Oxford Whispers

by Marion Croslydon

  Madison, still pretty shaken herself, chuckled. “It’s an American trick.” An American voodoo trick, more like.

  PETER HAD FAILED.

  He had wanted to attack the Cavalier by surprise, but Sarah had come to his rescue once again.

  This time around the balance of powers had changed. She was able to do things, things Peter would never have thought possible.

  Sarah was a witch.

  She would be a stronger adversary than she had been before. The outcome would be the same nevertheless.

  Chapter 15

  ARMS FOLDED around her lower chest, Madison followed the ballet of students and waiters performing at Rupert’s Christmas party. The caterers, carrying silver trays of canapés, ran around like blind dogs in a meathouse.

  Not your average student party.

  The bitter taste of whiskey and Coke bit her tongue. Madison swallowed three mouthfuls anyway, thirsty for the release alcohol would inject into her bloodstream.

  At Yale she had made a few bucks waiting tables for academic parties and weddings. Tonight, she stood on the other side of the fence. Tonight, she was having fun. Allegedly.

  A few sips later, she swapped her empty glass for a passing champagne flute but didn’t move from the dark corner of Rupert’s lounge. What had become of her plan to mingle with the hip crowd? To exchange a few words, a sentence maybe, with the host? Instead, she kept thinking about the painting and the Puritan, as if he were lurking around somewhere, never far from her.

  She caught a glimpse of Pippa and Ollie, their bodies pivoting on the dance floor in the conservatory. At the last minute, Rupert had invited them too.

  Placing her glass back atop a tray, Madison anchored her path on her friends and sidestepped through the dancing crowd. With champagne still cascading down her throat, she was ready to take a risk. And dance.

  Before she reached the dance floor, square shoulders blocked her path. Claus, the Dane from the Turf Tavern, barred her way, a thick grin across his vacant face.

  “Hello, Beauty. I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he said, hands on hips.

  “Hi Claus, I’m looking for my friends.” She bypassed the human obstacle, but he grabbed her by the hip and pulled her against his chest.

  He started a clumsy swirl, with Madison as his hostage. “Come on, let’s dance.”

  In the middle of their second round, another set of hands rescued her from the Dane’s by pulling her away from him. Claus arched his brows upward while his mouth gaped. Madison regained her balance by putting her own hands on those of her savior, on his fingers wrapped around her waist.

  “That’s enough, Jensen. The lady has done enough dancing,” Rupert ordered Claus, as if he were dealing with a naughty eight-year-old.

  Rupert’s body engulfed her, and her back leaned against his chest and stomach. Through layers of clothing, heat fired up her skin.

  He lowered his head so that his chin almost rested on her shoulder, his lips tingling at her ear. “You okay?”

  Her eyes moved away from Claus, and she tilted her head toward Rupert. Her mouth a few inches from his, she breathed in the scent of freshly laundered clothes.

  Reassuring words having caught in her throat, she smiled at him instead. He made her turn to face him. She stood still in front of Rupert, his hands on her, as if they were dancing.

  Good heavenly days.

  It wasn’t butterflies in the pit of her stomach, but thousands of hummingbirds that threatened to knock her off her feet. Swallowing hard, she moistened her lips with her tongue. Rupert made her hungry, he made her want.

  Alarm bells screeched through her brain. What if Rupert had witnessed her powers that night outside the Turf? She stood back and his arms fell to his sides.

  “I guess Claus knocked down a shot too many,” she finally mumbled. Adjusting her top, she noticed her heart had now started to beat again.

  “Yeah, he’s a bit of a jerk. It was my modest attempt to save your life this time. I still can’t believe I was rescued by a girl.”

  “Don’t worry. No big deal.”

  “Listen, Maddie, I’d like to thank you again … for the other night. You didn’t let me down. It means a lot to me …” He stopped and took hold of her hand again, his fingers warm and strong around hers. “More than you can imagine.”

  Around her, the music faded away. The bright flashing lights of the dancing floor toned down to become distant halos. Maddie. She hated nicknames, but on Rupert Vance’s lips hers sounded like a title of nobility.

  “Let’s celebrate. I feel like champagne.” His eyes were filled with sparkles of joy.

  Rupert’s touch had made her come within a hair’s breadth of a heart attack, and her head spun. A glass of milk would be the doctor’s order.

  “Champagne would be nice.”

  But his whole demeanor changed. His body tensed, while his eyes left her to focus on a point beyond her. She looked back in the same direction and saw Monty, Rupert’s housemate, stumbling toward the kitchen. The guy must have indulged in the free booze even more than she had.

  “Sorry, Maddie, I’ll be back in a minute.” Rupert headed toward the kitchen where Monty had disappeared. A few steps away, he turned back and said, “Don’t move, please.”

  She nodded and planted herself right where he had left her, oblivious of the other guests. Claus was nowhere to be seen, and she didn’t feel too sorry for him. He was a big boy.

  “Screening the competition?” A clipped voice interrupted her wandering thoughts.

  Harriet stood next to Madison in a cashmere mini-dress. Her own plain jeans and black T-shirt combo screamed of provincial. And so she was.

  “Good evening.” She didn’t have anything wittier to say to a girl dating the guy Madison had a massive lust-crush on.

  “It’s always like that. Wherever Rupert goes, there’re countless pretty girls around. Either he chases them, or they’re attracted to him, like pilot fish following a shark everywhere he hunts.” The other girl giggled, but her laugh didn’t sound at all genuine.

  Madison remained silent, bracing herself for the next round.

  The lithe blond added without any hint of humor, “He will play with you, for a little while, and then he’ll throw you away.”

  Her words sunk into Madison’s mind.

  Harriet continued. “Rupert can’t help himself. It’s in his blood. He’s like his father, and Hugo’s roving eye made Rupert’s mother’s life miserable.” And the final strike: “I doubt your working-class mind can deal with that simple fact.”

  “Tell me, Harriet, what makes you think he’ll always come back to you? One day you might be the trash he gets rid of.”

  The girl pursed her lips. Apparently she hadn’t expected rednecks to fight back.

  “Anyway, I thought you should know that your red-haired friend is making a fool of herself upstairs.” With that, Harriet left.

  God knew what Pippa had gotten herself into this time. Looking back toward the kitchen, Madison didn’t see any sign of Rupert. Raging against the missed opportunity of champagne and an earl, she climbed the stairs and searched the second floor for her friend.

  Two outsized rooms opened on each side of a corridor. Madison entered the first one and found a guy she didn’t know lying on a bed, high as a kite. The smell of pot streamed into her nostrils.

  In the second bedroom she found Pippa snuggled on a corner sofa. At least Madison assumed it was her friend, judging by the mane of red hair spread over the white material of the couch. On top of her and blanketing her body, Oliver Davies had lost all restraint. The guy was on fire and Pippa didn’t seem to mind.

  Perplexed, Madison exited the room without a sound and walked back down the wooden stairs. She didn’t worry about Pippa, but rather for Ollie. She hoped for his sake that Pippa wasn’t playing with his feelings.

  On the last step down, another couple stopped her. Rupert and Harriet stood on the exact spot Madison had a long moment ago. Facing the b
lond diva, he held the bottle of champagne he had promised Madison. The bombshell had her arms around his bent neck.

  They were kissing.

  Chapter 16

  THE BRITISH GRENADIERS marched their stately parade between Rupert’s ears. Beats resonated in his hungover head.

  He rushed through getting rid of the remnants of last night’s party, with champagne bottles topping every surface, empty glasses, and one bra. He brushed his teeth, splashed his face with arctic water and prayed for Coach Bartlett’s sympathy.

  Morning training started at seven sharp and his watch showed two minutes past the hour. He dreaded today’s ergometer testing, but the indoor rowing machines appealed to him more than his coach’s anger. As Rupert ducked out of the front door, the December drizzle formed a barrier to his will. Bugger.

  He was happy to see his Morgan though. The eighteenth birthday’s present from his late grandfather waited for him like an understanding girl. If only real girls could be that patient.

  Madison didn’t have any time to waste on him. After he had rescued her from Claus’s claws, she had set him up. Rupert had taken care of Monty for a few minutes, but by the time he was back she had vanished from the party altogether.

  Maybe his ego had overestimated her reaction when he had held her. The moment hadn’t lasted long. But he’d had to keep himself from kissing Madison right in the middle of his living room. His hands had been hungry to touch her caramel skin, to hold her close.

  Monty’s latest drunken incident had saved him from a gigantic bust-up with Harriet, though. She had been all over him the rest of the night anyway, snogging and rubbing herself against him. He couldn’t fake it with her much longer. Breaking up with Harriet would piss his father off big time, but so be it. With or without Harriet, his father would have a fit at the news of Rupert’s career plans anyway.

  Sitting on the leather seat of his toy, he shut his eyes and tasted the minty flavor of toothpaste in his mouth. The one comforting thought was that of Claus Jensen’s major headache this morning. The guy had been smashed.

  Rupert started the car. Nothing happened. The engine didn’t roar. Again, he turned the key in the ignition. No reaction.

  7:10 a.m. Rupert slammed the steering wheel.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  His head would be rolling in the next hour, chopped by the coach. He would need all his faculties to get out of this one. Maybe drinking the Dom Perignon with Harriet hadn’t been the best idea.

  Hiding his face in his hands, Rupert sighed. His life was a total mess, and he was a world class screwup.

  Trying to control the pumping in his head, he popped out of the low seat and stood in front of the bonnet to open it. A burning smell emanated from within. He had no idea of what was wrong with the bloody car.

  A chain of swearing echoed in the neighborhood. What a loser he was.

  Back inside the car, he noticed on the floor the pink pen Madison had forgotten after their visit to Magway. He would grant her a damned favor by staying away from her purposeful life.

  Twenty minutes later, Rupert was officially in deep shit.

  He had pedaled on Monty’s bike to the Oxford University Boat Club on the Iffley Road and arrived at the training session thirty throatcutting minutes late. Out of breath and reeking of alcohol.

  Judging by the way the coach had not looked at him this morning, Rupert knew his arse was on the line. The one-man firing squad would make his entrance very soon. Coach Bartlett being a close friend of Rupert’s parents would not be enough to save his skin this time around.

  Rows of pictures, victorious teams remembered in black and white, aligned themselves on the walls of the coach’s office. Taking a chair, Rupert burned under his father’s scrutiny, glaring at him from a picture on the wall.

  Twenty-five years ago, Hugo Vance had laid the first stone of his legend by captaining a winning Oxford team. Twenty-five years later, his own flesh and blood would be ejected from the team before even competing in the bloody race.

  The door slammed behind the coach. Bartlett seated himself squarely on his chair, and Rupert moved his chin up to face the final verdict.

  “I’m not going to throw you out, Vance.”

  Bartlett’s gray slits of eyes didn’t betray any compassion as he said these words. Rupert shifted on his seat, not relieved for one second.

  “I’m going to piss you off even more.”

  Bartlett didn’t abandon his poker face. Rupert wondered what was worse than being kicked off the team.

  “I thought you had straightened up your act after the Fours Head. No more drinking, no more smoking. This morning when you arrived at training late I could smell the booze on your breath a mile away. For God’s sake, Rupert, you have potential, you perform under pressure. What’s your problem?”

  So many, I don’t know where to start.

  “Coach, I’d like to apologize—”

  “Shut up, Vance. I’ve no time for your bullshit. I’ve got a race to win three months from now.”

  Coach Bartlett stood and walked around his desk. He planted himself in front of Rupert, legs apart, arms crossed behind his back. The guy was ex-military and that steely demeanor remained.

  “Your problem is that you don’t want to be here. You hate rowing.” The short man leaned forward, his eyes challenging Rupert.

  “I do like—”

  “Shut up. The only reason you’re here is because of your father. Don’t get me wrong. I’d never have selected you because of your dad. You made it because you deserved a spot. You can be worthy of this team.”

  This time Rupert didn’t say anything.

  “You think getting onto this team is the best way to get your dad off your back. Well, not anymore.” Bartlett retraced his steps to his seat. “I’m not kicking you off the team. You’re too good for that. I need you.” Relaxing in his chair, he steepled his fingers together. “I’m calling your father as soon as you leave. I’ll tell him about your breach of the rules, and what he does to you after that is none of my business.”

  “It won’t be necessary. I’ll explain—”

  “Oh yes, you’re going to do a lot of explaining from now on. Every week until the end of the season, you’ll send a report on your performances via email to your father, with a copy to me.”

  That wasn’t the sanction Rupert had expected. The sacking hatch would have been more humane.

  The expression on the coach’s face softened. A very rare occurrence. “Besides, I think it’s time for you and your father to bury the hatchet. It’s been four years since Laura passed away. She wouldn’t want the two of you being at odds all the time. At least, that way you’ll have to talk to each other. You both have rowing and Oxford in common.”

  Reporting to his father, interacting with him every week, was a version of purgatory custom-made for Rupert.

  Chapter 17

  ON THE OTHER SIDE of his desk Jackson froze, his eyebrow arched, his eyes unblinking.

  Madison’s confession justified such reaction, she had to give him that. Throwing balls of fire at cloaked figures, right in the middle of Oxford, didn’t happen every day.

  She could have told her grandmother about this latest development. But a conversation on the phone with her. That wasn’t what Madison needed.

  Leaving her tutor to get his head around the curiosities of her life, she took a sip from her mug of coffee. She closed her eyes, her fingers encircling the warm cup and her tongue savoring the syrupy, hazelnut flavor.

  Her head was heavy from last night’s one-too-many whiskey and Cokes, and wobbled on her neck. The music from the Christmas party still rang in her ears. Trying to relax, she slouched in her chair.

  After finding Rupert in a saliva exchange with his bitchy girlfriend, Madison had escaped the party and run back through Jericho’s narrow streets. Her instinct screamed at her to keep her skinny butt as far as academically possible from Earl Boy’s clutches.

  Yes, she felt excited each time he tow
ered over her, each time she tilted her chin upward and stared into his eyes. Even the scent of his clothes turned her on. But Rupert Vance was a male slut, an elegant highborn slut but a slut nevertheless. She should not get close to him.

  “This has never happened to you before?”

  Jackson’s East Coast accent brought Madison back to the present. Had it happened to her before? Euh, surely she would remember knocking off strangers by firing at them with her fingertips.

  “Never.”

  Jackson made his comfy leather seat swivel and steepled his fingers together. “You realize that what happened takes the range of your powers”—he emphasized that last word— “to a brand-new level. We’re not talking about just telepathic or psychic abilities here.” He seemed pleased, as if she’d been his prized pupil in this venture as well as in her scholarly ones.

  Madison gave him a hesitant nod. She wasn’t sure she should be elated, as her tutor obviously was, or appalled by the new range of complications. “What do you think it means?” She feared his answer.

  “We’re leaving the sphere of parapsychology, the ability you have to connect with the thoughts of others, or at least the dead. We are moving into another domain entirely …” He left his sentence unfinished.

  “What kind of domain?”

  “Telekinesis … or something similar to it. You’re able to mobilize fields of energy and direct them with a specific purpose. Has anyone else in your family mentioned having such ability?” He looked at her as if he were an entomologist examining a new type of bug.

  Madison shook her head. She knew about her ancestors, about voodooism, about talking to the dead, concocting curses, prayers and potions. But the fireball-bowl thingie … never heard of it. Maybe she had imagined it. Maybe it hadn’t really happened.

  “Does anything feel different? Do you feel different?”

  His question took her aback. She shuffled on her seat and rubbed the back of her neck without meeting Jackson’s eyes.