The Source (Witching Savannah, Book 2) (8 page)

“It’s true, Sandman is under foot, but what better way to keep him occupied than to have him show Mercy how to sift for memories?” Oliver said. “He doesn’t have to know the real reason. Just that Mercy would like to know how.”

Ellen turned in her seat. “I agree with Iris. It’s a bad idea.” I saw her eyes telegraph Iris a quick look of concern, but Iris remained stoic.

“Do you have a better one?” Oliver asked, but didn’t wait for a response. “No, I didn’t think so. It’s settled then,” he said, and then addressing me, “Let’s go find Emmet. Oh, wait”—his voice dripped with sarcasm—“here he is now.” He saluted the window where Emmet had been standing stock still the entire time.

TEN

Emmet stood as still as a statue when we entered the room, turning only when Oliver called out, “Hey, Sandman. You ready to teach our girl here a trick?”

“Of course I’m ready to assist in Mercy’s education. It’s my sole purpose for being in your home,” he said, and then his dark eyes burned into me. “It’s my sole purpose for being period, as best as I can reason.” A certain heaviness, manifested by a physical darkening of the air around us, filled the room.

“Not awkward at all,” Oliver said under his breath, and even though I felt sure Emmet had heard, his expression didn’t change. “All right then, Mercy here wants to learn how to shake loose some memories from this old house. Charge the atmosphere and see what pops out. Maybe get a glimpse of her mom or her grandparents.”

“I”—Emmet looked directly at me, acting as if he had forgotten Oliver was even in the room with us—“would be more than happy to show you. I’ve been thinking that perhaps I’ve been approaching your education in the wrong way, trying to teach you what I think you should learn instead of what you’d like to learn. The families have perhaps objectified you in their rush to have you meet the responsibilities of being the line’s anchor. They,
I
, have forgotten that you are a person and a witch in your own right.”

“Thank you,” I said, touched by his words. They summed up so much of the way I’d been feeling lately; the families merely saw me as a seat of power, and to Peter’s parents, I was the incubator of his child. Somewhere in becoming who I was going to be, who I was had been getting lost.

“However,” he continued, “I have been forbidden to assist you—any of you, for that matter—with any attempt to reach Maisie.”

“We aren’t asking you to do anything like that,” Oliver said. “I mean, I could teach her what she wants to know myself. We merely thought it would make you feel like you were serving your purpose here.” His tone grew heated. “And we hoped that it might get you to knock off the skulking a bit.” I realized he wasn’t trying to provoke a reaction from Emmet; he still considered the big man a walking hunk of clay, unworthy of his consideration, perhaps even incapable of feeling any barbs.

“I was unaware that I have been ‘skulking.’ My sole intention was to keep myself available to Mercy.” His voice was measured, unflinching. Only his eyes revealed that Oliver had struck a nerve. Emmet annoyed me, it was true, but I had no desire to see him in pain.

“Come on, Emmet,” I said, taking his hand and drawing him away. Oliver’s tone was growing more sardonic by the moment, and I knew that if he stayed around Emmet, he’d use the former golem as a whipping boy, taking out all his anger and frustration on him. In truth, Emmet and I had much in common. The families saw both of us as pawns, means to their desired ends. Truth was, he was every bit as lost in all of this as I was.

The heat I felt in Emmet’s hand surprised me; he burned a bit more brightly than the average man. He followed me dutifully, so I let go of him. When I did, something tangible came over him. Disappointment? Lately I had felt buffeted by others’ emotions. Their feelings would try to take me over, and that constituted a major part of the reason I’d felt so lost lately. I had to talk to Emmet or someone else about this problem, but I doubted that this was the best time.

“The memories of your mother, your grandparents,” he said as we reached the second-floor landing. “They may be more difficult to summon, since a bit of time has passed, and since they are . . . gone.”

“Okay,” I prompted him.

“Perhaps we could start with something a little easier,” he said, and for the first time since he had become
real
, I saw the shadow of a grin on his lips. “And have you work your way up? I want you to have a sense of accomplishment,” he explained. “Success will provide a much stronger encouragement for you to continue your studies than early failures.”

I laughed. “You have been reading books on teaching, haven’t you?”

“Well, yes,” he said, lowering his eyes and stepping back a bit, acting as if I’d stumbled upon an embarrassing secret. “Does that offend you?”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes at him. “Come on. How do we start?”

“Follow me,” he said, leading me to my own room. He stepped inside, and I followed. “May I close the door?” he asked.

“Of course. Why not?”

“I thought you might feel vulnerable, being in here alone with a man. A stranger.”

“You aren’t a stranger,” I said. “I’ve known you all your life.”

His broad shoulders relaxed and his full lips curved into a smile. The sadness that haunted his eyes dissipated, if only for a moment. “You are the only one who sees me as real. Everyone else—your aunts, your uncle, and the other families—sees me as an empty shell. An automaton.”

“We know different though,” I said. “And sooner or later, the rest will see too.” I touched his arm, and felt a jolt run through him. For a second, his face flushed and his lips quivered. I stepped back, and the moment passed.

“I am sure you already know,” he said, his tone turning distant, professorial, “that everything is made of energy. Living energy. Everything around us here. The walls, the floor, your bed and desk. Actions, circumstances are made of energy too, and energy can’t be destroyed. Even so, the way energy organizes itself changes over time. This house is well maintained. The roof is fairly new; the paint is fresh. Your family continues to pour new energy into it to keep it in the condition they desire. If they did not, the house would eventually decay and fall apart.” He paused and sat at my desk. At nearly seven feet tall, he was strangely oversized for the seat. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, I think so. Entropy and all that.” I’d taken a steady progression of university classes in physics, math, languages, art, and literature. Aunt Iris had long since become frustrated by the fact that I’d never earned a degree, even though I had credits enough for three. I loved the learning, and I think a part of me felt afraid that a diploma would symbolize that my learning days had come to an end. My rational mind told me that I owed it to myself to finish my degree, and I also needed to set a good example for my son. I wanted him to know that his mama always finished what she started. I promised myself that I would do just that after Colin was born.

Emmet looked at me with pride. “Yes. Things fall apart. The same thing holds true in regards to events. We build the events in our lives. We furnish them with our intellect and decorate them with our emotions, but then we walk away. We never bring new energy to them, and with time, they fade and disappear from our senses. That’s what leads to the sense that time is passing; what we call ‘the present’ simply reflects where we collectively are focusing the most energy.”

“So the daily events of my mother’s life are still available to me if I can bring enough energy to them?”

“Yes, to a certain degree, but time has passed. More importantly, you have a deep-seated sense of having been separated from your mother.” The irony of Emmet’s words nearly took my breath from me, but he was too caught up in his lecture to notice. “The memories that are closer to you are easier to revive—they’re simply awaiting a burst of energy that’s strong enough to jar them loose. Perhaps that’s where we should start.” Emmet stood and walked up to me, standing so close the heat from his body radiated into my own.

“You appreciate this vessel,” he said after staring at me for a long moment. “You respond emotionally to it, perhaps even physically as well.” Strong hands grasped me and pulled me into steely arms. His mouth found mine and forced it open, his tongue, a flickering flame, forcing its way inside. A burst of fire shot down my spine, and I would have been jolted off the ground had his arms not been holding me so tightly. I was breathless when he finally released me. I reached back and slapped him as hard as I could. My hand left its mark, but Emmet didn’t even react. Instead, he grabbed me and spun me around again.

There before me sat a much younger version of myself wearing a pink sundress I’d hated. I had been way too much of a tomboy for Iris’s liking, and she’d been on a constant mission to get me to dress like a girl. The pink-dressed me sat at the table, crayons in hand and an angry expression on my face. The sight made the present version of myself smile. Emmet loosed his grasp on me, and I drew nearer. I remembered this moment now. Iris had put me in a time-out because I had thrown a fit over having to wear that very same dress.

“When you imagined your father, you drew my form, my body, for him,” Emmet’s voice came from over my shoulder. “With your crayons.”

I was shocked, but I knew he was absolutely right. The sketch showed large and sturdy hands on a man as big and strong as a tree. I had imagined someone to whom I could appeal the injustice of pink dresses and time-outs. I had forgotten the image as I had grown past my childish hope of finding my dad. In broad strokes, that image stood behind me now. I turned to face him.

“This vessel could have taken any shape—a child, a woman, a common household pet, even. When you came across it rising from the earth, it contained nothing but pure potential. Your consciousness cast it in this form. As you dealt with Ginny’s death and the issues between you and your sister, your longing for a father figure resurfaced, perhaps not consciously, but strongly enough to give birth to this image. You provided the mold into which the energies flowed. They simply responded to the need you projected onto them.”

Oh, no, it didn’t make me feel in the least little bit icky to realize I was attracted to my idealized paternal figure. Well, maybe Emmet was only a manifestation of my childhood perception of the idealized
male
, I quickly rationalized. Satisfied with that extenuation and deeply determined never to consider the issue again, I said, “I didn’t know,” and took a few steps back from him.

“And then you named me,” he responded, regaining the distance I had put between us. “Like it or not, you have made your mark on this body. You’ve put your stamp on me. The line selected you and turned me into a person, a man, in the same instant. I cannot believe it happened by accident or chance.”

He knelt before me, bringing his eyes more in line with my own. “Mercy, I remember the incidents from the lives of the nine who made me. All their joys and shames, their accomplishments and little infidelities. But, Mercy . . . Seeing your face is
my
first memory.”

“Get up, Emmet,” I said, trying to diffuse the passion I felt in his declaration, but he reached out and took both of my hands.

“Mercy, the line didn’t make a mistake. The line made me
for you
. You are my only purpose and my only passion.”

I might have felt threatened or uneasy, but I knew that Emmet spoke nothing but the truth. “For now, maybe, but you’ll find others.” His face grayed; he was stricken. I didn’t know why he had chosen this particular moment to make his declaration, but he had offered all he had and all he was to me. Completely. This had been his big gamble, the moment when he put all his chips on the table. It broke my heart to reject him, but we both knew I was saying no. “I’m pregnant. I’m marrying Peter.”

“If you wanted to marry Peter, you already would have.” Anger crept into his voice. My choice had stung him. “He had to rely on the old woman’s magic to reach you.”

“No. I was confused,” I said, speaking calmly, ignoring the heated resentment I heard in his voice. I didn’t want to hurt Emmet. I had never even considered that he might have feelings for me. “I was deceived by Jackson. I would have turned to Peter anyway. I
have
turned to Peter. He’s my oldest friend. I love him. I am carrying his child.”

“I would gladly raise your child as my own,” Emmet vowed to me.

“Enough,” I said, shaking my hands from his. “Get out of my room.” I should have ordered him out of my house, out of Savannah, but in spite of what my good sense told me, I didn’t have the heart. He had nowhere else to go.

“As you wish.” He stood, reaching his impressive full height. “At least you’ve learned how easily passion can lend itself to use in magic, and why your mother would have used it to reach her goals.”

At first I couldn’t find the words. Ellen’s crystal had been out there with us, but that only prevented remote spying. I stood there with my mouth open. “You were listening to us . . . You could somehow hear us.”

“Not exactly. One of the witches who created me is deaf. From him, I received the ability to read lips. For the record, the families have forbidden me to help you in any way with Maisie, but they said nothing about your mother.” He started to leave but turned back to face me again. “You think you know Peter, but perhaps there are things he doesn’t even know about himself.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t you find it strange that he has been the sole suitor to knock on your door, the sole
human
suitor?”

“Regular guys tend to get freaked out by my family. By the magic.”

“That’s why witches tend to marry other witches, but our Peter was never put off by the magic. Has this never struck you as strange?”