Thoroughly Kissed (11 page)

“I thought you had to go to Oregon,” he said.

She bit her lower lip. On most women that gesture would have looked young and calculated at the same time. On Emma, it looked delightful.

She took a deep breath, as if she were stealing herself. “I thought maybe—we could help each other.”

His shoulders slumped. She did know that he was going to get rid of her. She was bargaining for her job. She should have realized that he was a man with principles, a man who actually took his work extremely seriously.

“Look, Emma,” he said. “We don't agree on methodology. Even after our experience yesterday, I don't think that what you've written would hold up to rigorous scholarly standards. You've skated by on your looks and your charm. But I'm not that kind of person. I make certain each and every detail…”

He let his sentence trail away when he realized that all the color had left her cheeks. She looked ethereal, suddenly, and very fragile.

She shook her head. “Obviously, I misjudged you.”

She stood, her hands fumbling on the back of her chair for her purse. The purse fell, and she cursed, bending over to retrieve it, her hair covering her face like a fine shawl.

He hadn't meant to make her angry. He was just trying to explain. He didn't want her to leave like this.

He stood too, scooting his chair back, and slamming the legs into something hard.

“Hey!”

He turned. The psychology major shoved his chair back at him. It hit him in the back of the knees, and he sat down, abruptly.

“You're an ass, you know that?” she said.

“Well,” he said, “you're the first person I know who lays down in the middle of a bunch of tables to study.”

“I've never had any problem until now.”

He glanced toward Emma, but she was pushing her way through the crowd, her head down. He slid out of the chair sideways so that he wouldn't hurt the psychology major again and hurried after Emma, banging his shins on metal chairs as he went.

She disappeared inside the Stiftskellar and as he stepped inside, he couldn't see. His eyes refused to adjust to the sudden darkness. He blinked a few times and had the horrible, irrational fear that she had vanished. Literally vanished.

And then he realized that fear wasn't really irrational.

She was making her way past the scarred wooden tables, filled with relaxing students. A few watched her as she went by—all of them male, all of them looking curious as to why such a beautiful woman would seem so upset. When they saw Michael hurrying after her, they seemed to understand.

He finally caught up with her near the exit. He grabbed her arm. She turned around so ferociously that he let go immediately and held his hands up like a robbery victim.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said quickly. “I can be a real pain sometimes. I didn't let you finish and I assumed and I answered the point I thought you were making instead of the point you made and—”

She put a finger up, a silent order for him to halt. To his own surprise, he followed it. She still looked fierce. He had a sudden real sense that he never wanted to see her angry—all-control-gone, so-furious-that-anything-went angry. The very idea took his breath away.

“Leave me alone,” she said, her voice husky, her accent pronounced.

“I—”

“Our encounters haven't been pleasant, Professor Found. It would be better if we just ended things here.”

He took a breath, half wondering why he even bothered. But he felt compelled. If this was going to be the last time he saw her, then he didn't want her to think him a total jerk.

“I was just curious,” he said as softly as he could. “How do you think we can help each other?”

Her eyes got big. She clearly hadn't expected him to say that. Then she shook her head. “Never mind. It was a stupid idea.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“You?” She raised her thin, delicate, perfectly formed eyebrows. “You think everything I do is stupid. Or dangerous.”

“Not everything,” he said. “And I have no idea if that quick trip we took was dangerous, but I suspect the furniture, if it had fallen wrong, might have hurt someone. And that doesn't take into account turning Helen—”

“Enough!” Emma said. “Let's just pretend this conversation never happened, shall we?”

He shook his head. “Tell me.”

Her shoulders slumped. “You're not going to leave me alone until I do, are you?”

“No,” he said, even though he wasn't sure if that were true.

She took him by the elbow and led him into the well lit hallway. There she stopped. It took him a moment to realize that she felt the hallway, with its ebb and flow of students, high ceiling, and constant conversation, was more private than the dark wooden booths in the Stift.

Emma took a deep breath. She looked nervous. “I just thought that I could help you find out the true history of magic.”

“And how would I help you?” he asked. His heart was pounding hard. He didn't want her to tell him that she wanted tenure or some guarantee that she'd have a job when she returned.

“I'd like you to drive me to Oregon.”

“Excuse me?” Whatever he had expected her to say, that wasn't it.

“I need someone to drive me to Oregon. With my powers so out of control, I can't fly. I mean, what happened if I sent the entire plane to the Bermuda Triangle? Or just the passengers, without the plane itself? And I figure trains and buses are the same way—”

“So you'd like to risk my life by having me travel with you?”

She shook her head. “It's a little more complicated than that. You see, I need training, only part of the rules are that my teacher can't come to me. I have to go there. And with everything out of control, I need someone who can utter a few counter-spells or find help in an emergency.”

“Don't you have any witchy friends who can do this?”

People continued to flow around them. No one seemed to notice or care about this weird conversation. One of the benefits of university life, he guessed. Any topic was fair game.

“Technically,” she said, “they can't come to me because they could train me. And I don't know anyone in Madison who has this power. Besides, none of my real friends here know about this, and I don't have time to convince them.”

“But you've already convinced me,” he said dryly.

“Haven't I?”

He sighed. “A bit unwillingly. I'm still willing to think I'm crazy—or you're delusional—or that jet lag is the most powerful force in the universe.”

She was staring at him. Her wide blue eyes held something different from the sorrow he'd seen earlier. Regret? Embarrassment? He couldn't tell. But he didn't want her to run away again.

“I'm not sure I entirely understand,” he said. “Why can't you just wiggle your nose and transport yourself to Oregon?”

“I don't have that kind of control.”

He'd seen enough evidence of that. “Then why can't your teacher just zap you there? Surely that's not the same as coming here.”

“I have to get there on my own. It's the rules.”

“Who makes these rules?”

“The Fates,” she said. “I saw them yesterday. They won't bend the rules for me.”

“Why would you expect them to?” he asked.

She opened her mouth as if to answer him, and then closed it. “It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does.” Although he wasn't sure why.

“You ever read
Sleeping Beauty
?”

“Sure,” he said slowly.

She froze like a deer in headlights, as if she had just heard what she had said. “Never mind. It's too complicated. Really. I was just hoping you could help me out here. Otherwise it's me and Darnell on our own for two thousand miles.”

“Darnell?”

“My cat,” she said.

He paused. He was actually tempted. A week alone with this woman would be an adventure. There was a mutual attraction, and she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and—

She had a tendency to make things disappear. Literally. And his life hadn't been sane since he'd first laid eyes on her.

“When would you want to leave?”

“I told you. I have to go as soon as possible. That's why I'm leaving tomorrow.”

The fantasy burst. There would be no adventure. He had a book to write, a new job to learn, and a lot to catch up on. “I'm sorry. Even if I wanted to go, I couldn't get the time away. I just came back from a long sabbatical, and—”

“It's all right.” Her smile was rueful. “It was a silly idea, like I said. I was just feeling a little desperate, that's all. I shouldn't have dumped on you.”

“Emma, really, if I could go, I would.”

She nodded, but he could tell she didn't believe him. She touched his arm softly, and then turned around and walked away. Her head was down again and her movements lacked the fluid grace he had seen in them before. She was obviously disappointed. She had hoped he would go along.

He stifled the urge to follow her again. Instead he watched her go. Maybe he wasn't really attracted to her at all. Maybe her magic had drawn him to her, like a love potion or a charm spell. He wasn't entirely himself when he was with her. And if he believed she had the power to send him back to the tenth century, he certainly believed she could make him think he loved her when he really didn't.

Time and distance would ease the attraction, if it wasn't real.

Although it sure felt real.

He shook himself. He'd been attracted to women before and had gotten over it. He'd been in love before, and survived the breakup.

He could handle never seeing Emma Lost again.

Couldn't he?

Emma hung up the phone and put her head down on her desk. Darnell sat in the window, watching her over his shoulder. He was worried—not so worried that he couldn't occasionally yip at the neighbor's cat prowling the yard—but keeping an eye on her just the same.

She was worried too. She had just spoken to her last friend in town—an acquaintance, really, a woman she had met at a faculty fund-raiser just a month ago. The woman had been polite—everyone had been polite—but no one was willing to travel with Emma to Oregon, not even if she waited a week or two.

And she hadn't told any of them about the magic problem or the supervision. She hadn't said a word. All of her friends were simply too busy to take a week or two away from their lives. That is, a week away that hadn't been scheduled months in advance.

Darnell rose to his hind legs and plastered his front paws on the window. He was growling. Apparently the interloper cat had come too close.

At least Emma hadn't turned Darnell into a lion again. That would really scare the outdoor cat. Fortunately for the invader, all Darnell could do was give him the evil eye.

She couldn't quite smile at her own attempt at humor. She was in trouble, and she knew it. She had even thumbed through the
Isthmus
personals, hoping to find someone looking for an odd job. She'd checked the ride board at both the Memorial Union and at Union South, but no one was heading to Oregon. The closest companion she could find were a handful of students going to Seattle or to San Francisco.

She'd called them, but none of them wanted to go out of their way to drop her in Portland.

And then there was Michael Found. Her cheeks warmed just at the memory of him. He had pursued her at the Union, sitting with her, talking with her. At one point she had even thought he was flirting with her. But when she finally asked him, he had said no.

Not just any no, either. But one that started with,
even
if
I
wanted
to
go
. Like her offer had offended him.

It probably had. She offended him. He made that clear too, in his discussion of her “poor” work. And still she had asked him.

She had told him she was desperate, and she really, really was.

Maybe if she waited until the end of the semester, she would find more rides. Maybe.

That feeling of energy leaving her—a feeling that was becoming familiar—struck again. She sat up to see red lights flare out of Darnell's eyes. The lights burned into the yard, and she heard a cat scream with terror.

Emma ran to the window in time to see the neighbor cat slide under the fence, fluffy white tail between its fat little legs. The red lights pouring out of Darnell's eyes followed the invader like laser beams in a bad science fiction movie.

Thank heavens he was a cat and didn't have an immediate understanding of what those powers could do. But she did, and as he turned toward her, she ducked, repeating the reverse spell over and over.

The lights dimmed, and then faded out, but not before they left a smoky trail on her hardwood floor. She glanced at the wall opposite Darnell and saw two little holes, still smoking, that went all the way through to outside.

Little fires were burning on her lawn as well.

Darnell mewed at her piteously. Apparently the entire thing had frightened him as well.

She went to the window, picked up her strong elderly cat, and held him close. “I'm so sorry, Darnell.”

She wasn't even sure this time how the spell had happened, but she knew it had to do with some stray thought of hers. Maybe she should leave Darnell here, with someone. But Darnell was old and he was her familiar. She'd heard horrible tales about what happened to mages who lost their familiars. She was having enough trouble already.

“I'll keep you as safe as I can, Darnell,” she whispered. “But this proves it. We can't wait until the end of the semester. We have to leave tomorrow.”

Darnell squirmed in protest. She was holding him too tight. He jumped out of her arms, careful to avoid the charred floor, and ran to the door. There he stopped and licked his body as if her touch had offended him.

Great. A long trip with out of control magic and an oversensitive familiar.

Life certainly wasn't getting any easier.

***

Michael woke up, his entire body tense. Something was wrong; he could feel it.

His bedroom was dark, but not pitch black. Light flowed in the west window from the streetlight on the corner, covering the room in familiar pale blocks. He could see the hardwood floor and the corner of the black comforter that had slipped off his bed. The shadows from the ancient spider plant some long forgotten girlfriend had given him crisscrossed the bed, making it seem as if the light were coming through a forest.

He glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the nightstand. He couldn't read the illuminated digits—a stack of books he'd been picking his way through blocked the readout. He leaned back and squinted. Two forty-five a.m. Strange. He didn't feel as if he'd been awakened out of a deep sleep.

But he still had the sense that something was wrong. Then he heard the clock chime in the living room.
Bong. Bong. Bong
.

He frowned. Something was wrong with that too.

Bong. Bong. Bong
.

He reached for his robe and slipped it on.

Bong. Bong. Bong
.

Then he put on his slippers—
bong
—as he realized—
bong
—that he didn't have a chiming clock in the living room—
bong
—or anywhere else in the house.

A shiver ran through him, even though the room was warm. His front door opened and then closed. He reached for the phone beside his bed, knocked down more books, and winced. Now, at least, the intruder would know where to find him.

Michael grabbed the phone and listened for the dial tone. There was none. Then he realized he was hearing Christmas music—“God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” to be exact—and over it, the sound of a window opening.

Boy!
Patrick Stewart said—or was that George C. Scott? Or Alastair Sim—
What
day
is
it?

Michael looked at the phone as if it had bit him. Then he jiggled the disconnect button several times. When he put the phone back to his ear, he heard Patrick Stewart, or George C. Scott, or Alastair Sim say,
Then
it
all
happened
in
one
night! The spirits visited me in one night!
And he laughed maniacally.

Michael hung up the phone and hurried to his window. He tried to yank it open, but it was stuck shut, almost as if it were painted shut. Now how could that be? He'd had it open just the night before.

Footsteps echoed in the living room. Michael cast about wildly, wondering what he would do. He tiptoed to the closet and found his baseball bat. It was the only weapon he had.

He waited near the door, breathing shallowly, listening. The footsteps got closer. His heart was pounding. Who was doing this? What did they want? It didn't even sound as if they were searching for anything.

Then his bedroom door opened and the room flooded with light as if someone had aimed a spotlight through the door. A long, robed shadow covered the floor.

Michael raised the bat—

…and felt his arms freeze into place.

“Really,” a harsh, nasal voice said. “Is that any way to greet the Ghost of Christmas Present?”

Michael felt his jaw drop. Lights came on all around him. Not his lights—but candles, all of them under glass chimneys, just like something out of Dickens. His head itched. He moved it slightly, and the balled end of a stocking cap hit him in the face. He looked down and realized he was wearing a nightshirt—not the robe he had put on moments before.

“Put down the bat,” the voice said, “and we'll have a discussion.”

“I can't move my arms,” Michael said.

“Ooops,” the voice said. “Forgot.”

Michael's arms were suddenly under his own power. They collapsed around him, and it took all of his control to keep the bat from clunking him on the head. He set the bat behind him, close enough to pick it up again if he needed it.

But he wasn't sure how he would need it. This was the strangest nocturnal visit—in fact, the only nocturnal visit—he had ever had.

The lights came up even farther revealing the figure in the center of the room. The spotlight went out and Michael realized that the man facing him was the size of a small child. Only he didn't look like a child.

He was perfectly proportioned, square with a pugnacious face. His chin curved outward, and his nose curved inward—or it once had. But it looked as if it had been broken several times. He had a long white beard that flowed to the ground, and he wore a wreath of holly around his head. His robe was green with fur trim.

“I thought the Ghost of Christmas Present was tall,” Michael said.

“Damn that Dickens,” the intruder said. “That was funny at first, but after one hundred fifty years, it's beginning to annoy me.”

“And,” Michael said as if the intruder hadn't spoken, “it's not Christmas Eve.”

“So?”

“It's May.”

“So?”

“And”—this was the part that really offended him—“I'm not Scrooge.”

The little man raised his eyebrows, making him look like Puck out of
A
Midsummer
Night's Dream
. Puck dressed as Oberon.

Michael shook his head. He'd been to American Player's Theater one too many times.

“Really?” the little man said. “Not Scrooge?”

“No,” Michael said. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

The little man shrugged. “I'm not disappointed. And I'm not confused. You share quite a few traits with him, you know.”

“I'm not cheap. I give money to all kinds of charities and I believe in helping—”

“Professors who are in dire need? Women who need a hero? People whose research doesn't meet your exacting standards?”

Michael took a step forward. He should have known that Emma was involved in this. “Who are you?”

“Let's just call me Ghost, shall we?”

“No,” Michael said. “What's your name?”

“You mortals and your insistence on names. I don't know you well enough to give you my name, and from what I've seen of you, I don't think you're trustworthy enough to know it. It's Ghost to you,” the little man said.

“I'll be damned if I call anyone Ghost,” Michael said.

“Be careful before you curse yourself.” The little man crossed his arms. “But since you don't believe in literary characters—even if I was Dickens's inspiration—I see no more point in being uncomfortable.”

He bobbed his head forward and there was a puff of smoke around him. When it cleared, he was wearing jeans with cuffs, tennis shoes that predated Nike, and a T-shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled in the right sleeve. His beard had vanished too—making him look almost normal.

“Okay,” he said. “So you won't call me Ghost. How about Casper?”

“That's your name?” Michael asked, still feeling as if he were one step behind.

“I didn't say that.” The little man hadn't moved.

“Then why should I call you Casper?”

“Well, I'm friendly…” the little man said.

Michael rolled his eyes. “It's the same as calling you Ghost.”

“Not quite. Casper, at least, is a real name. In fact, some Biblical accounts say it was the name of one of the Three Wise Men.”

“You're not going to try to convince me that you're one of the Three Wise Men?”

“Heavens no,” the little man said. “I was conning the Norse at the time.”

Michael shook his head. He felt as if the conversation had moved fifteen steps away from him without his permission. “What do you want?”

“What does the Ghost of Christmas Present always want?” Casper said. “To show you what will be.”

“I thought that's the Ghost of Christmas Future.”

“Yeah, well, I didn't feel like hiding my face and wearing that smelly robe and sticking out a skeletal hand. Ever since they did that sequence in a Mr. Magoo cartoon, it hasn't felt right.”

Michael stifled a grin. He couldn't imagine the little man in front of him being scary at all in a black-robed costume with only red eyes where the face would be. He would have looked more like a Jawa from
Star
Wars
than the Ghost of Christmas Future.

“You have a point,” Michael said, careful to keep all trace of the smile out of his voice. “So, how're you going to get me to change my miserly ways?”

“You know,” the little man said, “I don't see what you have against her.”

“Against Emma?”

Casper—Michael had mentally given in and allowed the little man his made-up name—shook his head. “See? You knew who I meant without me having to say a word.”

“Actually you said quite a few words, and I knew who you meant because she's the only woman who has ever turned my world upside down.”

“Ever?”

Michael let out a sigh of exasperation. “In this way.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Michael said with a little too much force. “She's the only one who used a spell to send me back to the tenth century.”

“I'm sure others wanted to,” Casper said.

Michael glared at him. Casper held his hands out, as if wordlessly protesting his innocence. “You have already proven a trial to me.”

“I have?” Michael asked. “You're the one who invaded my house, put a recording of Dickens on my phone, and glued my windows shut.”

“I didn't use glue,” Casper said. “I've never used glue in my life. I would never stoop to glue.”