CHAPTER EIGHT

CELEBRATIONS AND OTHER FUN OCCURRENCES

I DIDN’T EVEN realize that my mother left later and returned. My nose was stuck off and on in the journal between loads while I caught up with the laundry. I became aware as she entered with paper bags full of great smelling containers from the best Chinese takeout in our end of town and began to decorate the kitchen table. I came out of the laundry room; my jaw dropped, and Scout began hopping around in celebration. He sneezed once or twice as the garlic and ginger and savory goodness overwhelmed his senses.

“Wow. What’s the occasion?”

“My dissertation is finished, whether they like it or not.” And my mother dropped a binder on the table next to the aromatic bags. She’d written her title in permanent marker on it: Magic Through a Broken Mirror: How Magic Avoids Discovery in Literature and Fact by Mary Andrews.

“I thought you’d said three months.”

“I did. But over half of them have submitted suggestions for reworking and I’ve done that, and I’m tired of the rest of the committee sitting on their hands. They can agree with the revisions that have been done or give me input of their own, but they need to do something.”

I knew it, had seen it many times before, but seeing it in bold and capital letters made it seem more real as my mother rustled around getting plates and utensils. Looking at it hit me in the gut. What would Morty have thought of this? All those decades—no, make that centuries—in his journal of avoiding such a close look at his clan’s existence. An uneasy knot settled in my stomach. Had we betrayed him somehow? Would this break my vow to keep their secrets?

Yet I knew what she’d written, mostly, having helped her proof it for months. If she’d betrayed him and the others at all, I hadn’t seen it. No, her observation had been more geared to classical writings and poetry, music and the like, and the link they might have had to what might actually have happened. Her paper had been precise and thought-provoking, but she hadn’t given away any secrets. At least, not in what I’d read. That last chapter could be a real doozy. Conclusions have a reputation for that.

“What happens now?”

“I’ve given them five days to respond. It’s up to the secretaries now, I think, to schedule a pub date. Then I have to sign up for graduation, the official doctorate ceremony.”

“Wow.”

Mom dodged me to set down serving spoons and forks and pull a chair out for me to sit. “I know it’s a surprise, but I didn’t expect you to freeze in shock.”

“What? Oh, no, I just stopped to think and forgot to get started again. It’s been forever.”

“I know. At this point, I think we’re all tired of it. I know I am, but it’s finished. I’ve had it proofread and waved that last chapter under their noses. They have to accept it for print, I think. I’ve done everything they’ve asked of me.”

I took my seat and pulled a box toward me. “Dumplings! You got dumplings!”

“I certainly did, and steamed buns, too. The whole megillah.” She paused before sitting down herself. “I decided that, considering my own objectives, that I was done, and I would submit it as such.”

“But there might be more rewrites.”

“Sometimes a bit here and there. I expect an edit or two in the appendices, but those will be easy to do. The committee has to look like they’re doing some real work. But this stalling they’ve been doing, dragging their heels on one end while my department head on the other is saying, publish or quit or be fired—I won’t tolerate it anymore.”

I filled my plate with a respectable number of dumplings, their sauce running in a thin brown and savory puddle as I did. “Congratulations! We should have champagne. Or Chablis. Or something.”

“Thank you!” She waved off the suggestion for wine though as she shook out a napkin and passed me one of those little packets of soy sauce. She paused. “Where’s Simon?”

“No idea. Not like him to miss a feast, though. I think the tell-tales upstairs alert him to freshly cooked food as well as problems.”

“That would explain a lot.”

We didn’t say much for the next few minutes, turning out house special fried rice, chow mein, chow fun with shrimp, and Mongolian beef onto our plates. Heavenly smells filled our kitchen to the rafters. We dug in, paying little attention to the third place setting which remained empty. Scout put his paw on my leg and got a few noodles for the polite effort. I don’t think he’d ever had Chinese takeout food before which explained his restraint in begging.

I sat back, getting full and pondering whether I wanted seconds on shrimp or beef or both, then decided to ask: “Going to take that binder down and show it to Dad?”

She paused, fork in midair, noodles dangling and dripping sauce into her rice. “I hadn’t thought of it.”

“He may not react, but he’s always been aware. I mean, you were starting your thesis before he left, right?”

“Not this one but yes.” My mother chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Maybe I will.” She tilted her head. “Visit him often?”

“A couple times a week. I don’t know if he has any real sense of the passage of time, though. He can’t indicate that to me.” I hesitated a moment wondering if I should tell her my worry. “I think he’s fading more and more.”

“He’s running out of time?”

“Maybe. Maybe energy, maybe more.” I stopped short and just shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Going to ask the Society?”

“They don’t know we have a ghost, and the professor and I never discussed if we should tell them about Dad. Brandard was mostly concerned about the stone.”

“Mmmm.” She considered the dumpling carton and then speared another for herself, commenting, “Steptoe better hurry, or he’s going to miss out entirely.” Halfway through nibbling it, she said, “Where does Simon get his energy?”

“I’ve no idea. He’s not a ghost, though. He’s a lesser demon.”

“Still, he’s, what, centuries old? He’s got to have a life force of some kind.”

“You’re thinking he might have an idea how to recharge Dad?”

“It might be possible. And since you’re going tonight, they’re going to see or sense that stone anyway. Maybe it can charge your father up.”

I looked at the handsome piece of marble. It took power from me, although usually not a lot. It might be worth pondering her suggestion, but it would have to be done cautiously because I had no idea how to send him energy without draining myself dangerously. I might be able to find out from the Society if I asked questions carefully, without revealing too much. The last thing I wanted was for a team of ghostbusters galloping into the house and going after my father.

Anything I might have said was interrupted by Steptoe as he burst into the room carrying the chill of the late afternoon weather with him. His nose matched his apple-red cheeks as he chafed his hands. “Oy, it’s a brisk one out there.”

“That it is. Sit down and have supper.”

“Don’t mind if I do!” He grinned cheerfully and reached for cartons before he even properly finished settling. “I had some chores to undertake, but it looks like we’re going to get a good snowfall tonight. Late tonight, but sometime.” He doled out his share of food. “What a feast. Good news, I take it?”

“I finished my paper and have submitted it for final review.”

“Despite their puttering around? Good show, Mary.” He ate with relish. “And a good idea, this.”

“Steptoe,” I began. “Do you ever run out of energy?”

“I sleep like you lot. And eat. That what you mean?”

“Not exactly.”

He waved a near empty carton in one hand and his fork in the other. “Ah. You’re wondering if I have to return to the demonic essence sometimes. Indulge in blood sacrifices and brimstone and fire and such.” He winked at me, as if enjoying his teasing remark. “Well, the answer is no.”

“Seriously?”

“Very seriously. Do you think old Brandard would have left me standin’ if I’d been about any of that? ’Course not. The professor would ’ave blasted me away. Almost did anyway.” He brandished his fork.

“I wasn’t thinking brimstone.”

My mother raised an eyebrow at me.

“Well, I wasn’t. Sort of like a demon’s version of solar energy.”

“Ha.” Steptoe snorted. “It’s like this. The earth is gridded with ley lines, elemental energy, and I tap into those. If I went back to my origins, I’d be swallowed up and this whole bit of redemption and goodwill and friendship would be for nothing. And I don’t want that, ducks, not at all. Put too much time and effort into it, and I’d miss all of you far too much.” He dug the last of the fried rice out of the bottom corner of its container. “That answer your question?”

“For you, but—”

Mom cautioned me. “Don’t ask questions we really don’t want answers to, Tessa.”

“Superstitious?” I shot back at her.

“Sometimes a little caution brings big dividends.”

“Not on the hockey field.”

My mother shot me a glance. “Life is not a hockey field.”

“And curiosity and the cat is a good lesson,” Simon added before devouring the last dumpling.

My mother took my plate away. “Done?”

Done but not defeated. “Definitely,” I answered and pushed away from the table. “And I’ve got studying to do before tonight.”

He looked puzzled a second before brightening. “Ah, I’d forgotten. Goldie got some information for you.”

“Yup.” I waved and tromped upstairs, but I’d lost my faithful shadow who figured another noodle or two might come his way from those still sitting at the table. Seems he decided he liked Chinese food.

Upstairs, I sprawled across my bed and opened the journal again. Next thing I knew, Scout had curled up with me and I was fast asleep.

I don’t even remember dreaming. It didn’t feel like it. It had that clarity of real life except I didn’t know where I was. I walked through a thinning crowd of people I did not know or recognize or even care about, which made me feel awful. It seemed like a number of them were in distress, but I hadn’t time for them. I had another destination.

A shadow fell over me, and I turned to see who it might be.

And there he stood: Malender, with his intense expression and smoking hot attitude. His dark hair curled back from framing his face as his brilliant green eyes trained his attention on me, his tall form dressed as always like a troubadour. Of all the centuries he’d lived through, he must have loved that one best. He held a whip handle. The lash draped down to his ankles where shadows hugged him, coiled about his legs as if alive. I peered closer. Razor-sharp thorns studded the lash, and as I looked, flames erupted up and down the length. But they didn’t entrap him. He raised his hand and snapped the whip into the air, thorns flashing and fire erupting. Holy moly.

“Maybe,” he said to me, “it would have been better if you hadn’t freed me from my prison.” The whip relaxed back to coil about him, almost seductively.

Maybe he was right.

Sometime around then came the realization that those people I had passed by, those throngs of strangers, had all had their backs flayed open in ragged, crimson stripes. I could hear their moans faintly, even though they had staggered out of my reach, out of his reach. Had he done that to them? I couldn’t believe so because of the aura of wrongness that hung in the Butchery where I’d once seen similar torture. I’d never sensed that about this being, this man that I knew. Danger . . . yes, but not wanton evil. I wanted to trust him but couldn’t quite. I didn’t know what he really was, even. Perhaps one of the old gods who’d survived the turns of the world.

I stared at Malender. The most beautiful being I’d ever seen.

And possibly the most wicked.

I jerked awake. My heart beat wildly and my throat had gone dry. It took me a few breaths to become truly aware of myself in my bed and bedroom. What meaning had that dream had? Or was it even a dream? Malender had power, a terrible power. Most of my magical friends feared him; I’d always wondered why. That whip was new. I’d never seen him carrying it before, but I had no doubt that he knew how to use it.

I grabbed my laptop to try and identify what I had just seen. It took a bit of poking about, but not long. Everything, it seems, is on the Internet . . . even medieval scourges because that is what it was. A whip to end all whips in pain and punishment, for the purpose of justice and cleansing. Biblical even.

I wouldn’t have believed I could dream up such a thing, so it helped a little to just sit and stare at it. Well, minus the flames. My imagination must have added that little detail.

Go me.

I couldn’t have imagined seeing Malender with one, though, tormented magical being that he was. I had never thought of him as the rising evil that everyone had feared returning to life, to kick ass and take names. Powerful: yes, evil: no.

The dream gave me second thoughts.

He knew how to handle that whip.

For the briefest of moments, I wondered if it could have been Malender standing at the lamppost, watching us from the dead of night. It left me chilled.

I got up and headed to the shower as if that might somehow wash the dream and thoughts out of my head. Then I had to find out how to fritter away the rest of the day.