclusions exactly. What can I do?”
“Let me think on it a minute. How about some of my pecan pie?”
“Your special, magical recipe, Lulabelle’s Texas Temptation? Sure.”
Lulabelle served the pie and poured each of them a glass of milk. She sat down and munched for a few minutes. Gloriana kept quiet as she made her piece disappear.
“All right,” Lulabelle said after a few minutes and most of the slice of pie. “I think you were correct when you said he’s hypothesizing only on his own observations. For all his attempts to be logical and reasoning, he’s thinking much like a little boy here, one who was not much nurtured and who still resents what he perceives as neglect. The behavior of his parents didn’t create much of a family bond for him. Lordy, I’ll bet you Morgans really threw him. All that love, teasing, informality, sheer family goofiness.”
“But how do we get him to change his mind? At least try the soul-mate process?”
Lulabelle smiled, a slight upward quirk of the lips that sent shivers down Gloriana’s back. Oh, yes, she’d come to the right place for advice.
“Let’s fight dirty,” the old witch said. “Let’s pull in the other side of that family and see what they have to say. I’m acquainted with a few university folk. Some of them don’t have the common sense God gave a June bug, or they live so far into their esoteric studies, they can’t relate to the rest of us. Give his parents a call and tell them what’s going on.”
“Just like that?”
“Of course—as their son’s soul mate and prospective mother of their grandchildren.” Lulabelle assumed the most innocent expression before laughing. “Oh, and another thing. Forscher is of German origin, right? A number of families with Germanic backgrounds live around here. The older generations don’t show, what’s the term nowadays? Oh, yes. PDA. Public displays of affection. Sometimes not the private kind, either.”
Gloriana thought about the idea for a moment. “I’ll give him another chance before I call his parents. We’ll be in Atlanta next weekend. If he won’t talk to me before we leave here, I’ll drag him off after the debate and make him listen to me.”
“That’s fine, dear, there’s no rush. Find out also where his parents can be reached. It never hurts to have a backup force in reserve.”
The rest of the week was an exercise in frustration for Gloriana. If all her soul-mate problems weren’t enough, there were the nasty e-mails. From vague warnings of dire consequences, the messages had escalated to outright threats, but were still of indefinite origin—Traddie or Fomster? On Wednesday, she hadn’t remembered to mention the escalation in threats to Marcus—funny thing, she’d been thinking about other matters. She sent him a note about them on Thursday; of course, he didn’t reply. She also forwarded the messages to Ed and John.
She decided she could use the e-mail problem to call him, but all she heard was his voice message. She tried George and Evelyn, who had Samson, and they said Marcus had gone out of town. They commiserated with her, relating that they had met the same Forscher stonewall when they tried to discuss the situation with him. Having them on her side was comforting.
Comforting, not helpful.
She actually contemplated reneging on her Friday commitments and following Marcus to Atlanta, before deciding to let him stew. If she was going to have faith in the process, she ought to let the imperative have its way with him.
At least the SMI was leaving her alone to get a good night’s sleep, even if her dreams were filled with math symbols.
Finally, on Saturday afternoon in Atlanta, she looked for, but couldn’t find him. He had checked in on Thursday, and no one knew where he was. She visited the library, an obvious possibility. He had been there the day before, rummaging around in the soul-mate archives. The librarians said he looked grim and angry when he left.
He finally came in to the predebate dinner at the last minute, nodded in general to everyone—except her. He didn’t even meet her eyes when he engaged Ed and John in conversation on the other side of the table.
Lily-livered, stinking, yellow-bellied coward. At least he looked as awful as a perfect man could, with bags under his eyes and a slightly pasty complexion. Small compensation for what he’d put her through. She smiled brilliantly at him and received one of his penetrating, concentrated stares back. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his body stiffen when she talked to the very handsome Sword, Tom Schmidt, sitting next to her. Hah, take that!
On the way to the meeting room, she maneuvered to walk beside him and said, “Can we get together briefly after the debate? I have some news from Lulabelle. Was your research successful?”
He kept looking straight ahead and said only, “Let’s get through the event first, okay?”
She didn’t bother to answer him, but she wondered what excuse he’d use to get out of seeing her.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Marcus took his seat as soon as he climbed onto the stage. He busied himself with his papers and ignored Gloriana. Or he tried to. That was impossible, his body told him. He was aware of her every movement, her every breath—especially her smiles at other men. In the dining room, it had taken all of his control not to throw her over his shoulder and take her where they could be alone—after he punched out Schmidt.
As he sat at the table, his thoughts turned to what he’d learned in the past two days. The results were not encouraging, but he knew he’d been right to get out of Austin early. Staying home wasn’t an option when he wasn’t sure if he could stop himself from going to her. They’d only make love again, and that would put them much closer to the actual bonding mating, according to all the soul-mate rules. Bonding was the absolute last thing either of them needed. Therefore, he’d dropped off Samson with Evelyn and George and flown to Atlanta.
His hopes of finding evidence to bolster his conviction to resist and reject, however, deteriorated into discouragement and finally despair flavored with panic. No hard facts about successful mate rejection existed. On the contrary, copious notes, diaries, biographies, letters, and even keepsakes abounded, all proclaiming the wonder and glory of finding and having a soul mate.
Patterns emerged: A woman often didn’t take to the idea of her mate at the beginning of the relationship and had to gain trust in the man before she would agree to the connection. A man, on the other hand, usually actively pursued his mate, right from the time he first saw her. Marcus had almost laughed at his discovery. He and Gloriana seemed to be going about the experience backward.
What brought together a woman and a man, what calmed the woman and excited the man, w
as the process. More than simply the lust factor—which aided but didn’t foreordain the ending, even for the man—the determining developments were getting to know each other, recognizing the trustworthiness and inherent qualities of the other, coming to realize how interesting the other was, how they fit together on many aspects of life. The sameness in attitudes, beliefs, and opinions helped, but wasn’t truly necessary.
What mattered at the heart of the situation was exactly that: the hearts of the mates. Love.
He realized as the last word passed through his brain that he was frowning at the audience. He carefully wiped all expression from his face and brought his gaze down to his notes. Neither action stopped his thoughts from returning to his soul mate.
What did he think of Gloriana? She was intelligent, gorgeous, funny, perceptive, straightforward, and downright interesting. They did have things in common besides their dogs—academic careers and running came to mind. They both sincerely wanted to help practitioners improve spell-casting. They’d probably find more in common if they talked about it. Come to think of it, they hadn’t really talked about much except the debates and the soul-mate mess.
What about their different ways of doing magic? He’d really like to discuss that subject with her. She’d explained her strength spell in terms of his formula. Therefore, she had to understand part of what he was calling for. In fact, when he thought of her exact words, it certainly sounded like she had actually used the formula to cast the spell. Interesting, and potentially significant. If she had, they definitely needed to talk.
For his part in the discussion, exhibit A, the plant she’d rescued from dehydration. He’d bought that little ivy in the supermarket because he somehow couldn’t help himself. It had called to him to take it home. Wednesday night, he’d looked on the practitioner Web site for that strength spell of hers. In a spell book for novices, he’d found a plant growth spell, and feeling more than a little foolish, he’d actually tried to cast it on the ivy. That attempt failed, and he wasn’t surprised because the book warned that the spell was talent-specific.
He did succeed, however, in finding and casting strength on himself. What a feeling of power and exhilaration had engulfed him when he picked up his couch as a test. He’d also gained insight into calibration for his equation, although exact measurement remained a problem.
If he could learn to cast her spells, maybe she could learn some of his, and, at the same time, he could use her intuitive spell-casting to refine his measurement efforts. He almost laughed at himself for that idea. He might be a theoretical mathematician, but he was becoming a practical wizard.
Maybe, given all that compatibility on all those levels—and the mind-blowing lovemaking—being soul mates with Gloriana Morgan would be more wonderful than the matings depicted in the archives.
Wait. He was forgetting something. Mating led to children.
Glori’s children. He could almost see her, round with child, holding a baby, playing with a toddler. He couldn’t see himself in that picture. He could never, would never take the chance. Given his experiences and upbringing—probably his very nature, thanks to his parents—how could he be a father worthy of Gloriana’s children?
As the enormity of that obstacle struck him, he felt like crying right there in the ballroom. To distract himself from his whirlpool of thoughts, he watched the audience file in. The usual suspects were present. Attendance had grown with each debate, and tonight was crowded with four extra rooms to handle the overflow—and partly to keep combatants separate. Four Swords plus John Baldwin would stand guard in the main ballroom.
Baldwin came onto the stage, motioned to the three of them, and they stepped to the rear with him. The Sword spoke in a low voice. “A few minutes ago we caught one of the people posting the flyers.”
“Who?” Ed asked.
“A woman named Bambi Kemble. Have you heard the name?” When all shook their heads, he continued, “She’s one of Gordon Walcott’s group. She was spitting mad that we caught her, and she spewed a lot of his nonsense. She refuses to identify other posters, of course. The flyers she had in her hands were the milder, vaguer kind, but some of the others we’ve found tonight talk of ‘ridding practitioner life of heretics and evildoers’ and repeat the violent threats you’ve been getting. She claims we can’t hold her because all she’s doing is exercising her right to free speech. The thing is, she’s correct. We’re going to keep her until the debate is over, though, no matter what she says.”
“Do you think someone will try to disrupt us tonight?” Gloriana asked.
Baldwin scanned the room before replying. “I hope not. Something’s in the air, and I can’t decide if it’s normal excitement or more sinister activity. In addition to the Swords, I’ve stationed security people outside the room, and we’re ready for whatever comes. Oh, and Walcott’s here, by the way, hanging out in the THA overflow room. He’s quiet at the moment, but if the Traddies disapproved of his outburst, you can’t tell it. Everybody’s coming up to shake his hand. Kemble said she has no idea what his plans may be, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted to speak.”
“We’ll let him talk as long as he abides by the rules we set after his last rabble-rousing speech. Otherwise, we’ll take what comes,” Ed said. “Come on, let’s get started.”
Marcus and Gloriana took their seats again, and Ed called the meeting to order. Marcus studied the audience while they settled themselves. The Traddies were on Gloriana’s side of the hall, and the Fomsters were on his, as usual. The middle outnumbered both factions put together tonight, where previously the split had been about equal. When the latecomers were finding chairs, Walcott and two men slid into the room through a side door on the far right. Immediately three people on the front row gave the newcomers their seats and moved to the back. Uh-oh, that maneuver was certainly planned in advance.
Ed was standing slightly back from the table, so Marcus leaned forward and looked around him to Gloriana. She turned to him at the same time. He glanced at Walcott and raised his eyebrows, and she nodded her head and shrugged. They both faced front again.
The debate began in the usual manner: Ed made his opening remarks, Marcus and Gloriana made theirs, and Ed opened the floor to discussion.
Prick spoke for the FOM, mostly rehashing his earlier statements. At least he called for more research into the equation—while taking credit for most of it. He also proved he’d been listening by incorporating past comments from teaching masters. Well and good, thus far.
Horner rose next, but added nothing new to his “THA call to action.” He sounded only marginally more strident in his warnings against the formula than in the past. His side cheered, however, as though he’d brought them to salvation.
They were all becoming more like politicians, giving the same stump speech at town after town. Totally boring and more than a little soporific. Marcus suppressed a yawn and tried not to think about sleep.
A teaching master for elementary magic education made some erudite remarks, a fellow told a story of trying to use the equation and his results, and a woman asked about the possibility of using the formula to cast spells higher than a practitioner’s usual level. Marcus didn’t think the last was feasible, and neither did the teaching masters present.
He started to doodle on his pad, until he realized he was drawing little flowers and plants instead of his usual mathematical symbols. Shifting in his seat to keep awake, he nonchalantly snuck a peek at Gloriana. She, however, was looking at Walcott, who conferred with one of his fellows.
“Who’s next?” Ed asked.
When Walcott stood, a rustle of movement and murmurs rippled across the audience while the usher brought the microphone to him. Marcus saw the Swords come alert at each end of the two main aisles, and Baldwin moved to a position in front of the stage. Walcott took his time, waiting for quiet, before sneering, “Thank you very much for allowing me to speak, Mr. Hearst.”
“I hope you remember our last conversation, Mr. Walcott
,” Ed answered.
“Oh, I do. Indeed, I do.” Walcott faced the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, the last time I spoke to one of these gatherings, I was almost forcibly restrained from speaking.”
“Stick to the facts,” Ed interjected in a low voice.
Walcott smiled, a small quirk of his lips. When he spoke, his tone oozed with reasonableness. “Almost. Why? Why do some people not want to hear what I have to say? There’s a simple answer. Because they aren’t interested in the truth about Forscher’s ‘magic formula.’ Because they want to impose their way of thinking, of working magic on the rest of us.”
Ed leaned forward, opened his mouth, but Walcott kept talking and gestured at him.
“Mr. Hearst here will say that’s not true. That their goal is not imposition of an incomprehensible system or destruction of spell-casting as we love and revere it. I say that it is. I say certain powers within the High Council want us to follow these pied pipers of regularization down a modernistic road to a veritable wasteland of casting.”
He held up his hands as if to calm opposition, even though no one said a word. “Those people, and we know who they are, would deny such a plan. Look, even the Fomsters are attempting to placate our concern by calling for research, for testing, for trial. The very members of the FOM who scorned us, who consider us outmoded, old-fashioned, and anachronistic, and who trumpeted praise for the new, modern, and twenty-first-century methods, all of a sudden change their tune and tell us our ways of spell-casting still have merit, should be kept, and will continue.”
Walcott wagged his finger at the audience. “Don’t you believe it! They are lying to you. They are leading you down a garden path to a cesspool of dark complexity, pernicious modernity, and spell-casting chaos. Those of us who use the old methods will be cast out, useless, unable to cast even a simple lux or flamma spell without fear of the spell police chastising us.”
