by Ann Macela
A little itch started under her bra right over her magic center, and she rubbed it before pushing the button to open her garage. One thing about Texas, there were always bugs.
“Hello, Delilah,” she said to the black and white basenji when she came into her kitchen.
The dog answered back with her customary yodel and became very interested in sniffing her shoes and skirt.
“I know,” Gloriana said, bending down to pet her, “all those smells from all those people. I’m glad you’re a barkless dog. I don’t think I could bear yapping after the hoopla tonight.”
Delilah grunted and leaned into her hand.
“Did you have fun with Mother today? How about a run? I’m too wired to go to sleep.”
When Delilah heard the word run, she looked Gloriana right in the eyes and grinned.
“Come on,” Gloriana said and led the way to her bedroom to change.
In five minutes she was jogging down the road to the greenhouses, leash in one hand, flashlight in the other. She wished she could use lux, but you never knew who might drive by and see the strange light. The air was cool, probably upper fifties or lower sixties, and fresh. She could practically smell the basil growing on her left and the tarragon on her right, and she inhaled deeply.
How she loved spring here in the middle of Texas—the chartreuse of the new tree leaves, the tender shoots of the vegetables and herbs showing their heads aboveground, the bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush carpeting the fields around the farm, the adult birds bringing their chicks to the feeders for the first time, the new calves and lambs trying out their legs, the sheer promise in the soft air.
Her magical botanical talent brought her close to the earth, its seasons, its flora and fauna. Her abilities to nurture growing plants, to help them blossom and set their fruits and vegetables, to use them for healing and well-being in people and beasts alike, were an intrinsic part of her. She couldn’t imagine being without them, seeing the world … seeing the world like Marcus Forscher must—in terms of cold, hard numbers instead of intense colors, tastes, and fragrances.
The thought of the mathematician reminded her of her larger dilemma—her reaction to Daria’s news. She couldn’t decide why he seemed somehow linked to the situation. What was going on in her head to cause these feelings of restlessness, of anticipation, and, at the same time, of sorrow? She’d been fine until Daria’s announcement. Happy the debate was over, happy she wouldn’t have to see her opponent again, and then? Boom! One pregnancy in the family and she had to pick herself up off the floor.
Was she jealous of Daria? That her sister had a husband and soon would have a baby?
Nah, she knew how love worked among practitioners—especially the soul-mate-phenomenon part. She’d seen it happen with both Daria and Clay, seen them find their mates as all practitioners did, with a little help from the imperative, of course. She didn’t expect to be interested in a man until the right one, her soul mate, came along. In fact, after the experiences of her siblings, she’d wondered off and on when she’d meet him. According to Mother Lulabelle Higgins, who’d predicted the event for all of them, it would be soon. Who would he be?
What about her reception of the baby idea? She’d never thought much about having kids before, had taken for granted she would, naturally, but she had to find the prospective father first, and there was certainly no suitable man on the horizon. Was she yearning for a child? She’d never “yearned” before.
Maybe it was simply spring, and her hormones were rising like sap in the trees. Maybe her response was simply her biological clock’s alarm buzzing. She was twenty-nine, after all.
She slowed and stopped when she reached the T in the road where it branched to different sections of the farm. Her curly tail wagging, Delilah snuffled around the fence posts and investigated a small hole, probably the home of a burrowing animal. Gloriana took a firmer grip on the leash. Basenjis were sight and scent hunters, and she didn’t want the dog to flush a nocturnal creature and take off in pursuit.
She breathed deeply and looked up at the blanket of stars above her. Whatever the answers to her questions were, she wouldn’t find them there. It was time she took herself to bed. “Come on, Delilah. Race you home.”
CHAPTER
THREE
Four weeks later
“Let’s take this show on the road, whatta ya say?”
Gloriana stared at Ed Hearst sitting at the end of the table in a HeatherRidge conference room in Austin on Thursday afternoon. The W2 editor was as rumpled as ever but also jubilant.
Then she glanced across the gleaming mahogany at the man on the other side. Convinced her expression showed her negative reaction to Ed’s outrageous proposal, she wished she could read Marcus Forscher. His face was set in stern lines that betrayed none of his thoughts. It didn’t help that he hadn’t even looked in her direction since they sat down.
His brown eyes gleaming behind his glasses, Ed rubbed his hands together and kept talking. “Since the journal came out on the first of April, we’ve received piles of mail. We have pros and cons and every shade in between. The Horners are bellowing, the mathematicians are calculating, and everybody, and I do mean everybody, is clamoring for more. You two have really struck a nerve among members of the community.” He leaned back and gazed at her and Forscher as though he’d found the spell to make the journal double in circulation.
And … perhaps he had.
His enthusiasm didn’t mean, however, that she had to go along with his scheme.
Ed pushed a stack of printed-out e-mails and regular correspondence across the table. “Look at these. I’ve had invites and requests from High Council members, teaching masters, people grouped together by talents, high-levels, low-levels, you name it. They all want to take part in the debate over spell-casting methods and magic education. We can hold meetings all over the country. Under the journal’s auspices, we’ll offer practitioners an opportunity to hear the latest research and talk about their own ideas. Those who can’t attend the meetings will be able to read the transcripts. We’re even thinking of Webcasting the sessions on the main practitioner Web site.”
“Ed …” Forscher said.
“Ed …” she said at the same time. She noticed out of the corner of her eye the mathematician hadn’t even glanced at the letters, and she, too, ignored the papers.
“I know, I know,” Ed interrupted. “Both of you are busy, the school year is still in full swing, and you have obligations and commitments. But I’ve figured out a way we can satisfy our audience and still allow you your academic pursuits. You both told me earlier you weren’t traveling during the summer, right?”
He didn’t give either a chance to answer because he forged ahead. “So, what if we arrange meetings every other Saturday in a different city? Or maybe every Saturday for six or eight weeks and get it over with? You could travel there in the morning and come back the next day. Or even that night if there’s a flight. It’s not like you have to prepare a new talk for every place. Simply state the sides of the debate, answer questions, and I’ll keep order.”
At Ed’s last statement, she heard Forscher make a sound very much like a snort. She managed to hold her reaction to a sigh.
“Okay, okay,” Ed continued with a touch of chagrin in his tone, and he held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll admit I lost it at the last one. However! At these meetings, not only will we be ready and will I maintain a civil decorum, we’re also going to have sergeants-at-arms. I’ve covered all the bases. You have to say yes.”
For the first time since she arrived, Gloriana looked straight at Forscher—right into his icy-blue gaze. When their eyes met, his expression grew even grimmer, sharper, more disdainful. She fought the ridiculous urge to smile; the situation certainly didn’t call for an attempt on her part to soothe his feelings, or make the discussion more “pleasant,” or give any indication of female “weakness.” Instead, she simply shook her head.
He followed suit with a sl
ow negative movement of his.
“If it’s money you’re worried about, travel expenses, an honorarium, the journal is picking up the tab,” Ed said. “You’ll be amply rewarded.”
“No,” Forscher said in a low voice, but he didn’t take his eyes from hers.
“No,” she agreed as she watched his pupils expand until only a faint rim of blue remained.
“I think you’d better take a look at these.” Ed pushed a couple of papers into their line of sight.
Gloriana was the first to break eye contact with Forscher to see what Ed had. She picked up the page nearest her while her opponent took the other. She gave it a brief glance before returning her gaze to Forscher. She’d let him go first.
Forscher frowned at his letter. “The banner at the top says “The Future of Magic,’ and across the bottom are the names of Bryan Pritchart, Michael Brubaker, and others. The text reads, ‘As practitioners vitally interested in developing new spells and new methods of casting, we are banding together to alert our fellow warlocks and witches of a dire situation. The danger posed by those whose mind-sets are locked in the past is great and immediate. These people will destroy the ability of all practitioners to thrive in the twenty-first century. Join The Future of Magic and help us fight the reactionary, regressive doomsayers who would leave us and our children unable to practice magic in the world of today and tomorrow. Help us go where no practitioner has gone before.’“
He tossed it onto the table and leaned back in his chair. “Is yours similar?” he asked.
“The letterhead calls the group the Traditional Heritage Association,” she answered. “Down the left side is a list of names with Calvin and Loretta Horner’s at the top. The body of the letter says, ‘Join us in our efforts to stop those who would ruin our precious practitioner way of life and destroy our traditions. These ‘futurists,’ as they call themselves, want nothing more than to leave us with no art, no warmth, no emotion in our practice of magic. They would reduce casting to meaningless numbers and lifeless symbols. They see no value in historical or individual casting methods. They would cram down our throats a regimented, complicated, difficult regime that will destroy our life, liberty, and pursuit of magic.’“
“That’s what’s going on while we’re sitting here,” Ed said, waving his hand at the letters. “Both sides are gathering their troops to do battle over an issue that should be thoroughly and calmly investigated and discussed. Marcus, nobody’s really studying your equation or trying out its capabilities. Pritchart’s trying to act like Captain Kirk on Star Trek, make off with your ideas, and put himself forward as the savior of the planet.”
He turned toward her. “Gloriana, Horner and his cohorts are distorting your message. Neither of these groups is interested in a middle road, a large picture, or, to use the political term, a big tent that covers all. And if Pritchart is Kirk, Horner wants to sound like Thomas Jefferson.”
Ed looked back and forth between the two of them and spread out his hands. “I ask you, do you want these people to hijack your ideas and theories? Do you want these people to speak for you, to split the practitioner community into fragments? When you can do something about it, make sure both sides are heard, give voice to a rational, deliberate way of looking at magic and its practice? Because I can tell you, that’s what will happen unless we step in and bring some rational discussion to these charges.”
Gloriana shut her eyes and took a long, slow breath in and out. When she opened them, she was staring directly at Forscher, who returned her gaze with a stone-cold expression. She was somehow surprised that a man so gorgeous could look so forbidding and severe. Even his blazer—a light blue one that matched his eyes—looked grim. At least today he wore a button-down, dark blue shirt with no tie. But still, next to his perfection, she felt like a field hand in her smudged khakis and a moss green polo shirt.
“Ed’s right,” he said to her. “It looks like we have no choice. Or I don’t. I won’t have Prick Pritchart stealing my equation or corrupting the studies for its use.” His implacable tone could have chipped ice.
“I don’t, either,” Gloriana agreed. “Horner and his bunch will throw us back to the Middle Ages and will certainly alienate everyone who uses numbers and calculations in their spells—including my own father and brother.”
“We need some ground rules,” Forscher stated. “Ed, you must keep order.”
“No problem there,” the editor said with a big grin on his face. “Our sergeants-at-arms will be Swords.”
“Swords?” Gloriana asked. “The Swords from the Defenders who destroy evil magic items? The guys who can throw fireballs? Isn’t that a little extreme?”
“We’re going to be ready for anything,” Ed answered. “The High Council and the Defenders Council both offered their services. The councils recognize the worth of what we’re doing here and want to take the opportunity you two have provided to help set policy for the next century. They could set up meetings through their auspices, but nothing will have the impact of genuine grassroots debates and decisions. Since the Swords can cast offensive spells that stop a man in his tracks, we’ll have order.”
Gloriana looked from one man to the other. Ed was eager, and Forscher was resigned. She and her opponent were on the same side for a change. “Okay, count me in, too.”
“Good,” Ed said. “Neither of you will regret it.”
“I hope not,” she and Forscher said at the same time.
CHAPTER
FOUR
About two hours later, Marcus pulled his silver BMW into his garage. His home in the hills west of the city had never looked so good. He was worn out from dealing with Ed and … that Morgan woman.
In the past four weeks, he’d put her completely out of his mind—if you didn’t count some extremely arousing dreams. He knew he couldn’t be responsible for his subconscious; he hadn’t, after all, been on even a simple date for a while. He’d been too busy in California, and being back in Austin had been a nonstop marathon of holding classes, working with his grad students on their dissertations, and writing his latest books and articles.
He’d barely gotten back to normal before Ed and his traveling circus returned and wanted him to run away with them.
He entered the house to Samson’s chortling greeting, a definite request from the red and white basenji to be let out of his crate, the sturdy wire-framed inside doghouse. He knew Samson didn’t like being cooped up, but that was better than having him loose to get into things like closets, boxes, and cabinets. Marcus had learned his lesson early of how disruptive and messy a curious puppy could be.
He looked around the room before opening the door. Everything was in its place, neat, clean, uncluttered, exactly the way he liked it. One woman had called the white walls, light oak floors, and gray, beige, black, and white furnishings “austere,” but it suited him. So did his collection of art photographs. When she brought him a plant with long thin green and white leaves, claiming it made the space “more cheerful,” he’d put it out on his deck and forgotten about it after they stopped dating. He found it dead the following spring. Oh, well, if he wanted color, he had Samson for that. He opened the crate’s door.
With a frown at his master to remind him of his displeasure, the red and white dog came out and stretched, graceful and almost catlike in his movements.
Marcus knelt down and held out his hand to rub Samson’s wrinkled forehead. The dog, however, smelled his hand first and even licked it, making a grunting noise as he did so.
“What’s gotten into you?” Marcus asked when he was finally allowed to pet the animal. What had Samson smelled? He hadn’t eaten after lunch, and he’d washed his hands since then. He’d left the HeatherRidge and come straight home … but he’d shaken hands with Hearst and Morgan … Did the dog smell her?
He himself certainly had, that same mix of floral and spice she’d worn before. Despite the distance, her scent had pulled at him from across the table, like a flower attracting insects. Hell, i
f he were a bee, he’d be diving into …
Stop! A bee? A flower? What was the matter with him?
He hated to admit it. The woman affected him, aroused him, tightened his muscles to the point that he could barely move. He wanted to tangle his fingers in her dark curly hair, run his hands over her skin to see if it was as soft as he imagined, kiss those …
Samson bumped his hand, and Marcus came back to reality. Fat chance for all that.
From what he could tell, he did not have an attractive effect on her. She barely glanced at him, didn’t smile, and looked as unhappy as he felt over their situation. Her lack of response was probably all to the good—it made it easier to resist her, to control himself. She—any woman—was the last thing he needed.
Here they were, however, trapped on an odyssey with Ed Hearst. He should look on the bright side. Maybe the controversy would run out of steam once Prick and the Horners had a couple of chances to fight for the spotlight. Then he could come home and get back to work on what counted.
Yeah, right. The arguments would probably go on forever. He’d be entangled the entire summer.
He gave Samson another pat before rising. To make sure Morgan wouldn’t distract him or his dog again, he washed his hands at the kitchen sink and was drying them when the phone rang.
“Hello, Marcus,” his mother said when he flipped open his cell phone and answered.
“Hello, Judith, how are you and Stefan?” he asked. As the words came out of his mouth, he suddenly remembered Gloriana Morgan calling her parents “Mother” and “Daddy” when they’d been talking outside the ballroom—names he had never used with his own parents. At their specific request, they had been “Judith” and “Stefan” as long as he could remember.