Page 28 of A Winding Wave of Magic
The voice was familiar. Deep. Male. British—or maybe just a little Irish? That lilt was so familiar.
A broad chest was warm against my back as I was guided to the shelter of a large cedar. The visions had dimmed now—finally— as my rescuer propped me up against the tree and tucked me into the coat I’d abandoned on the shore.
Not that it did much. I was soaked through.
“Wh-who—w-what?” My chattering teeth prevented much articulation.
“Do you even know how to swim?”
I blinked and finally managed to focus my eyes. Standing in front of me washim.
The strange, handsome sorcerer, who had last rescued me from another spontaneous plunge, blinking with obvious irritation through eyes the color of a freshly cut lime.
“You,” I managed.
His surprisingly full mouth folded into a straight line. “Yes. Me.”
What—what areyoud-doing here?” Also, why was I always forced to stutter around this man?
“It’s lovely to see you too,” he said dryly. “And you’re welcome for saving your life. Again.”
I startled, enough that more of the water fell off my hair like a dog when shaking its fur. “You didn’t save my life. I was just?—”
“Having a mental attack in the river? Yes, that would have turned out perfectly, especially on the walk home, had you even survived. You’re a vision in black, and half the drivers are over the blood alcohol limit.” The man snorted. “You Yanks really can’t hold your liquor, do you know that?”
I stared, still dumbfounded. It wasn’t just the fact that he was just as—or maybe more—attractive than I remembered him, in a pressed sage-green button-up and jeans that hugged his long legs. He was wearing glasses again, sleek and frameless ones that, along with the shirt, only magnified the color of his eyes. And their arrogance.
But he washere. In Portland. Three thousand miles away from Boston, and not only that, standing on the deserted bank of a river that no one in their right mind visited at this time of night.
Except a seer, of course, desperately in need of clarity.
“Are youstalkingme?” I blurted out.
He snorted, as though I’d asked something truly preposterous, like whether the moon was made of green cheese or if he was on his way to Oz. “Shockingly, no. I…live here. I was driving home from work when I saw you spiraling down the bank.”
This time my jaw legitimately dropped. “Youlive in Portland? In Sellwood?”
The stranger nodded. “Well, that is where…we are. I was only in Boston for a symposium and happened to catch Rachel’s talk. And pull you out of a frozen pond, of course. And now the river.”
By this point, he was looking at me like I was genuinely crazy. And while I understood the befuddlement, I had also been raised by one of the most suspicious women on the planet. Coincidence is a trap for the mind, right? Gran had told me again and again. It didn’t exist. Which meant?—
“So where are we going?” My rescuer checked his watch, which had a brass face and looked like an antique. “I’d prefer not to stay here all night if it’s all the same to you. I’ve a warm bed waiting for me, and you look rather cold.”
I swallowed. “I—what?—”
“Your friend’s address, Cassandra. Unless you’re staying at a hotel. I suppose we can go to my house if you’d prefer?—”
“I would not,” I said emphatically. “And I’ll walk, thanks.”
“That’s not going to happen.” His face turned hard, like the cement on the streets. “My car is parked up at the top of the bluff.”
I glanced back at the water, which was as flat as ever. No sign of the enormous hand or wave or whatever it was that had grabbed me and carried me to shore. “Did you do that?”
“Did I do what?”
I turned back to him. “You know what. I was floating one moment, and then thewatercarried me back to shore. On a river. Without waves.”
His eyes didn’t waver, that stony expression not even flickering with recognition as the man shoved his hands into his pockets. “I am a sorcerer. We are capable of many things.”
