Brooklyn Knight (23 page)

Shutting her eyes against the sight, feeling herself beginning to tremble once more, Bridget pulled the edges of the professor’s shirt-front together and rebuttoned several of the buttons, no longer capable of confronting the hideous image. Afterward, realizing there was nothing else she could do for Knight at that moment, she decided to see what she might possibly be able to do for herself.

Returning to the upstairs room where her suitcase still remained open on the bed, Bridget moved to the large mirror attached to the dresser to make an assessment of her own condition. The young woman was more than a little stunned by what her reflection had waiting for her. Her hair was in complete disarray, her carefully piled do from the morning now a hanging mass of pins and wild strands. Her makeup was badly smeared.

Worse was the condition of her outfit.

Struggling to carry Knight had left her jacket and blouse horribly wrinkled. Her constricting pencil skirt looked as if it might be completely ruined. The streaks of mud along her thighs were one thing, possibly not so bad. But, the darkly ground-in grass stains at her knees looked as if they might be permanent. Her panty hose had somehow been practically shredded.

Then suddenly Bridget realized she was not wearing her shoes. How long had she been without them, she wondered. Where had they been lost? Were they somewhere in the grass of the cemetery? Resting on the floor of Knight’s car? Kicked off somewhere within his house? It troubled the young woman that she could not remember taking them off or losing them—that she might have driven the professor’s car barefoot without even realizing it.

Oh well
, she told herself, slipping out of her jacket.
I’m not
going to worry about any of this now. It’s just not worth it. What I am going to do is take a nice hot shower and just maybe even, once the water gets good and hot, let myself have a nice long cry.

The tears starting flowing down Bridget’s face before she had managed to finish undressing. They did not stop throughout her shower, or even after she turned out the lights and slid under the covers of Knight’s guest room bed.

Professor Piers Knight woke in the morning with more than a touch of reluctance. His entire body was a throbbing mass of pain. His eyes hurt too severely for him to actually dare to go ahead and open them. His teeth ached. And for some reason he could not comprehend in the least, his tongue itched. As his conscious mind shrugged, laboring to pull itself together, however, the questions it began enumerating forced him to begin searching his slightly damaged memory for answers.

Where are we?
it wanted to know first and foremost.
Feels like home—smells right. But how did we get here? And from where? Where was I? Oh, damn all the fools who plague me so, what’s gone and happened to me now?
And then, less self-centeredly, his brain inquired;

And where’s Bridget? Is she all right?

And with that last thought the professor’s eyes came open sharply despite his reservations over allowing them
to do so. Their opening proved to be every bit as painful as Knight had expected.

The touch of light that entered seemed to burn them, forcing him to both cry out and close them once more immediately. As he gasped in shock, he found his hands reaching out in opposite directions, desperately searching for handholds as a stabbing dizziness sent his head crashing back toward his couch. Through the throbbing agony, however, still his mind questioned him: Where was his assistant? What had happened to them both? Could he have possibly allowed her to come to harm?

Oh, what have you done now, you great, bloody idiot?

As his hands came in contact with his couch, Knight concentrated all his energy into one burst, pushing with all the strength he could muster so as to force his body into an upright position. Once up, he braced himself with both arms, hanging on by digging his fingers into the fabric of his sofa to keep from backsliding. The effort from the ascent as well as the effort spent in staying vertical left the professor gasping in pain. Blinking, trying to both reopen his eyes as well as fight through the various gnawing pangs still stabbing at him, he shook his head slightly, demanding answers from himself.

Oh yes …

As information began pouring into a section of his brain where he could actually make use of it, the professor realized where he was, began remembering what had happened to himself and Bridget. Assuming that if he was on his couch, in his own living room, things must be at least secure for the moment, he paused to take stock of his situation. Pulling down a deep breath, Knight made himself stand up, to see if he could do so, if nothing else. Upon making it to an upright position without having to hold on to anything, he commented;

“Well, that’s something, anyway.”

Slowly, making certain to attempt no sudden moves, the professor began bending his various joints a few at a time—knuckles, elbows, wrists, knees—checking them for further small agonies as well as flexibility. Twisting his neck, rolling his shoulders, swiveling his hips, he found all the movements more or less painful, but he also noted that his suffering was receding with each new set of motions. After only several minutes, he sat back down on his couch, reasonably confident that he had sustained no breaks, fractures, or sprains the evening before.

Taking a deep breath, he held it down for a long moment, then exhaled it harshly. Repeating the procedure several times, feeling himself stabilizing further with each breath, the professor believed himself strong enough to risk a small shout.

“Bridget?”

When no response was forthcoming, Knight scratched at his head. He was positive his mind had gathered all the facts of the evening previous for him. The specter had merged with him, they were struck by lightning, Bridget had helped him to the car, got them both home—

But then he realized that much—and no more—was all he actually remembered. Her pulling the car into the garage, shutting the door. That was it. How he had gotten inside his home after that, onto the couch, shoes and tie removed, shirt open but jacket still on—had his assistant managed all that? And if she did, where was she? Still asleep, perhaps?

The professor’s head turned to check the time. The daylight streaming through the windows had already alerted him to the fact that he had slept at least the night away. Focusing on his long-case clock standing in the corner, he saw that the time was nearly ten thirty. Staring at the five metal human figures mounted on the timepiece’s crown, he asked them;

“Fine, it’s still morning—but
which
morning?”

“It’s only Thursday, Professor.” Turning suddenly, Knight found his assistant standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen. Scratching his head once more, he asked;

“Oh, hello, didn’t you hear me call you?”

“I did. Didn’t you hear me answer?” The professor thought for a moment, then said;

“No, I guess I didn’t. Appears I’m not as recovered as I thought I was. What about you, though? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” the redhead said in a voice warm with assurance. “But then, why shouldn’t I be? After all, you’re the one that was struck by lightning.”

“Yes, I hate when that happens. Don’t you?”

“Haven’t had the experience yet,” answered Bridget, wondering if Knight was teasing her or not. “I’ll let you know, though. Until then, why don’t you tell me how
you’re
doing?”

“All in all, I believe I’m fit enough. Although I don’t remember anything after your managing to get us to the garage.”

Sitting down in an overstuffed chair across from the couch, Bridget filled in the remaining blanks in Knight’s memory. Once she had covered her struggles in getting the professor onto his couch, she told him;

“After that, it was a shower and beddie-bye for me. And I slept very well, too, thank you very much. After that, I got up, came down to the kitchen, rummaged around for a few odds and ends, and put a pot of soup on. You had a half a chicken and enough vegetables to make something that should, at the very least, not do you any harm. My mother made soups like this for everything from colds and scraped elbows to broken hearts.”

“And did they help?”

“Every single time,” she told him, wearing a grin that dared
him to contradict her. Knowing women at least well enough to see the foolishness in such an action, Knight made a show of sniffing at his underarm, then offered;

“Well, why don’t I drag my aching carcass upstairs, take a much-needed, very hot shower, dress in something less wrinkled than my current ensemble, and then come back down to try your version of your mother’s soup?”

“That sounds good,” answered Bridget. “Then, while you’re warming your throat and making yourself feel wonderful all over, you can tell me how one makes it thunder and lightning out of a clear sky.”

“All right… .”

“And how one does so without getting any rain, or any more thunder or lightning for that matter.”

“Good idea… .”

“And—”

“Yes,” snapped Knight, wishing he had some right to be annoyed. Knowing he had none whatsoever, however, he surrendered to the inevitable, saying, “And we’ll have a little impromptu seminar on ghosts and the spirit world as well.”

“Enjoy your shower, Professor.”

Knight grumbled to himself about the unfairness of life throughout his entire trip upstairs and even through most of his shower.

“You know,” said Knight, staring at his soupspoon, his tone that of one imparting the wisdom of the ages, “this concoction of yours isn’t half-bad.”

“Oh my,” answered his assistant with mock humility. “It’s ever so kind of you to say so, good sir.” Bridget, elbows on the kitchen table, threaded her fingers, then rested her chin upon them. Batting her eyes at the professor for comic effect, she then switched to an outrageous southern accent as she added;

“How you do go on. Why, I do declare, you’ll turn my head, Piers Knight.”

“That’s ‘Professor’ Knight to you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” answered his assistant in her regular voice. As the professor went back to his soup, Bridget continued, telling him, “Okay now, spill it. Just what the hell was that we went through last night? As opposed to all the other hells we’ve been through since I got to this crazy town.”

“Not enjoying the marvelous diversity which is New York City, are we?”

“Let’s just say it’s not shaping up the way it was described in the guidebooks. Oh, and for the record, what I saw last night seemed a lot closer to
The X-Files
than to any Homeland Security project.” Assuming a more comfortable pose, Bridget took a spoonful from her own soup bowl, then said;

“Listen, I’m trying to keep it together here—do you understand me? What I’m saying? I am just ten inches from losing it. Big-time. This morning, I have to ask myself, gee-whiz, what bit of information from the common-knowledge lexicon are we going to throw out today? I’ve already lost Sir Isaac Newton and the Amazing Randi as experts-one-can-trust—who gets thrown on the dustheap of history next? Mendeleev? Adam Smith? I am, literally, afraid to ask.”

Knight raised a hand, conceding defeat. Giving his assistant what he hoped was a sincere look, he asked;

“Have I denied you any information so far?”

“No, but that’s not my point. Don’t you get it? My world is shattering here. Half the time I think you’re telling me the truth, which is all that’s keeping me sane. But then, you start feeding me qualifiers, ‘was I flying or floating,’ talking about national security, like you’re misleading me, maybe covering your tracks, trying to protect yourself—”

“Bridget, I …”

“I need to trust you, and if, how can I, if you don’t trust me, I mean … I just, I have—”

As Bridget’s breathing began to come in more rapid bursts and her words started to slur as she jumbled them one against the other, the professor raised his hand once more, begging her to halt before she did herself injury.

“Ha-ha, very funny.”

“Not terribly amusing, I admit,” he told her, “but perhaps necessary to capture your attention. Now please, calm yourself. Trust me, you
are
handling things, and very well I might add. I’ve seen others, over the years, who would have been screaming in the night by this point.”

“Try me around bedtime,” she told him sourly.

“Touché,” Knight responded, half-smiling as he did so. Sitting back in his chair for a moment, he admitted, “Listen to me: You are a much stronger person than you realize. You have come through everything that has happened to us both so far with admirable fortitude. In all honesty, I don’t know anyone else who could have done as well.”

“Please,” snapped Bridget, feeling she was being patronized, “you have to know plenty of others who do what you do. You must all have some secret club where you confer, converse, and otherwise hobnob with your brother wizards—”

“Did you just quote
The Wizard of Oz
at me?”

Bridget blushed, then started to giggle. Giving his assistant an exasperated look, Knight forced himself to swallow another spoonful of soup. Appreciating its healing warmth, he commented on how much better it was making his throat feel, then got back to the more serious matter at hand.

“As I was saying, you, Ms. Bridget Elkins of Wolfbend, Montana, you are indeed handling things well. I’m not trying to tell you that you haven’t gone through a great deal, or that it hasn’t taken its toll. What I’m telling you is that—”

The redhead’s eyes stared intently as Knight suddenly stopped talking. He did not appear to her as if he were having any sort of medical problem, a flash of pain, beginnings of a stroke, headache, et cetera. No, to the young woman he looked like a man considering something. As his gaze met hers, as they both probed each other, searching each other’s eyes for answers, Bridget could
tell the professor was on the verge of making some monumental decision. When he blinked she knew whatever problem he had been looking to resolve, he had found his answer. Taking one more spoonful of soup, he said;