Your Magic or Mine? (26 page)

“What are his parents like? That’s usually where our conclusions about mates come from.”

“Stiff, formal, both professors, very proper, immaculately dressed. They seem well suited to each other. At their request, he calls them by their first names. His mother’s proud of him, I could see that when she looked at him. I couldn’t tell how his father felt. My parents got along with them okay, but they get along with everybody.” She took a bite of another brownie. At this rate, she wouldn’t need lunch.

Lulabelle stared into the distance for a minute before saying, “Glori, I think you have to get to the bottom of Marcus’s refusal to accept a mate. He has to have a reason, and a very good one, to fight the imperative. You’re never going to be able to be together until you do. That brings up other questions. Do you like the man? Can you see yourselves together? Do
you
want to be together, to be his soul mate and have him for yours?”

Gloriana moved her glass in circles on the table while she considered her answer. That really was the question, wasn’t it? Such a jumble of ideas, notions, and impressions ran through her head that she couldn’t settle on a decision.

Finally she said, “I honestly don’t know. I like him, but I can’t tell you why—probably the phenomenon at work. He’s so perfect, always looking like a magazine ad. I guess he can’t help that. When we’re together, I feel like that character in the comics who always has a dirt cloud surrounding him.

“He’s certainly smart, both about his profession and his magic. He can be charming. I wish he would loosen up a little. On the other hand, given his parents, he probably hasn’t had much experience with ‘going with the flow.’ There’s a part of me that wants to try to penetrate that wall he has around him, but that may be my perverse nature—much stimulated in my formative years by my big brother.”

“Speaking of loosening up, are you aware that Marcus Forscher is a fiction writer besides being a professor?” Lulabelle asked.

“No. What does he write?”

“Science fiction. A couple of my grandsons and great grandsons are fans of his. He writes under the name Frederik Russell. From what they’ve said, the books are good space adventures, lots of intergalactic wars, and the like.”

“I never would have guessed it. I’ll ask Clay if he’s heard of him. He and Daddy read that stuff.”

“Surely there’s more you can say about the man, Glori. What have you been able to agree on?”

She took a thinking break to finish off her milk before speaking. “We’ve complemented each other in our negotiations with Ed over the staging and during the events themselves. Like a man, of course, he often tries to speak first and for me, and I’m holding my own there. We’re agreed upon the need for a study of magic education and seem to have arrived at a mutual consensus that encompasses both our views.

“I’m still confused. I am attracted to him, of course. The imperative’s stirring up emotions and thoughts I never knew I had, while down at bedrock, I can’t see spending the rest of my life with someone with very little in common between us and especially with a man who, except for an outside force, doesn’t want to be there in any way, shape, or manner.” She had to twist in her seat at the thought of that.

“What about the fact that we’re really different about our philosophies of casting spells and working magic? He had a look of sheer horror—or maybe it was distaste—when he saw me give a growth spurt to a poinsettia. He showed me how he plays with these theoretical math proofs, and I couldn’t even formulate an intelligent question. Our dogs may like each other, but you can’t build a life on that. I feel in my bones we have other differences than the ones we know about—music, politics, and the fact that he doesn’t have a single plant in his house. I have no idea what he thinks about children, except that he probably doesn’t want them or he’d want a wife. How do you live with someone like that, much less be their helpmate, their soul mate?”

Lulabelle patted her hand. “Dear, that’s where I think you’re worrying about something that doesn’t really matter. I’ve seen mates who were wildly different from each other on the surface, yet got along wonderfully and built strong, healthy families.” She paused, a shrewd gleam showed in her eyes, and she asked, “How are you taking the news of Daria’s baby?”

“Fine.” When Lulabelle shot her one of those “oh, come on” looks, Gloriana shrugged. “I’m willing to admit the news threw me for a loop at first, and it has made me wonder about a family of my own. Yes, I’d like one. All of a sudden, I’m thinking of it at least once a day, where before all our problems, the notion never crossed my mind once a year. The question has become, how can I have one when my soul mate says no? I have no idea what it would take to change his mind.”

“Meanwhile the imperative is pestering you, and you’re both trying to keep it at bay with a kiss from time to time. Is your method of appeasement working?”

“So far it seems to be. No pain since I came home.” She put her hand on her center. Nothing, not a hum, not an ache, not a twinge.

“How far do you plan on taking your pacification attempt?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll bet the imperative is going to up the ante, raise the stakes, make you more miserable in its attempts to bring you together. It’s also probably going to intensify your ‘interactions.’ How far into the first mating are you expecting to go?”

“How far?” Gloriana blinked at Lulabelle. “You lost me. What are you talking about?”

“You’re aware that the first mating is a process. It’s not wham, bam, and you’re bonded.” She waited until Gloriana nodded before continuing. “Be very careful if you two decide to make love with the idea of convincing the imperative to leave you alone. You may find yourself bonded.”

“I did ask Daria about the process, and she said they made love a bunch of times before being bonded, like six or seven.”

“I believe the average these days is between five and seven. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it was four to five, and records say fewer still if you look farther back in time. Remember, those are averages.”

“I don’t think I have to worry about an accidental bonding,” Gloriana said. “Neither Forscher nor I want to take it that far. We already rejected that test. The SMI’s quiet. Maybe we fooled it.”

“You may be more alike than you realize. You’re both intellectualizing the process, when it’s all about emotion and passion, the heart, not the brain. I’d like to be able to tell you simply to relax and enjoy the mate and the mating, but I do understand your difficulties. Be careful, dear.”

“We will,” Gloriana answered, wishing profoundly the whole disaster would simply go away. She had nothing against emotion; however, when it wasn’t reciprocated? Disaster.

“All our talk reminds me of my mate,” Lulabelle said with a sigh. “Jimmy’s been gone for twenty years and I still miss him.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to make you sad with my questions,”

“None of my memories make me sad, Glori, especially those of Jimmy. They’ve become old friends. I’m looking forward to you and your mate, Marcus or not, sitting here in my kitchen eating brownies. By the way, before you leave, I have a transplanting problem.”

Gloriana stayed to help repot a large ficus tree, thanked Lulabelle for all her help, and headed home. Big & Rich were singing “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)” and she was congratulating herself on finally having some facts to deal with, even if she didn’t like the idea of the SMI upping the stakes. When she reached the farm boundary, her center started itching.

She glanced down at her chest. “You be good and stop that. We’re doing the best we can. You simply have to accept the fact that you made a mistake.”

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.”

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.