Thoroughly Kissed

by Kristine Grayson

  If only she could recover that quickly.

  She let him go and he ran to the bedroom door, then looked over his shoulder as if asking her what she was waiting for. She brought her knees up to her chest. It had been so long since she had had any real instruction in magic. She could barely remember what she knew about the arrival of powers.

  Full blown. Out of control. Those were the phrases she had always heard. But she wasn’t sure if getting magic was like going through puberty—did the changes happen in spurts? Or was she one day magic-less and the next day magical?

  She didn’t know.

  Darnell yowled. She looked at the clock. It was too early to call Aethelstan in Oregon. Neither he nor Nora would appreciate a call at 5:00 a.m.

  She wiped her hands on her nightgown. She had to handle this on her own, at least for a few hours.

  And during those few hours, she had to meet with the new chairman of her department.

  She hoped he would let her cancel.

  ***

  Of course, no one answered the phone in his office, and Helen said he would arrive just a few minutes before nine. Helen had told her that Professor Found was a stickler for detail, and missing this first meeting wouldn’t sit well with him. So Emma decided to go through with the meeting. After all, it would only take a few minutes, and she would use the rest of the time to call Aethelstan and see if she could find a short-term solution to the problem.

  Besides, she had gotten through the rest of her morning routine without a hitch. Darnell seemed no worse for the wear. Her breakfast tasted fine. She had to put on a dress because all of her jeans and sweaters were dirty—and when she cursed her lack of housekeeping skills, the clothes didn’t automatically get clean on their own.

  Even when she encountered a morning traffic jam on University, the cars didn’t miraculously disappear.

  If her powers had arrived full blown and out of control, something else would have happened by now.

  She stopped only briefly in her office before going to Michael Found’s. And during that time, she got annoyed at herself for adjusting her skirt, and brushing loose strands of hair into place. It felt like she wanted to impress him, and not because he was the new chairman of the department. Maybe she’d be able to forget how handsome he was, and concentrate instead on letting him know that she wasn’t as flaky as she seemed.

  Her high heels clicked on the concrete stairs as she made her way to Professor Found’s office. When she reached the top, she felt calmer.

  Helen sat at a large desk in a vast open area that in any other profession would have been known as reception. But she wasn’t a receptionist. She guarded the copy machine, the fax, and all the other equipment, and let a graduate assistant handle the phones.

  She waved a hand in greeting as Emma passed. Emma started toward Mort’s office, but Helen pointed her in the opposite direction.

  Emma walked down the narrow corridor, reading the names beneath the numbers on the steel doors. Ultimately, she didn’t need to: Professor Found’s door was open, and he was waiting for her inside.

  His office was a surprise. It was bigger than hers—which she expected. All offices in the administrative section of the building were large—but it seemed warm and friendly. Bookshelves covered the walls, and plants hung off every available surface.

  The furniture was ergonomically designed—she recognized the styles from the ads—except for the reading chair in the corner. It was upholstered with thick heavy cushions that bore the imprint of Michael Found’s body. A footstool sat in front of it, and books spilled off the table beside it onto the floor. She couldn’t see the titles from the door, but not all of them seemed like scholarly tomes.

  He was standing behind his desk. He wore jeans and a red and black checked flannel shirt that accented his flat torso and his blond hair. Up close, his eyes seemed even bluer than they had in the lecture hall—the bright blue of a summer sky.

  “Professor Lost,” he said.

  “Professor Found.”

  She suppressed the urge to giggle. No wonder the students had started cracking jokes.

  “I’ve read your book.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. She had been planning to ask him to reschedule the meeting, but she wanted to hear what he thought of her work first. “I hope you enjoyed it.”

  His fingers formed little tents on the desktop. His gaze hadn’t left her face, but it felt as if his expression had gotten even more remote. “Close the door, please.”

  She stepped inside and pushed the door shut with her foot. A compliment usually didn’t take a closed door. She braced herself. This wouldn’t be the first time a man had tried to take advantage of her small stature behind a closed door, although until that moment, she hadn’t thought Michael Found the type.

  “Your book,” he said slowly, “is the biggest pile of bunk I had ever read.”

  She wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. He wanted her to close the door so that he could trash her book? No one had trashed her book. It was a critical and popular success. It had gotten her offers from some of the best universities in the nation. It had gotten her this job.

  “Bunk?” she said softly.

  “Bunk,” he repeated. “The research is shoddy, the conclusions poor and the study of paganism has absolutely no basis in fact.”

  No wonder he had looked so interested in her comment about magic the day before. He had read her book. She had discussed some of the systems in Chapter Fifteen.

  “All of my work is based in fact,” she said.

  “Not according to your footnotes. I’m familiar with those sources. Many of them contradict what you’ve written.”

  “Maybe you should have cross-checked them,” she snapped. “They support my argument.”

  “Your argument is that no one knows what happened in the early Middle Ages except you.”

  “I’m not the first scholar to say that what remains from that period is open to interpretation.”

  “But you are the first to say that an entire system of apprenticeship existed in the non-Christian religions.”

  “I didn’t call them a religion!”

  “Which is another flaw!”

  They had both raised their voices. She took a step closer to him. What an arrogant idiot he was. She had read his credentials in the course guide over pizza the night before. His specialty was world history from 1600 to the present day. He had no right to criticize her.

  She took a deep breath. All of her friends had warned her at various points in her life that her temper flared too quickly. She didn’t need to lose it in front of her department chairman, not during their first meeting.

  “It was the Christian Church that labeled a lot of those practices as religion,” she said as calmly as she could. “The church was working on converting people who had never heard of it. The record is biased toward that conversion.”

  “History is always written by the winners.”

  “Do you always speak in cliches or is this something you’re just doing for my benefit?”

  His blue eyes flashed. “I’m not planning to do anything that will benefit you, Professor Lost.”

  She straightened her shoulders. She was dangerously close to losing her temper. That last sarcastic sentence was the first sign that she was about to lose control. She had to hold onto it. If she got mad, he would never forget it. People who were on the receiving end of her wrath never did.

  “I’m not asking you to do anything to benefit me,” she said softly.

  He flattened his hands on his desk. “I’m in charge of the hirings and firings here, and frankly, I’m not pleased with anything about you.”

  She crossed her arms. “You’re not in charge of hiring or firing. The university has committees for that.”

  “Commit
tees that take the recommendation of the department heads very seriously.” He leaned toward her. “You’re a fraud, Professor Lost. You make up your research and then go on the History Channel pretending to be a real historian.”

  “I am the most real historian you’ll ever have in this department,” she snapped. “I know more about primary research than all of your colleagues put together.”

  “Do you?” he asked, his voice even softer. Somehow it sounded more menacing that way.

  She swallowed, wishing she could take back the words. Of course she had done more primary research than the rest of them. She had lived in that time period. She knew what she had written was fact. The rest of them were guessing.

  “Yes,” she said, “I do.”

  “Then why don’t you cite more primary sources in your book?”

  “I’ve cited enough for every other scholar in the world, Professor Found. England in the early Middle Ages is not your time period. Why don’t you trust the people who specialize in the area?”

  He smiled then, and the beauty of the expression caught her even though she wanted to slap him. “I do specialize in the area, Professor Lost.”

  “Not according to your write up in all the college guidelines,” she said, then flushed. She hadn’t wanted him to know that she was checking up on him.

  He raised his eyebrows as if the comment amused him. “Those were written when I was hired. For the last five years, I’ve changed specialties. I just came from England. I’ve been studying the Dark Ages.”

  “Oh,” she said. “So you want to get rid of me because I’ve got more credentials in the field you aspire to. I’m teaching the classes you want to teach.”

  “No, Professor,” he said. “I’m telling you this so that you know that I know what you think you know.”

  She blinked. She wasn’t sure what he had just said. “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve made everything up.” He picked her book off his desk. “This entire volume is a work of fiction. It’s well written, it’s interesting. It’s easy to see why the literati embraced the whole thing, and it’s pretty with all those color photographs. It’s a very nice coffee table book. But just because the book critic in the New Yorker says you can write doesn’t mean you can produce a good work of historical scholarship.”

  “You’re jealous,” she said.

  “No.” He slapped the book on his desk. “I don’t want a fraud in my department.”

  “I’m not a fraud,” she said.

  “Ms. Lost—”

  “Professor Lost,” she snarled.

  “—You are the worst kind of fraud. You are attractive, articulate, and intelligent. You tell a coherent and plausible story. But you are lazy and inept and ultimately you will embarrass this department. I want you out of here before you do that.”

  “You can’t fire me,” she said. “I was hired with Mort’s highest recommendation. I’ll tell the academic review board that you’re jealous and you want to clear me out of here because I teach the very subjects you believe you should teach.”

  “And I’ll show them how poor your documentation is.” His eyes narrowed. “When I get through with you, you won’t be able to get a job at any reputable campus anywhere.”

  A surge of panic rose inside her and she fought to keep it from showing on her face. She wasn’t suited to anything else. She was awful at all the other jobs she had tried. Teaching was her calling, and writing books about her past was the best thing she could do.

  This good-looking pompous ass was threatening more than he knew. He was threatening her very survival. Her very future.

  She clenched her fists, struggling to control herself. The office felt hot and stuffy. The furniture was closing in on her. If only she had room to breathe—

  This time she felt the little puff of energy leave her before she saw the bright light. There was a thunderous clap that echoed around her, and she saw stars for a moment. When her vision cleared, she was standing in an empty room—with Michael Found.

  He staggered forward as if he had been leaning his weight on something and it was now gone. His face was pale.

  “What was that?”

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She blinked, unable to think of a response. Except that she needed to reverse the spell.

  She was full blown and out of control and she had to get out of here very, very fast.

  The door opened and Helen looked in. Her face was pale. “Um, Michael,” she said, “how did all your furniture get into my office?”

  He looked at Emma, whose mouth was still open. At least she wasn’t blushing. Her heart was pounding and she had to mutter the reverse order, but she didn’t want to do it in front of them. Then they’d know she caused all of this.

  “Michael?” Helen asked. “What’s happening?”

  “I have no idea.” His voice sounded calm, but his right hand shook. He clenched his fist. “I was telling Professor Lost—”

  “Stop!” she said before she thought the better of it. She didn’t want Helen to hear about that humiliating conversation. She didn’t want Helen to hear anything.

  Michael Found made a choking noise and for a brief, terrifying moment, Emma thought she had taken his voice away. Then he cleared his throat, and took a step toward the door.

  “Helen?”

  Emma looked at Helen, ever so slowly. Helen was no longer moving. She was frozen in position, and her skin was gray. Well, not exactly gray. It looked like it was made of stone.

  She had become a statue.

  “Oh, no,” Emma muttered softly.

  Professor Found approached the department secretary as if he thought what she had was catching. When he reached her, he touched her arm.

  “She’s cold,” he said.

  His back was to Emma. She whispered the “reverse” word ever so softly and twirled her hand.

  The stone around Helen cracked and fell to the floor, then vanished.

  “Michael?” Helen said. “You didn’t answer me.” She leaned back slightly. “And don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  “I didn’t sneak up,” he said. “You turned to—ah, hell.”

  He looked at Emma, who shrugged.

  “To what?” Helen asked.

  “Don’t you remember?” he asked.

  “I remember asking you a question you have yet to answer. What’s going on?”

  “I wish I knew.” He frowned at Emma. She didn’t have to work at looking panicked. She was barely breathing, afraid of doing anything, thinking anything. She had to get out of here and get some help.

  “One minute I was having a discussion with Professor Lost, the next thing I know, my furniture is gone.”

  He turned back to Helen who peered into the room. Emma understood her confusion. There weren’t even any dust bunnies in here—and considering how many books had lined the floor, there should have been.

  Helen’s gaze met Emma’s and then she looked away. Emma used that moment to try the reverse spell again, but it didn’t work.

  “Do you know what’s happening, Professor Lost?” Michael asked.

  Emma clenched her fists and pushed past him. “I’m sorry. I have to leave.”

  “But we’re not done…”

  “Oh, yes, we are. You’re having a weird furniture problem. We can resume this discussion some other time.” Emma slid past Helen. “Sorry,” she said softly.

  Helen didn’t seem to have a response. Emma almost ran down the hall, her heels preventing her from moving too fast. When she reached Helen’s office, she had to slow down to make her way past the piles of furniture.

  It was a neat spell, more or less. The furniture had actually arranged itself in its proper positions—the bookshelves against the wall, the reading chair in a corner with its footsto
ol in the proper place—but there wasn’t enough room for everything, and so the space was crammed.

  Emma was lucky that the spell had worked as it had, otherwise Helen could have been crushed under a load of ergonomically designed furniture.

  The thought made Emma shudder. It could have been so much worse.

  Although it was bad enough. It would take a lot of work to get the furniture moved back to Michael Found’s office. She wished she could spell it there, but she knew now that wasn’t possible.

  She pushed open the stairway door, paused because she felt light-headed, and went down to her office, hoping she wouldn’t see anyone else. The last thing she needed was another magical accident.

  Things were bad enough.

  ***

  Michael still stood in the middle of his office. With a clap of thunder, the furniture had magically reappeared, almost as if someone had commanded it to do so. Everything was in its place. Even the plants draped as they had before. The same books were on top of his reading stack, and Emma Lost’s disgraceful tome was in the spot where he had slammed it on his desk.

  Helen had taken one look at the restored furniture, shaken her head, and hurried away from him, as if he had caused it.

  He wasn’t sure what had caused it. Or if anything had really happened. He was still vaguely jet-lagged, and he had been very angry at Emma Lost. The woman was as infuriating as she was beautiful.

  And she seemed to firmly believe that she hadn’t done anything wrong.

  He walked back to his desk and touched its wood surface. It felt the same. He frowned, trying to remember the exact sequence of events. Had he walked through the space where the desk should have been? Or had he walked around it as though it were still there?

  Had someone played a trick on him, knowing that he was writing a book on magic? It wouldn’t surprise him. Students were endlessly creative. And if David Copperfield could make the Empire State Building disappear then a talented student could make Michael believe that his office furniture had vanished.

  There had been that flash of light, and it had affected his eyesight for a moment. Was that some sort of special effect that made it seem as if his furniture was gone?