Your Magic or Mine?

by Ann Macela

  Against the side to his left stood a wooden structure raised about a foot off the floor and covered by a roof made from palm fronds. A double-wide chaise lounge, a coffee table, and two lawn chairs sat in the middle, and what appeared to be a shed formed the solid back wall.

  Marcus breathed easier. The jungle wasn’t devoid of civilization. In fact, the cabana might be a good place to sit and think. Despite the humidity, the space was not uncomfortable.

  A loud booonnnnnggg suddenly rang through the building.

  Marcus jumped as the sound reverberated off the walls and he felt it resonating in his chest. “What was that? An alarm?”

  “A notification. Let’s get under cover.” She stepped up onto the cabana floor and sat in one of the chairs.

  He took the chair next to her. Delilah jumped onto the platform and yodeled at Samson, but his hound was busy sniffing around the pond’s edge.

  “What’s going to happen?” he asked, wondering if a floor show would erupt from the pond. Given her family, he’d better be prepared for the worst. “Samson, come here.”

  The dog ignored him—until a sound like thunder boomed, and rain began to pour down. Samson yelped and made a beeline for the protection of the cabana.

  “Delilah doesn’t like water, either,” Gloriana said with a smile while Samson shook himself dry.

  Marcus frowned at her.

  She must have thought he was angry because she said in an apologetic tone, “It really is a rainforest. I have some towels in the pump room behind us, if you want to dry him off.”

  “No, he’ll be fine,” he answered as the rain increased in volume. He looked up. The palm frond roof did its job; not even a drop permeated the barrier.

  Neither spoke—they would have to shout to be heard over the rain. She didn’t look at him, so, seated where he was to her right and slightly behind, he used the time to study the woman. She appeared to be checking out her jungle, focusing on points around the area, until she closed her eyes and gave a deep sigh. The inhalation caused her sweater to tighten across her chest, and the movement drew his gaze. He felt his body stir. Maybe it had not been such a good idea to come with her to her wet paradise.

  After several minutes, the rain abruptly stopped, and silence surrounded them, punctuated only by the gentle sound of water, either dripping from the leaves and the cabana roof or gurgling down the rocks into the pond. She opened her eyes and looked at him—with an expression he couldn’t read, and the intensity of her gaze shook him to the core.

  With an effort, he broke the eye contact and stood, walked over to the edge of the platform. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “You have the rain on a timer, I presume?” It was an inane comment, but the best he could do at the moment.

  “Yes. The water circulates in a closed system.” Her voice sounded breathless at first, then evened out as she talked. She explained the complicated drainage and nutrient system and finished with, “The arrangement is so efficient that we lose very little to evaporation.”

  Marcus peered up at the barely visible piping high above him, then down to the waterfall, pond, and profusion of flowers and foliage. Her rainforest was both high-tech and primeval. He understood the mathematics of her system almost intuitively. At the same time, he felt distinctly out of place in such an environment, like he was truly in the middle of an ancient jungle.

  “How long have you been working on it?” he asked, merely to keep the conversation going.

  “Three years. I was hoping to spend more time here this summer, but with the debates …”

  “Three years? That’s all? Some of these plants are enormous. Did you need a crane to lift them into the building?”

  “Most were small enough for one or two people or a forklift to pick up when we put them in place.” She looked at him with a quizzical expression for a moment before her face cleared. “You don’t really know what my magic is or does, do you?”

  “I assumed it was all about plant chemistry, manipulating DNA and the like to come up with new species variants and pharmaceutical compounds.”

  “That’s only part of it. My real magic manifests itself in helping plants to grow. When whole specimens, not simply seeds, come to me from all over the world, they’re usually in distress from the handling. I use my magic to keep them alive and help them prosper.” She rose from the chair and walked past him down the steps over to one of the bushes. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

  When he stood beside her, she pointed to a branch. “Here, take hold gently right below the leaf. Go ahead, it won’t bite. It’s a poinsettia.”

  Relieved, he looked down at the branch in his hand. He knew that plant because he always brought Evelyn and George a big one for the holidays. The branch he held was almost all green leaves with only a few tiny red ones at the top. The true flowers, the yellow nubs in the center at the end, were more suggestions than actual fact.

  “Watch,” she said.

  He felt a humming, but couldn’t tell if it was in the air or coming from the plant. His fingertips tingled as though something under the skin of the branch was vibrating. Nothing else happened for a few seconds.

  He shot a glance at her. She was concentrating on the leaves. He did the same. He was about to ask what to look for, when suddenly the leaves began to grow, especially those at the tip. Before his eyes, they grew at least an inch and turned a deep scarlet. The yellow flowers became round balls. The whole branch quivered—or was that his hand shaking?

  “That’s all I’ll do for the moment,” Gloriana said. “I don’t want to stress the plant unduly.”

  Marcus looked from the branch to her and back again. Most of the magic he’d ever come into close contact with had been intellectual—manipulating formulas, or designs, or numbers in the mind. Sure, all practitioners handled energy, and he’d been able to cast lux since he was a small child. He’d seen how Evelyn could calm people, but had no idea how she actually managed the feat. He knew some physicians could speed healing—somehow.

  He’d never actually witnessed someone manipulate another living thing like that. It wasn’t telekinesis. It wasn’t light energy. He ran his fingers over the leaves. It certainly wasn’t an illusion. It was physical magic. He’d actually felt the power flowing, causing a change of recognizable proportions. He could almost believe he’d seen a secret of the universe revealed.

  “How do you do that?” He didn’t bother to hide the wonder in his voice. His bulging eyes and dropped jaw had already given him away. “You must be working on the molecular level.”

  “I assume so. I’ve been helping plants grow forever, and I don’t have to dissect my spells. Never did, as a matter of fact. I think about what I want to happen, focus, mentally cast the crescere spell for growth, add some energy, and … the leaf grows.” She shrugged. “I’m an intuitive caster like my mother. That’s why I had such trouble trying your equation and what I meant by the ‘feel’ of magic.”

  He stood gazing down at her, torn between the need to know more, to solve the puzzle of how she caused the plant to grow and the desire to pull her into his arms and work some magic of his own. He wondered if she could teach him how to cast crescere, then almost laughed at the idea. Of course she couldn’t. Or rather, he wouldn’t be able to learn it. He didn’t have that talent. Her magic definitely wasn’t his.

  In fact, what he had seen should be reinforcing his conclusion that they weren’t soul mates. Their magics were totally opposite. Hers, the ancient, female, basic enchantments the witches of old must have used, literally grounded in the earth. His, the new, predominantly warlock, cerebral, flying in the stratosphere of the mind. They had nothing in common. His attraction was an aberration. The soulmate imperative was not working correctly for him. What else did he expect from a child of his parents? The imperative screwed them up. Why not him, too?

  Stifling a groan as his center spiked with heat and he wanted to touch her so much it hurt, he retreated a step. He needed to get back among peop
le before he lost control of himself. “Should we return to the house? Surely things have calmed down by now.”

  Morgan seemed to shake herself. “Yes, I hope so.”

  They walked through the leafy tunnels again, followed by the dogs. The greenhouse felt even more like an alien environment than it had when he entered, and he was glad to come out into the fresh air, even if it was a hot breeze.

  “Do me a favor, will you?” he asked, letting the dogs into her car. “Take it a little slower, and turn down the radio.”

  “Don’t like country-western? I’ll do both, but the hardest will be to slow down. That’s what Clay always asks when he rides with me,” she groused. “What is it with men when they aren’t driving?”

  She complied with his requests.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  “Look who’s here,” George said when they walked into the dining room. He had a smile on his face that distinctly reminded Gloriana of her brother when he was plotting against her.

  “Have some cherry pie and coffee,” Antonia said.

  Gloriana sat down at one of the two remaining seats—right next to each other—and glanced from one face to the next. Her brother looked mischievous, but he often did. Francie did, also, and that wasn’t usual. Daria was concentrating on her pie and winked at her. Bent and Evelyn were talking about his company. George was grinning at Forscher, who settled in the adjoining chair and seemed to be ignoring the older man. Her mother busied herself serving the pie. It all seemed basically normal—too normal.

  “Where did you go?” her father asked.

  The question blew her thoughts away. “We took a tour of the jungle.” She decided not to bring up the rehearsal debacle; she’d sound like a whiner.

  No one mentioned the event at all, in fact. George asked her about the rainforest, and Clay talked to Forscher about mathematics. When dessert was done, the Bernhards said it was time they headed home, and Forscher agreed.

  As she watched the cars drive away, Gloriana breathed a sigh of relief. At least the visit was over and Forscher was gone. She glanced at her parents, who were climbing the front steps. Should she bring up the rehearsal? It wouldn’t do any good to berate her father for failing to keep order. She couldn’t even blame Clay, although she’d really like to.

  Maybe they had learned something from the uproar. Everybody had been talking, voicing their own personal views, obviously more interested in the subject than in following the rules. The topic might simply be too volatile for rational discussion. If so, Ed and the Swords would have to keep close control at the actual debates.

  She followed her parents into the kitchen. The Houston four were cleaning up the dishes, and, when she appeared in the doorway, they all faced her. Each one was smiling—too sweetly.

  “What?” she asked. Little warning tingles shot up her spine.

  “Did y’all have a good time at the greenhouse?” Clay asked in a too-innocent tone.

  “Why?” She squinted at him and braced herself.

  “Getting to know your ‘opponent’ better?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, seeing as how you two are destined to be together …” he answered.

  Both Daria and Francie said, “Clay!”

  “Daria, I asked you to tell no one,” Gloriana said from between her clenched teeth.

  “I didn’t!” Daria said. “Clay announced it when we were clearing the table.”

  “I speculated,” Francie put in, “but I didn’t say a word, either. I thought you’d tell us when you were ready.”

  “Glori, it sticks out all over the both of you,” Clay stated in his most condescending, big-brother manner. “He was scratching, you were trying not to, and when you looked at each other, your expressions were so hot, your ears got red. I can put together the clues as well as the next practitioner.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” Gloriana glared at her family. How bad was this teasing going to get?

  “George gave me the idea,” Clay continued. “He said something about it before we started the debate. It was his idea to …” He shut his mouth abruptly.

  “Idea to …?” she coaxed with a come-here gesture. Clay shrugged like he had simply been speculating, but she wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “Keep going, brother dear.”

  “Yes, you’d better explain it all, son,” their father said, obviously trying not to smile.

  Clay shrugged. “I happened to mention how you had warned Dad to keep order. We decided to see how much chaos we could cause—after all, you can expect it in the real debates. When I said you would probably walk out if things got too rambunctious, George suggested that you and Marcus could use some time alone together. I asked why and he said he thought the two of you were soul mates. I gather Marcus isn’t too happy with the idea.”

  “He’s not happy?” Gloriana reached out to hold on to the door frame for strength to stand when it hit her that Forscher might be aware of their situation. He didn’t like it, either? What did that mean?

  “So, we pushed the envelope a little. You can’t lay blame totally on me and George. Everybody joined right in with no coaxing. Don’t forget, you made the decision to leave. We didn’t chase you out the door.” He crossed his arms and assumed a self-righteous expression.

  All Gloriana could do was slump against the door. “Oh, my God,” she muttered.

  Her mother came over to her and gave her a hug. “Don’t worry so much. Everything will work out, dear.”

  Gloriana glanced from one face to the next. “Yeah, right.” Her family meant well, even Clay. Hadn’t she been thinking that the real debates would be much worse than the pretend one? Maybe she should have stayed and fought it out.

  Too late now—an expression she’d been using too much lately.

  “Thanks for your help, I guess,” she said. “I’m going home. I don’t have the strength to talk about what anyone did or didn’t do. You made your point. The first debate is next weekend, and I have a lot to do before then.”

  Despite her intentions, she didn’t get away until after the exodus of the Houston bunch. In her car, she immediately turned the radio off. The last thing she needed was a song about unrequited love, requited love, love gone wrong, love gone right, or any country-western staple, especially not Johnny Cash singing “Ring of Fire.”

  Marcus Forscher. Her soul mate. No. Alleged soul mate.

  What was she going to do about him? In the greenhouse, she’d felt the compulsion at least twice to throw herself into his arms, stretch out on the chaise with him, and discover how perfect he truly was. Keeping control of herself hadn’t been easy.

  When she’d showed him her plant manipulation skills, he’d had such a look of horror on his face. Was it truly horror? Or maybe simply amazement. He didn’t seem comfortable in her world, she was sure of that fact. Whatever it was, he certainly wanted to get out of there after her demonstration.

  Where did all it leave her? He knew about “X” and the possibility they were “X,” and so did she. He hadn’t said a word, she wasn’t going to. He hadn’t made a move, she wasn’t going to, either.

  All she had to do was get through the next five weekends, they’d both go back to their routines—where they never saw each other—and the whole thing would blow over.

  Wouldn’t it?

  As if in answer, her magic center gave a lurch, then a flutter. She had the distinct impression she could hear laughter.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  “I’d like you to meet our Swords, John Baldwin and Grace Cabot,” Ed said after he’d welcomed Gloriana and her parents to the private dining room in the Boston HeatherRidge the following Saturday. “John’s on the Defenders Council and will be with us at every event. Grace is head of the Defenders for New England.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Gloriana said as she shook hands. While Ed introduced her parents, she looked the three over. Short, balding, sturdy Baldwin practically radiated magi
cal power and an air of command. Cabot combined the look of “old money,” refined and elegant, with a no-nonsense attitude.

  “We’ve heard the tapes from Austin, and we’ve devised a plan for order,” Baldwin stated. “We have a Sword in each overflow room, and Grace and I will be in the ballroom. I don’t anticipate problems.”

  “I hope not,” Gloriana said. “Our rehearsal at home showed that simply discussing the subject can be volatile, even among friends and family.”

  “We’re ready.” Ed grinned and stage-whispered, “We made sure Mrs. Shortbottom and her cane are not in the main room.” He continued in a normal voice, “We also insisted Horner’s and Pritchart’s entourages stay separate from each other.”

  Before anyone could comment further, the door opened, and Forscher walked in with a couple who had to be his parents. A sharp not-quite-pain-not-quite-thrill hit her in the center, and she only barely suppressed her gasp. To calm herself down, she studied his parents. It was clear how Forscher had come by his dress habits.

  An older version of his son, the father had darker blond hair and blue-gray eyes. The Forscher men had the same carriage—their perfect posture showed off their impeccably tailored navy suits. The only difference in attire was the elder’s red-and-blue-striped tie versus the younger’s solid light blue—matching his eyes. The tall, slim, honey-blond woman had on a beautifully tailored, ivory-colored suit with camel-and-ivory spectator pumps and a brown alligator clutch purse. Gloriana didn’t recognize the name brands by sight, but the shoes alone proclaimed a serious attitude toward fashion.