Heart of stone, p.4
Heart of Stone, page 4
He draped his coat over his arm and headed back out into the bedroom. He’d pushed the sheets down when he got up, and the small bloodstains from where she’d scratched him showed clearly against their dazzling whiteness. He contemplated them a moment: every mage learned from the days of his apprenticeship not to be careless with his own blood. Blood was a powerful thing, and anyone who had any could potentially cause another person—even a mage—a lot of trouble.
He thought about leaving it—he’d become intimately familiar with Deirdre’s aura last night, and had found no hint of duplicity or malevolence in it—but, as the old saying went, there were old mages and there were careless mages, but rarely did the two qualities occur in the same person.
Stone sat down on the edge of the bed and used a simple spell to neutralize any trace of his aura that remained in the bloodstains. Not much lingered at this point even before he started, so it took him only a few seconds to complete the spell. When he finished he tucked her folded note away in his wallet and departed, making sure as she’d asked to lock the door behind him.
Chapter Eight
Monday passed slowly. Stone thought about calling Deirdre during one of his breaks, but forced himself to wait until the evening. He didn’t care if she thought him too eager to see her again: after what they’d shared on Friday night, he couldn’t imagine how she wouldn’t think he’d want to see her again. The wait was more for his own purposes, to prove he could do it. Magic required discipline in all areas of one’s life, not just those that affected the Art.
He managed to remain focused on his work through most of the day; when teaching, he entered a sort of flow state as he prowled the aisles and engaged his students with questions, observations, and demonstrations. A committee meeting took up most of his afternoon, and grading a set of essays claimed the rest. When he glanced at the clock, he saw it was already almost five.
He was gathering up his papers and getting ready to leave for the day when a knock on his office door startled him. He glanced up, annoyed. If some student had shown up outside normal office hours, he’d—
It wasn’t a student. Stone didn’t recognize the man who stood framed in the doorway: fiftyish, medium height, stocky, clad in simple buttoned workman’s shirt, jeans, and sturdy boots. “Yes, may I help you?”
“You’re Dr. Stone, right?” the man asked.
Normally, Stone would have replied with something like, “That’s what it says on the door.” However, one look at the visitor’s face made it clear that he wasn’t in the mood for such comments. “That’s me,” he said instead. “Please, come in, Mr.—”
“Wells. Ed Wells.” Wells entered the office and perched on the edge of the guest chair Stone waved him toward. “I’m Tabitha Wells’s father. She’s one of your students.”
“Ah. Yes, of course. She’s in my Occult in America class this quarter.” He narrowed his eyes. This was odd—university students’ parents didn’t usually come to see their professors about their children—especially not since the majority of Stanford students didn’t have local families. In fact, Stone couldn’t remember it happening even once since he’d begun teaching. Not even in America, where he’d found parents to be more directly involved—sometimes to the point of annoyance—in their offspring’s educations. He waited for Wells to explain further.
The man’s bearing suggested a mix of discomfort and resolve—as if he didn’t want to be here, but perhaps felt that he had to. “I’m concerned about her,” he said. “I thought you might be able to shed some light on something.”
Stone frowned. He barely knew Tabitha Wells—he didn’t make it a point to get to know his students beyond their work in his courses. He tried to picture her in his mind, but the only image he could come up with was one of an athletic, attractive young woman with long brown hair and a pixieish face. As far as he could remember, she’d never come to one of his office hours to seek personal help. Though she’d attended a few of his classes over the past few quarters, she was not an Occult Studies major. “I’ll do what I can, Mr. Wells, but I have a lot of students. I don’t know how much help I can be.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I get that.” He paused, taking in the collection of odd items—books on the occult and supernatural, a stack of feathers, even a human skull—on the shelves behind Stone’s desk. “I found out recently that she’s gotten involved in some stuff that concerns me, and I think you might have something to do with it.”
This was getting even odder. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Wells.”
“Have you ever heard of the Church of the Rising Dawn, Dr. Stone?” Wells leaned forward, meeting Stone’s gaze now.
“No…can’t say so. Should I have?”
“They’re some kind of outfit down in San Jose, from what I understand. I don’t know if you know it, but Tabby is a sociology major. She’s only taking courses in your department because she’s always been interested in that paranormal stuff.”
“I’m aware of Ms. Wells’s major,” Stone said.
“I didn’t even realize she was doing it until recently. She’s here on a scholarship—no way I could afford to send her to Stanford if I had to pay for it.”
Stone nodded. He glanced at the clock. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Wells, but I’ve got an appointment shortly, and I’ve got a fair walk to get to my car.” He didn’t add so if you could get to your point, that would be lovely, but it was implied in his tone. If he could deal with Wells’s problem and get him out of here soon, he’d have time to get home and perhaps call Deirdre to see if she might want to have dinner with him.
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll get right to it. Seems that Tabby has joined some kind of bullshit pagan ‘church’ down in San Jose, and she’s been acting strange lately. Did you put her on to the place?”
“Of course not. I told you, I’ve never heard of it. What makes you think I’ve got anything to do with this?”
Wells sighed. “She doesn’t talk to me much, but she does talk to her sister Taylor. She’s seventeen, still living at home, but they talk a lot on the phone. Tabby’s been telling Taylor about this church thing, and Taylor’s worried that she might have joined some kind of cult.”
“Have you asked Tabitha about this, Mr. Wells?” Stone forced himself to keep his voice even and respectful—after all, this was the father of one of his students. But sometimes the closed-mindedness of some people annoyed him to the point where he had a hard time keeping his opinions to himself. “Even if she has decided to join a pagan church, I can assure you, most of them aren’t cults. No more than any other church is, at any rate.” He gathered up some books and papers from his desk and began stuffing them into his leather briefcase. “And you still haven’t explained why you expect I’d know anything about this.”
“Because Tabby apparently has a pretty high opinion of you, Dr. Stone. Taylor thinks it might even be some kind of crush.”
Stone froze in the act of closing his briefcase. “What?”
“You’re saying you didn’t know?”
“Of course I didn’t know.” Stone didn’t try to keep the sharp tone from his voice. “How would I? She certainly didn’t tell me, and I never noticed anything in her behavior.” His mind flitted back over the quarter, trying to identify anything Tabby Wells might have done to indicate she was attracted to him, but he couldn’t think of anything specific. She often sat up near the front of the class and paid particular attention to his lectures, but a lot of students did that. He’d dealt with the situation before: every young or reasonably attractive professor had stories about the occasional student crush. But if what Ed Wells said was true, Tabby had been more discreet about it than most.
Wells, however, didn’t seem inclined to give up. His expression hardened, though he appeared more resolute than angry. “Be that as it may, Dr. Stone, I wonder if something you said might not have encouraged her to look into this…church…even if there wasn’t anything…well…inappropriate going on between the two of you.”
Stone stood. “Mr. Wells,” he said tightly. “I’ll thank you not to accuse me of inappropriate conduct with students. We take that sort of thing quite seriously around here.”
Wells stood too. For a moment he looked like he would push it further, but then his shoulders sagged and he looked suddenly tired. “I’m sorry, Dr. Stone. That was rude of me, and I apologize. I’m just worried about my daughter. She’s never done anything like this before. I don’t give a damn if she decides to go to some other church, or no church at all. But I do care if she gets herself involved in some cult. I just thought I’d see if you might be able to tell me anything before I talk to her, but I see that was a bad idea.” He pushed his chair in. “Thanks for your time.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. But I think you should talk to your daughter, Mr. Wells, not me.”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll do that.” Wells turned and left without another word.
Stone watched him go in silence, then glanced at his watch. He was surprised to find his heart rate increasing as his mind once again turned to Deirdre.
Chapter Nine
He waited until he was home to call, not wanting some other wayward student or disgruntled parent to make an unexpected appearance in his office mid-conversation. He pulled her note from his wallet and spread it on the table, though he didn’t need to: he’d already memorized her number.
It rang several times before she answered, and then there she was. “Yes, hello?”
“I missed you these past couple of days,” he said. “I hope your business in San Francisco went well.”
She laughed. “So you did call me back. I’ll be honest—I was about fifty-fifty that you wouldn’t.”
“After Friday night? I might be a fool, but I’m not an idiot.”
“You’re the first, you know.”
He leaned back. “The first what?”
“Would it surprise you to know I’ve done this before? But you’re the first one I’ve given my number to.”
A brief flash of something—it took him a moment to identify it as jealousy, since it was so uncharacteristic of him—gripped him, but it quickly faded. He covered it with a chuckle. “It wouldn’t surprise me that you’ve done it before.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Does it matter? I’ve only just met you. Your personal life is none of my concern, nor should it be.”
“They don’t even ask for it. I think I scare them off,” she said, a note of approval in her tone. “But you don’t need to worry, though—not only were you brave enough to call back, but Friday night…” she trailed off.
“Would it surprise you that you’ve been on my mind all weekend?” he asked.
“It was pretty amazing, wasn’t it?”
“That barely begins to describe it.” He paused, drew a deep breath, and took the plunge: “Deirdre…would you like to join me for dinner tonight? And perhaps…dessert, later?”
Her smile came through in her voice. “This is the time when I’m supposed to tell you I need to check my busy social calendar, then turn you down because you’ve waited too long to ask, isn’t it?”
“You hardly seem the type who does what she’s supposed to do,” Stone said.
“Score another one for the man with the sexy accent.” She laughed again. She had a lovely laugh, melodic and merry. “And I’d love to have dinner with you. Pick me up in an hour? You do remember where I live, don’t you?”
“I think I could find it blindfolded.”
“Well, don’t do that. If you get pulled over, you’ll miss dinner.” She paused for a beat. “And I’d miss dessert. And that would be a shame.”
He took her to a small, intimate Asian fusion place just off University. “I’m really the first, then, am I?” he asked teasingly when they were settled. “You don’t tell that to all your conquests?”
“Now, don’t go getting complacent on me,” she said. “I like a man who can keep me on my toes. Most of them only have one thing on their minds.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She laughed. “Well, it’s not as if I don’t have that on my mind too.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“I’ll have to try harder, then.” She sipped her wine and regarded him over the top of the glass.
He hadn’t misremembered, or miscalculated due to fatigue or too many drinks on Friday night: she was every bit as beautiful as he’d remembered. It was odd: for a woman who obviously enjoyed the effect she had on men, her style tended toward the conservative. Tonight, she wore a simple, elegant dress of deep blue under a long, sweeping coat; the dress fit her like a second skin, but had a certain old-world quality to it that Stone found charming. He wondered if it was another of her designs. In any case, as on Friday night he couldn’t stop thinking about her, and when he wasn’t looking at her, her image dominated his mind’s eye.
Is this love at first sight? He rejected the thought. It was an absurd concept: love came as much from time and shared experiences as from physical attraction. Hell, he’d only ever been truly in love once before in his life, and that had been with someone he’d known for years.
His mind flitted briefly back to Lindsey Cole, which chilled him. He’d thought he might grow to love her too, given time, and look where it had gotten her. Was he a fool to risk it again, or was this some kind of bizarre trick of his mind to get him back in the game and show him that he wasn’t a danger to any woman he was attracted to? To think that someone—and someone like Deirdre—whom he’d only met three days ago could—
He shifted to magical sight and wasn’t surprised to see the red tinges coloring the edges of her aura again; at present they were dimmed, but the interest was clearly there. He wasn’t deluding himself.
“What do you think about when you look at me like that?” she asked, head tilted.
Startled, he shifted back. “Like what?”
“I’m not sure. Like…you’re reading my mind. You can’t read my mind, can you?” she asked playfully.
“I wish I could,” he said. “Then I’d know better how to make you happy.”
“I think you did a pretty good job of figuring it out,” she said, and laughed. “We’ll see later how you are with…other types of dessert. I do love versatility.”
“Perhaps you can show me some of your favorite recipes.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Now that is a plan I can support.” She took another sip of her wine and toyed with her fork. “So, tell me about cultural anthropology.” She turned the words around, drawing them out, then added with a wicked grin, “Somehow, I’ve always thought of male college professors as either hopelessly nerdy, or old and stodgy.”
“So, which one am I, then?” he asked.
“I think you break the mold. You’re not old, and you’re certainly not stodgy.”
“And who says I’m not hopelessly nerdy?” he asked.
“You do.” Her smile turned sly. “Or rather, you did, on Friday night. Don’t tell me if I look in your closet, I’ll find bow ties and jackets with leather elbow patches. If so, I might have to rethink my opinion of nerds.”
“The only bow tie I own is the one that goes with my tuxedo,” he said. “But seriously, I’d rather hear about you. I’ve never met a fashion designer before.” He hoped she didn’t notice his deliberate attempt to draw the conversation away from his occupation: given his track record in the past, he had no wish to drive Deirdre off with details about his true area of study. Especially if, despite her voracious appetite in the bedroom, she tended toward the conservative in other aspects of her life. Most mundane women, he’d found, had little patience for the odd occurrences that made up his everyday existence. Best if he gave her a bit more time to get to know him—ideally a year or two, he thought wryly—before he let her in on the specifics.
“There’s not much to tell, really. I’ve only recently come to this area from Los Angeles, so I don’t know too many people here yet.”
“I’m surprised,” he said. “As I said the other night, I’d expect you to have little trouble meeting people. In fact, I’d think you might have trouble not meeting people, whether you want to or not.”
She laughed. “Puppies, you mean.” She shrugged. “I know how to handle that kind of attention. It’s one of those things most women learn young.” She stroked his hand. “You men don’t get the hint a lot of the time.”
“Some of us do,” he said. “Although sometimes we err too far the other way—seeing hints where none exist. It’s troublesome, these days: some women prefer men to be bolder about their interest, but others find that annoying, or intimidating.”
“You seemed to do all right,” she said. She chuckled. “I’d imagine the accent helps, at least in America.”
“It does,” he said. “But I’m usually fairly good at picking up subtle cues, which has saved me from getting my face slapped more than once.”
She leaned in a little closer. “I’m really glad you took a chance,” she said softly. “And I’m glad you called back. You want to know a secret?”
“Of course.”
“You won’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
“I thought about you this weekend. A lot. I hoped you’d call. I told you you’re the first one who called, but you’re also the first one I ever actually worried might not.”
He looked at her fondly. “That’s very flattering. A bit perplexing, but flattering.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Truly?”
She nodded.
He shrugged, and didn’t meet her gaze. “I’m not a vain man—not much, anyway. I suppose I have my little vanities, like anyone does. I don’t generally have too much trouble getting dates, when I want to. But…” he spread his hands. “I know this is going to sound like I’m fishing for compliments, but I’m not. I just don’t see why I was the first. I mean—look at you. You’re young. You’re stunning. I mean it, Deirdre: you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. That’s not flattery, and it’s not a lie. You could have any man you fancied. I suppose there’s a small part of me that’s trying to keep me from…fostering false hope.”
