by DAVID B. COE
“So then, I really do keep going about my business.”
“Is that not what I said?”
I laughed. “Yes, it’s what you said.”
He sat, that familiar, expectant expression on his face. “You need to work on your craft. Now more than ever.”
I checked the clock. It was a few minutes past two o’clock. I felt like I’d been awake for thirty hours.
“Yeah, all right,” I said, sitting opposite him. “But not too long. I have a date tonight.”
He frowned. “Distractions,” he said.
I grinned. Then I closed my eyes and summoned that clearing image of the golden eagle. After a few moments, I opened them again.
The runemyste nodded once. “Defend yourself.”
For the next two hours, Namid threw a wide variety of assailing spells at me—the stinging and fire spells he’d used the night before, a suffocation spell, which scared the crap out of me, and one spell that blinded me temporarily. That one was frightening as well, not to mention frustrating. It took me several minutes to come up with a warding that would defeat it, and all the while Namid was using his power to throw books and CDs at me. By the time I could see again, I was covered with bruises and my office was a mess.
Despite all that, however, Namid seemed pleased when we were done.
“You conjured well, today,” he said, as I stood and stretched my back. “You are starting to cast by instinct.”
I was sweaty and tired, but I felt good, the way I would after a long workout. “Well, you don’t give a person much choice.”
“I will leave you,” he said. “You have a big date.”
I laughed. “Yes, I do.”
He started to fade.
“Namid, wait.”
The fading stopped, and a moment later he was as substantial as he ever is. Once more I had the urge to reach out and touch him, just to see what it was like. He was staring at me, and I realized he was waiting to know why I’d stopped him.
“What you told me before about the red sorcerer—is it true?”
“About him tracking you?”
“About him not being able to hurt me anymore now than he could before. I thought that once an enemy tested you three times—”
“We call it ‘sounding’.”
“Sounding,” I repeated. I’d heard the term before, though in my fear I hadn’t yet connected it to what the red sorcerer was doing. “Well, he’s sounded me three times. I thought that means he can do anything to me, and I’m powerless to stop him.”
“A runecrafter can always ward himself.” He paused, eyeing me, perhaps trying to decide how honest he could be. “The danger to you is greater, it is true. But your skills are increasing as well. And as this crafter learns more about you, you also learn more about him. You are linked to each other now. He can hurt you more easily, but you can sense him sooner. The sounding is not without risks for him as well.”
“He must be pretty confident then. He probably knows that I can’t hurt him.”
“You are more than you think you are,” Namid said. “You would be wise to take precautions; keep yourself warded. But he would be wise not to underestimate you.”
“Thanks. Really,” I added. “I mean that. Thank you, Namid.”
He tipped his head to me, and then started to fade again. This time I let him go.
I drove home, showered and changed before getting back into the Z-ster and driving to Tempe. It was early still, but I hoped that maybe Billie would be done with her work already. I kept an eye on the mirrors, but no one was following me. I tried to make myself relax. Even without any reassurances, I knew that Namid was right. I was getting stronger, and just as magic was an act of visualization and of will, so too was it a product of faith, of belief in oneself. If I convinced myself that this red sorcerer had power over me, I wouldn’t survive his next attack. If, on the other hand, I believed that I could protect myself from whatever he threw at me, I at least gave myself a fighting chance.
I found Billie’s house without too much trouble, and parked out front. I started to climb out of the car, but then stopped myself, making certain once again that I hadn’t been followed by the red weremyste. Satisfied that he wasn’t nearby, I walked up the path to her door and knocked. The house was small, built in Spanish Mission style, and it seemed to have been well cared for, at least from the outside. There was a little garden out front with flowers and a few small cacti, and a small lawn that had recently been cut.
Billie came to the door in a t-shirt and jeans, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Seeing me, she gave a puzzled smile, her forehead creased. “Hi!” She peeked at her watch. “I know I told you not to be late* * *”
I shrugged. “Yeah, sorry. I’m kind of through for the day, and I thought maybe, if you were, too, we could get an early start. But if you’re still working I can come back later.”
“I have a bit left to do. Not much. What did you have in mind?”
“I was thinking about a walk in the desert.”
She wrinkled her nose. “The desert?”
“You’ve never taken a walk in the desert?”
“Well, no. I mean, why would I?”
I stared at her, shaking my head. “Amazing. Why did you come to Tempe if not for the desert?”
“I came for a job,” she said. “An editing position at a publishing house. I stayed for the sunshine. But the desert * * *” She gave a shrug of her own. “I guess I’m kind of a city person. A Northeastern city person.”
“One walk in the desert will change that,” I said. “You game?”
She smiled at me, and I knew she’d say yes. “You still taking me to dinner?”
“Of course. No sense walking in the desert if you’re not going to eat afterward.”
“All right,” she said, pushing the door open so I could come in. “I need ten minutes to finish and post the piece I’m writing.”
“What’s the piece about?” I asked, stepping past her into the house. Her smile faded as she stared at me, and I knew. One question: that was all it took to put me on my guard. “It’s about the Blind Angel case, isn’t it?”
Billie nodded, as wary as I was.
“Do you mention me in it?”
“No. We’ve been off the record, and I’ve been focusing on other aspects of the story.”
“Like what?”
“The Deegan family mostly. The senator is getting a lot of sympathy right now, but the fact that his daughter was using drugs might come up eventually. I’m writing about the risks his opponents would be taking by raising the issue, and how he might deal with it if they do.”
“Sounds interesting,” I said, relaxing a bit.
She exhaled, her relief palpable. “Thanks. I won’t be long. Make yourself at home.”
Her computer sat on what appeared to be her dining room table, surrounded by piles of papers, several magazines, a newspaper, and a dictionary. She sat down in front of it, stared at the screen for a minute, and then began to type.
I wandered around the living room. The house was as nice inside as it had appeared from the street. Wood floors, high ceilings; she didn’t have much furniture, but all of it was tasteful. Her walls were covered with framed black and white photos of people and city scenes. None of them was signed, and I wondered if they were Billie’s. I turned toward her to ask, but she was typing furiously, her brow furrowed in concentration. I figured I’d be wise to leave her alone.
After about ten minutes she sat back. Still she frowned at the screen for another few seconds, before hitting the ‘return’ key.
“Okay,” she said, standing and grabbing her denim jacket off the back of her chair. “I’m ready.”
“Will you get lots of comments on your blog?” I asked.
She nodded. “Hundreds probably. Some of them will say that I’m brilliant; others will call me a stupid bitch. I make a point of not reading them. I get to have my say with the article. My readers can say what they want after I post it.�
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“That’s a mature attitude.”
She smirked. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
We walked out to the Z-ster, with which she appeared only mildly impressed. Not a car person. That was okay. She wasn’t a desert person either, but I was about to cure her of that. I started up the car and on the spur of the moment decided to go south. I put us on Interstate Ten.
“So, where are you taking me?” she asked after we had driven for a few minutes in silence.
“Sonoran Desert National Monument. It’s between here and Gila Bend on State 238.”
She nodded. “All right.” Another brief silence. Then, “Tell me what you like so much about the desert.”
“What?”
“Well, I want to know what I should be looking for.”
I considered this for some time, taking the exit off the interstate and getting on the state road.
“Fearsson?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m thinking. It’s a bit like asking me why I like chocolate.”
“But that I understand.”
“The desert is uncompromising. It’s so severe and it forces everything that lives there to be the same way. It says ‘die or adapt.’ There’s no middle ground, no getting by. And yet, it’s also incredibly beautiful. Some of the beauty is harsh, austere, you know? And some of it is as delicate as a spider web.” I glanced over at her, only to find that she was watching me, her expression unreadable. I faced forward again and shrugged. “Anyway, that probably doesn’t really explain it very well.”
“Sure it does. You’ve spent a lot of time at this place we’re going to? Sonoran Monument?”
“Some. I’ve spent more time in the Superstition Wilderness, but that’s a longer drive.”
“Is that where you took the last woman you wanted to impress?”
I laughed. “Is that what you think this is about?”
“Isn’t it?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s not. To tell you the truth, I can’t remember the last time I took a woman anywhere.” I smiled. “At least not one who I wanted to impress.”
“Why is that?” she asked.
Because I’m a weremyste who doesn’t take blockers. Because my father’s nuts and someday I will be, too. Because my life is wrapped up in so many secrets that I can hardly tell anymore where the mask ends and where the real me begins. “It’s complicated,” was all I said, staring at the road once more.
“You’re strange. One minute you’re as open as a kid, and then bang, it seems like you shut some door somewhere inside you and I find myself staring at a wall.”
“It’s not intentional.”
“Isn’t it?”
See? This was the problem with getting involved with smart people. Or maybe it was the problem with getting involved at all.
“We’re still off the record, right?”
“Yup.”
“All right,” I said, eyes fixed on the double yellow. “Then what do you want to know?”
She didn’t answer for several seconds, and I started to hope that she’d let me off the hook. No such luck.
“What’s the real reason you stopped being a cop?”
Smart. That was the 64,000 dollar question, wasn’t it? That was the one that led to every other secret in my life.
I glanced at her. “After this it’s my turn, right? I get to ask questions, too?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“All right,” I said. Deep breath. “I left the force because I was going to be fired. The department’s Professional Standards Bureau had determined that I was incapable of fulfilling my duties as a police officer.”
“Why?”
“Because I was having psychological problems. Breakdowns, sort of.”
Silence. I chanced a quick glance at her, expecting that she would be gaping at me with fear and pity. But she was just sitting there, chewing her bottom lip, watching the scenery slide by.
“Are you still?” she asked, her voice very low.
There was an easy answer to this, a cheap out. And I took it, because at this stage of our relationship explaining the phasings and my choice to endure them seemed unthinkable. “Problems like that never fully vanish,” I told her. “You learn to control them, to live with them.”
Billie nodded. “Are you on medication?”
“No. The drugs I could take have * * * side effects.” They’d make my magical abilities go away. “And I’m not willing to deal with them.”
“So these problems can be dealt with through therapy?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that one. Were my training sessions with Namid a form of therapy? Were my visits with my dad? In the end I decided that they were. I wasn’t seeing a therapist, but Namid was better equipped to help me through the phasings than any psychiatrist on the planet. Again, it was a cheap way out, but I didn’t want her thinking that I was doing nothing to take care of myself. “Yes,” I said. “I have someone who helps me through the rough patches.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For telling me the truth.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, knowing that I had cheated and gotten away with it. I felt unclean. “Do you want me to take you back? I’d understand if you did.”
“No.” She shifted in her seat, turning so that she was facing me. “Your turn.”
“Okay,” I said. “Why were you so eager to leave home? Connecticut, right?”
She blew out a breath through pursed lips and ran a hand through her curls. “Wow, Fearsson.”
I smiled in sympathy. “Now you know how it feels.”
“I guess. Why was I so eager to leave Connecticut?” She shook her head and regarded me with something akin to admiration. “How did you even know that I was eager?”
“From the way you talked about home the other day.”
“I hardly said anything.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I noticed that.”
“I think you must have been a pretty good cop.” She ran a hand through her hair once more. She seemed to do that a lot. “I suppose the short answer to your question is that I wanted to get away from my dad.”
I waited, knowing there was more.
“He drank,” she went on. “A lot. And most times when he was drunk, he’d end up beating my mother.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Billie shrugged. “Mom eventually got up the nerve to kick him out. I think it broke her heart. She really loved him, and when he wasn’t drinking, he was a decent guy. But by the end, we only saw him when he was smashed. He’d go on a bender and show up at our door, and Mom would let him in. She’d try to take care of him, get him sobered up. But it always ended the same way, with Mom crying and sporting another bruise, and Dad leaving again. I got to the point where I didn’t want to be anywhere near either one of them.”
“Your dad still drinking?” I asked.
She shook her head. “He died about ten years ago. Liver gave out on him. If you ask me it was a mercy killing.”
I had no idea what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.
“Guess we’re both damaged goods, huh?” she said.
“Do you know anyone who isn’t?”
“That’s awfully cynical.”
“It’s realistic,” I said. “There isn’t a person alive who doesn’t have something lurking in their past or in their family that they’d rather ignore or erase. Life is about coping with all the crap that comes with being human. Some of us cope better than others. That’s all.”
She shook her head. “Maybe you’re right. But that seems like an awfully dark view of life.”
“I guess it is,” I said, feeling that I’d failed some test. We had turned off of the main road onto the rural two-lane that would take us into the monument. “Listen,” I said, “should I keep on driving, or turn around now?”
“God, what is it with you? Have you decided you don’t like me or something?”
“No!” I said, taken a
back. “Not at all. I just—”
“Have I done anything to make you think that I don’t like you?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. “We were arguing,” I said weakly.
She did that half-smile, half-frown thing again. I was starting to like it. “We were not! We were talking, expressing opinions, disagreeing with one another. You mean to tell me you never disagreed with your partner when you were a cop?”
“No, we disagreed all the time. But that was different.”
“Why? Because he was a man?”
“Actually, she wasn’t.”
That brought her up short. “Oh. Right. Kona Shaw.”
I had to laugh. After a moment, she did, too.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” she said.
“Very much.”
“I deserved it. But still, I can’t spend time with someone who’s not willing to disagree with me. I’ll get bored. And you don’t seem like the kind of person who’d bore me.”
“I’ll try not to,” I said. But I sounded uncertain.
“Arguing is normal,” Billie said. “Didn’t your parents fight?”
“Not that I remember. My mom died when I was twelve. After that it was just my dad and me, and he wasn’t around a lot.”
“Oh. My turn to be sorry.” She seemed at a loss as to what else to say. “Well,” she finally began again, “take my word for it. People argue. Everyone except my mom. She refused to fight at all. She accepted everything, and look where it got her.”
“So,” I said. “When I think you’re full of crap, you want me to say, ‘You’re full of crap’? Just like that?”
She liked that a lot. God, I loved the way she laughed. “Yes!” she said. “Exactly!”
I shrugged. “I can do that.”
We both fell silent and she looked out the side window. We were near the entrance to the monument now. There were saguaro cacti everywhere and in the distance we could see the ridges of the North Maricopa Mountain Wilderness.
“My God!” she said. “This is gorgeous.”
I was starting to fall in love.
A few minutes later we entered the monument. Billie hadn’t said another word, although she kept on mumbling something that I couldn’t quite hear. There were several new trail heads in the monument that had been developed in the years since the area’s designation as a national facility, and I stopped at the first of these.