Page 7 of A Winding Wave of Magic
Of course, he was. I didn’t know any sorcerers well, but the few I’d met over the years weren’t the least bit interested in, well, people—other than what they could do for them.Calculating to the core, all of them, Gran had said time and again in her thick Irish accent.
“But Rachel and I have known each other for a very long time,” he was saying. “Really, though, I’ve yet to hear anymoderators with the insight that you have. In fact, I was wondering if you’d be willing to engage in further discussion over coffee or tea this afternoon. Perhaps now that you’ve finished here.”
I took a bit longer than necessary to button my coat and put on my scarf. I didn’t need to be a seer to sense the man’s obvious bullshit. But Aja’s description floated back to me—a good-looking guy…with a British accent. One who disappeared easily.
“I suppose,” I said, resetting my expression to bland acquiescence. “I have plans right now, but I’m free later this afternoon. We could meet at the café just off the end of the B line on Comm Ave. Do you know where that is?”
The man smiled, revealing a row of sharp-looking white teeth. “I do indeed.”
We eyed each other for a long moment. And then I made a decision for the second time that today I could very well regret.
“I’m Cassandra, by the way.” I pulled off a glove and extended my right hand, bracing myself for chaos.
Something told me it wouldn’t be like other touches. Not a haze of recollections like I’d experienced with Aja or the bright, complex warmth I’d gotten from Rachel Cardy. Power oozed from the man. Maybe my day would be ruined by this single touch, but something also told me I needed to know who he was. And that I couldn’t trust a thing he told me.
“Pleased to meet you.” The man eyed my hand like I was offering him a knife blade first. He didn’t take it.
Then he also seemed to make a decision.
“Sorry,” he said as he stepped back. “Bit of a germophobe, I’m afraid. Hope you don’t mind.”
I couldn’t even pretend not to be relieved as I backed toward the table where the rest of my belongings were. The man’s eyes narrowed. My skin prickled.
“Actually, I just realized that I’m busy this afternoon anyway.” I tugged my glove back on. Suddenly, I wanted to be as far from this stranger as possible. “You can contact me through the department if you need. My email is listed there.”
“Perhaps I will see you at another talk in the area,” he murmured lamely, now focused on a pair of his own smooth leather gloves, pulling them on one elegant finger at a time, pinky to thumb.
“Sure.” I picked up my bag.
Twenty minutes back around the reservoir, and I’d be home. Sain the hell out of my room, take another very long bath, and then call Gran for an interrogation.
When I looked up to bid the man a final farewell, I was alone in the center of the room, the heavy door swinging shut with a loud squeal while forty-five priests, complete with their collars, stared me down.
At that moment, I realized I hadn’t asked the elegant stranger’s name.
And then the voices started.
3
TOUCH THE WATER
Bitter is the wind tonight,
It tosses the ocean’s white hair
— ANONYMOUS NINTH-CENTURY POET, “THE VIKING TERROR”
It was all I could do to get out of the building before my head started to split. By the time I turned the lights off, the room was spinning and my gloves weren’t doing a thing to guard me. None of the clothes I wore seemed to be doing anything to protect me from the emotions and histories seeping from Gasson with every footstep down the main hall toward the exit.
It was a bad spell. A bad day. The worst I’d had in some time, maybe even years.
As soon as I stepped outside, I recognized the signs of an attack. It happened. Not often. But it happened.
The naked trees and snow-covered grass started to spin. Everything was bright and loud, simultaneously far away and much too close. Sounds, smells, tastes, touches, and yes, visions permeating through the lug soles of my boots. They clawedupward through the ground, disregarding the solid earth that was supposed to root me against their onslaught, coiling around me like too-tight bandages. I was prey bouncing in a spider’s web. A desperate catch in a net of time.
A thousand crying children. The heat of a battle over the Nipmuc land. Shouts and laughter and conversations between students, teachers, farmers, hunters, townspeople, colonists, and anyone else who had lived and died on this damn hill.
A lace collar or two.
