Your Magic or Mine? (25 page)

Marcus eyed Morgan sitting across the aisle from him on the plane home. She was reading what looked like a scholarly journal and writing a note in the margin. When she tapped her lip with her pen, he almost groaned when his memory of her taste came back to him in a rush.

He glanced down at his computer where he was proofing—or attempting to proof—the article he had completed yesterday. It looked like gibberish to him. Who was he kidding about working? He wasn’t concentrating worth a damn. He saved the article and shut down his machine.

Tilting his seat back, he closed his eyes. Lord only knew, he needed sleep. Last night’s erotic dreams had woken him several times, and lying awake had not been much better. His mind continued to replay that kiss. And remember the bliss he found in her arms.

No woman had ever affected him like that with what should have been a simple kiss. Was all that the SMI’s doing? How much of it was the woman herself? He had to admit, if she weren’t a practitioner, he’d still be attracted to her—and actively working to get her into his bed.

She was smart—not merely intelligent about her profession, but her talent and magic itself. He could understand now why she brought up the larger picture about spell-casting; he hadn’t looked beyond his own equation. She had good ideas and questions for the debates. She was fun to be with. She certainly had a pointed wit. F-Squared or Cubed, indeed.

Their kisses left him breathless and wanting more, and more …

No, stop this line of thought.

He should think about the prank. Who could be behind it? Ed had no real news to impart at breakfast. The security cameras caught a couple of people, men, from their estimated heights, in gray robes with raised hoods putting up the posters, pounding on doors and running for the stairs. The robes came from the training rooms in the basements, and everyone had access to those.

Nothing short of a full search would uncover who wrote and printed the flyers. Since the Denver HeatherRidge, like its sisters across the country, was a combination of individually owned condos and a hotel, it would be difficult, if not impossible to search all the rooms, invading the privacy and property of others, without hard proof.

Who might be willing to go to such lengths to discourage discussion of his formula? He had no clue what went on among the Horners and THA members or who the major players were, except for Walcott. The Traddies were certainly against change, period, but how reckless were they?

As for his fellow mathematicians? Prick was milking the situation for every ounce from which to take credit. By stirring up opposition, he might think he would make himself more important, more prominent. Brubaker? No, not Brubaker, who blabbered on in “math speak” until he bored everybody, his colleagues included, to death. Dortman had written that rabid note at the first debate, and he hadn’t made a peep at the second. He wouldn’t make a move without Prick’s okay, either.

Nobody else came to mind. Nobody of any substance. All he could do was keep his eyes and ears open and let the Swords do their job, as Ed suggested.

After all, it wasn’t like he didn’t have enough to think about. Especially about the woman sitting not four feet from him. What was he going to do about her—his supposed
soul mate?
He still didn’t want to believe the imperative. Why didn’t the phenomenon leave him alone? He, who had sworn as a teenager never to go down the soul-mate path. He, who had borne the brunt of … No, better not rehash the past.

What counted were the present and the future. He’d made a good life for himself, full of success and accomplishment. He enjoyed his academic work, and his career writing science-fiction allowed him other outlets for his creativity. He could look forward to many productive and satisfying years.

As for a need for companionship, he had friends. Evelyn, George, some colleagues, a few other authors. He dated from time to time. He had a dog. What more could a man ask for?

As if in answer, his center seemed to sink in on itself and leave a gaping hole in the middle of his chest. He rubbed it—the friction seemed to help.

All his conjecture was getting him nowhere. He was simply theorizing ahead of his data. He had to be patient, do the research, and hope Morgan’s talk with the old witch bore fruit. His chest settled down and didn’t seem so empty. Maybe he was hungry.

The captain announced they were approaching the Austin airport, and he stowed his computer. He glanced over at Morgan, who smiled at him before hauling her bag out from under the seat and packing her journals. He tried to smile back, but didn’t think she’d seen him.

After they landed, he followed her up the Jetway and into the terminal. In baggage claim her parents were there to greet her with big hugs. He ignored the hiccup his center made at the sight of family closeness and was about to slip by the Morgans with a wave, when Antonia called his name, and he walked over.

After exchanging greetings, Antonia said, “Why don’t you come back to the farm with us for supper, Marcus. We have plenty and we’d love to hear how it went from both of you. What excitement! I’ve never seen a Sword in action.”

Morgan looked a little stricken at the suggestion, and it was no hardship on him to decline. The less they were together, the better. Besides he had a good excuse. “Thank you, but I have to pick up Samson from George and Evelyn. I’d already arranged to have dinner with them.”

While they waited for their luggage, Marcus walked with Alaric, answering questions about the debate. He could hear Morgan doing the same with her mother. Fortunately, his bag was among the first off the plane, and he was able to say good-bye and leave.

As he was walking away, however, Morgan came running after him. “Wait,” she called, and he stopped. “I’m going to say the bare minimum to Mother and Daddy about those posters. I’d like to tell them nothing, but I don’t think that will work. A lot of people saw the things.”

“You’re right. I’ll do the same for George and Evelyn, in case they compare notes with your parents. George might come up with the names of others in the math world who are candidates for the prankster.”

“Good idea. My parents might have more information about the Horners and their supporters too. Okay, goodbye, until next weekend.”

“Don’t forget to tell me what Mother Higgins says.”

“I won’t.” She turned and walked back to her parents.

He watched her go, and that damned hole opened up again in his chest. “Oh, stop this nonsense,” he told it as he headed for the parking lot.

Gloriana called Mother Lulabelle Higgins on Monday and went to see the venerable witch on Wednesday. She liked Lulabelle a lot, had learned many spells and potion recipes from the healer, and trusted her to keep confidences. Please, let her be able to help them.

In mid-morning, Gloriana pulled up to the simple frame house on an oak-tree-shaded street in LaGrange. The garden was filled with multicolored flowers, especially roses, daisies, and zinnias, and Gloriana smiled at the cheerful blossoms while she climbed the steps to the broad porch.

“Hello, dear,” Lulabelle said, opening the door before Gloriana could knock. “Come on in. How are you and how is the family?”

“We’re all fine, Lulabelle. How are you? You’re looking well. How was Vegas? Did you take those gamblers to the cleaners?” She gave Lulabelle a hug.

Lulabelle grinned, patted her tightly curled, silver-white hair, and pointed to her T-shirt, which proclaimed “Poker Diva” in sparkling crystals. “I believe I taught a couple of them a lesson.”

Gloriana followed the old witch to the kitchen. The house was immaculate as always, and the air was fragrant with the smell of freshly baked chocolate. Lulabelle moved fairly briskly, her slim body ramrod straight. A stranger would guess she was seventy, maybe seventy-five. Gloriana could only hope she looked so good when she was seventy, much less Lulabelle’s ninety-some-odd years.

“I’ve made some brownies for us. My doctor says to indulge my tastes, and I’m following his orders. What would you like to drink with them?”

“Milk, of course,” Gloriana answered. “Here, let me get it. The same for you?”

“What else? The glasses are in their usual place.”

“The big news is, Daria’s going to have a baby,” Gloriana said as she poured the milk.

“No, you don’t say! That’s wonderful. I’ll have to call her soon.”

They each chose a brownie from the plate on the table and took their first bites.

“Mmmmm,” they both hummed.

They chitchatted about her family and Lulabelle’s until their first brownies were reduced to crumbs.

Lulabelle wiped her lips after a swallow of milk and looked straight at Gloriana. “You said you had some soulmate

questions, dear. Have you finally found yours?”

Gloriana sighed, played with her napkin, took another sip of milk. She knew her inquisitor would not let her rise from the table without telling every detail. “I don’t know. I’ve met a man, a practitioner, and we’re attracted to each other, but he’s extremely different from me. We have practically nothing in common, we hardly speak the same language, we don’t understand each other’s magic, and it gets worse from there.”

“Start at the beginning, Glori. Let’s take it a step at a time.”

“You remember how I was involved in that debate over how to cast spells? Everything started there.” She proceeded to tell Lulabelle the entire story.

When she came to the kisses, the first test portion of them, Lulabelle smiled. When she mentioned their idea of assuaging the SMI with the second kiss, Lulabelle started laughing.

A little miffed at the old witch’s reaction, Gloriana waited until her laughter subsided and said, “So, that’s where we left it. What do you think? Did the imperative make a mistake? Can we change the SMI’s mind? Are we stuck? What happens if we don’t mate? Have you ever heard of practitioners who did reject their mates? Not legends or tales, but in reality, with facts that can be checked? We’re serious here.”

“Oh, my dear, I’m sure you are. That particular tactic is a new one to me and quite startling.” Lulabelle grew serious. “Let me think out loud for a minute, starting with your last question. I’ve known, actually made the acquaintance of, only one practitioner who refused his soul mate. It was back in the nineteen-fifties. He belonged to a highfalutin New York City family, and his soul mate was the daughter of working-class parents. Oh, the horror and shame of having someone like her as their son’s mate! He came from a long line of very blue blood, and the imperative had always paired their members with others of the same sort. His family was outraged and threatened to disown him if he married her.

“He, poor boy, did not have a very strong backbone and was greedy to boot, and he rejected her. I met him about ten years after the rejection. He was in terrible shape, had gone through two wives—non-practitioner, of course—and had taken to the bottle. He came to me for healing and told me his story. Although I helped him as much as I could, nothing was going to alleviate the pain and heartbreak the imperative was causing him.” Lulabelle stopped to take a sip of milk.

“I saw him again about a year after that visit,” she continued, “and he was even worse off. He’d actually found his mate—she’d moved out of town after the rejection and never married—and he asked her to marry him. This time
she
didn’t want anything to do with
him!
Told him she’d come to terms with her life being without a mate, the imperative wasn’t bothering her at all, and he should crawl back into his hole and pull it in after him. I suggested he try to change her mind—it’s never too late if you’re both alive—but we lost touch after that. I never knew what happened to either of them.”

“What a sad tale,” Gloriana said, her hopes for a happier ending plummeting. “What were their names? I’d like to look them up if possible. Ma—uh, Forscher and I want to check them out.”

“William Robert Rhinedebeck was his name. I think hers was something like Gladys Kowalski or Kaminsky.”

Gloriana pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and wrote down the names. “That’s the only actual instance of rejection you have personal knowledge of?”

“Yes. I’ve heard the tales, of course, about horrible ends, suicides, even murders.”

“Murders?”

“Where the one rejected kills the one rejecting, or one of the rejected kinfolk takes on the task.”

“Oh.” She wouldn’t have to worry about that, thank goodness. None of her family would go after Forscher with a shotgun. Although, come to think of it, Clay might consider his computers fair game. “Do you have an idea why there’s so little in the records about soulmate rejections?”

“Probably because they’re rare. Except for the one I am personally acquainted with, all the rest of the stories are older than I am and seem to be more like cautionary fables. I don’t think we even bother with them anymore when telling you children about the imperative. You and Marcus are the first people I’ve ever heard of to resist because you think you’re incompatible. I will see what I can find out about this Rhinedebeck fellow, though. There may be more to the story.”

“Thanks. But to get back to my other questions, has the SMI, or more correctly the phenomenon, ever made a mistake? Ever changed its mind?”

“I don’t think so. Not where the two mates are concerned. Rhinedebeck and the woman were, in fact, soul mates. I’ve witnessed many matches between different classes, races, religions. I’m sure there have been other outraged or disappointed or upset families because people will act like jackasses, given an excuse. I’ve seen mates intensely attracted to each other and those who hardly appear to be mates at all. I’ve never heard of two potential mates being attracted one day and having no connection the next, as though the imperative took it all back.” Lulabelle reached for another brownie.

Gloriana poured them both more milk. “Forscher says that he doesn’t want a soul mate, ever. He has nothing against me, per se. He simply decided long ago it wasn’t for him. He wouldn’t discuss why he feels that way.”