For Love or Magic (15 page)

“Um,” I said in low tones, uncomfortable with speaking at full volume. “You're a conjurer, too, right?”

Stacy said, “Yes,” and at the same time Leo said, warily, “In training.”

I got right down to it. “Between you and Desmond, you should be able to help him. I don't know what he was given, but he probably shouldn't go anywhere today, and he definitely shouldn't go to a hospital. We're not sure what he's got in his system, and hospitals can make this sort of thing worse. He needs rest. He and Liv can have my bed. You guys can have the couch and love seat, if you want. I'll sleep…” I motioned vaguely in the direction of my truck parked outside. “Somewhere.”

I started toward the door, but Stacy's hand came down in a firm clamp on my arm.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “You're not going anywhere, Eliot.”

“Stace,” Leo said, but she didn't take her eyes off me.

“You come to town, tell us you're the magical daughter of an evil agency dude, and suddenly Tobias shows up on your doorstep? Is that all supposed to be coincidence?”

I pulled my arm out of her grip and stepped a little closer to her, letting her know that she wasn't going to intimidate me.

“You think
I
did this?”

“I think you know something about it, yeah,” Stacy said. “And if you think I'm letting you out of my sight, you've got another think coming.”

A strong, British voice came from the hallway. “Leave her alone, Stacy.”

Stacy looked over at Desmond, but I kept my eyes on her. After being clocked by Amber Dorsey the other day, no way was I turning my back on another unpredictable chick from Nodaway Falls.

“Oh, so, what? I'm supposed to trust
you
now, Des?”

Leo visibly tensed as Desmond walked over to us, the muscles in his arm going taut as he pressed his hand protectively against Stacy's hip. It looked like it was all he could do to not hit Desmond, and when Desmond moved closer, Leo twitched for a moment, as if holding back a swing.

“I'm pretty sure it's
bayatsah tsvyetok,
” Desmond told them coolly, seemingly undisturbed by their palpable hatred of him. “Some of his memory will just be gone, there's nothing we can do about that. He'll be sensitive to light for a while. But if we can get the counterpotion fast enough, he shouldn't lose much more than a few months. Maybe a year.”

The color drained from Stacy's face. “A year? Of his
memory
?”

“A few months, if we act quickly,” Desmond said. “And you can thank Eliot. She suggested it, and I have reason to believe she's right.”

Stacy glanced at me, looking like she had absolutely no intention of thanking me for anything.

Desmond went on. “Would you like the recipe, or shall I make the counterpotion?”

Stacy's eyes narrowed, and she said, “Give me the recipe.”

“You make it,” Leo said over her, and he met Desmond's eyes. He didn't like Desmond, that much was obvious, but he seemed to respect him.

“Leo,” Stacy said, and Leo looked down at her, his expression instantly softening.

“You told me emotions mess with the process,” he said, “and you're full up on emotion right now. Desmond…” He looked up at Desmond, obviously not liking what he saw. “Desmond doesn't have that problem, do you, Des?”

The icy expression Stacy held when Desmond had been talking warmed instantly as she looked at Leo. “Look, they
say
emotions mess with the process, but—”

“They say it because it's true,” Desmond said, his voice calm and direct. “Now we can argue or we can help Tobias, but we don't have time for both. I agree with Leo, it should be me, but if you don't trust what I'll bring back to you, then you do it. Either way, someone needs to take action. Now.”

“Go,” Leo said, and before Stacy could argue, Desmond had his hand on the small of my back, leading me and Seamus out the door.

“You'll come with me,” he said, not asking. He opened the back door of his silver sedan and snapped his fingers in front of Seamus's face. Seamus instantly hopped inside.

“How the hell do you do that?” I asked, staring in amazement as Desmond got in the driver's side, but he didn't answer, so I got in and rode with him in silence to his place.

*   *   *

Desmond lived a little farther outside of town than I did, still within walking distance of the village, but it was far enough to be full-on rural. The roads out this way were as much dirt as pavement, and the only neighbor I could see was a red farmhouse so far in the distance that I couldn't even tell if anyone actually lived there. We turned onto his driveway, which was newly paved and led through a copse of trees to a small clearing where his house, a small, contemporary structure, sat.

“You know, living out here probably doesn't do much to combat the impression that you're a bad guy,” I said as I got out of the car. “I can think of a few Bond villains who might go for this place.”

Desmond was halfway into the house by the time I shut the passenger-side door; I was pretty sure he hadn't even heard me. Which was just as well. I opened the back door for Seamus and he ambled out, then followed me down the step-stone path that led to the front door, which Desmond had left wide open.

The house was fairly new, and extremely well kept. It was a simple, open layout, with wood walls and exposed beams and huge windows that showed off the heavily treed property. I shut the door behind Seamus and took off my shoes; this was the kind of pristinely kept space that made you super conscious of any dirt you might track in. I padded past the kitchen area—stainless steel appliances, quartz countertops, everything in gleaming neutral tones—to the living room, where a cream-colored rug covered the walnut-colored floor between a living room set of an overstuffed, latte-colored couch and matching love seat that stared each other down over a simple, dark wood coffee table. It looked like no one had ever actually sat on the couch, which I could believe. The river-stone fireplace had three fresh logs sitting in it, and it didn't look as though a fire had ever been lit in it. Next to the fireplace was an open wood-slatted staircase that led up to what appeared to be a loft bedroom. Apparently, Desmond's magical lab was downstairs, because I could hear occasional sounds coming from the open door at the other side of the kitchen, but I didn't go over there. Desmond had important work to do, and I wasn't going to distract him. Seamus sniffed around for a while and then jumped up onto the love seat, ignoring me when I said, “Seamus, no!” but then, I thought,
What the hell?
It was a nice love seat. Someone should sit in it.

I couldn't sit. I felt nervous, twitchy, worried. Desmond's house felt like a safe haven, but I knew I wouldn't be there for long, that eventually I'd have to face the reality that was waiting for me. I snooped through his refrigerator and pantry, finding nothing but healthy snacks and a single container of yogurt past the expiration date. No wonder he was so thin. I wandered around the living room a bit, and saw a hardcover book sitting on the bottom shelf of an end table. I sat down on the couch and pulled it out. It was an old hardcover book, and I smiled as I read the title:
Witness to My Life: The Letters of Jean-Paul Sartre to Simone de Beauvoir, 1926–1939.
Tucked inside the cover was a library receipt from the Henrietta Comstock Community Library, dated the day after we'd first met at Happy Larry's.

I sat with the book in my hands for a while, staring down at it. It was the same version I'd read years earlier. Possibly, it was the only printing they'd ever done of it. It felt odd and intimate, holding that book. I wondered what he thought of it, and how he'd feel if he knew I'd seen it, an obvious indicator that he'd been thinking about me in the time since we first spoke. In the end, I decided to put it back exactly where I'd found it and went upstairs to check out his loft bedroom.

Hey, if he didn't want people to snoop, he should have gotten a television.

The bedroom, at least, looked like it had been used. The sleek platform bed was covered by a fluffy white duvet and sat under a slanted roof, more window than anything else, and while the bed was neatly made, the pillows at least had dents in them. There was an en suite bathroom that was cleaner than my kitchen, with the exception of a tiny clump of blue toothpaste in the sink basin, which I was inexplicably gratified to see. Proof the man was human, I guess.

I walked back out into the bedroom and stood there for a while, staring at the bed. It looked so soft, and it had been a hell of a day. A gentle rain had started up, pattering on the windows over the bed, and I took that as a sign that the gods obviously wanted me to rest, so I flipped back the duvet to reveal sleek silver-blue sheets and crawled inside. The bed smelled like Desmond, a combination of Ivory soap and man, and as my body sank into the mattress, I had only time to moan, “Ohhhhh, Tempurpedic,” before falling into a soft comfort coma.

 

Chapter 9

It was dark when I woke up, and it took me a moment to remember where I was. When I did, I shot up, horrified to realize that I had drooled a bit on my hand … and on Desmond's pillow.
Oh, god.
I hopped out of the bed and quickly flipped the pillow over and pulled the covers back up before I padded down the steps. When I got to the living room, I saw that Seamus was still sleeping on the love seat but the door that led to the secret lab downstairs was closed. I was trying to decide if Desmond had known I'd fallen asleep in his bed when the front door opened and he stepped in, mildly damp from the rain outside.

“I didn't fall asleep in your bed and drool on your pillow,” I said as he shut the door behind him. He was carrying what looked like a bag of takeout in one hand, and my small purple suitcase in the other.

“What a suspiciously specific denial,” he said. “I hope you rested well.”

“I did. Thanks.”

He set my suitcase on the floor by the door. “I took the liberty of fetching some of your things while I was at your house. By the way, Liv wanted me to extend her thanks to you for giving them your house for the night. We should be able to move Tobias home tomorrow, but it's a good idea to jostle him as little as possible tonight.”

“Aw, it's nothing,” I said, waving a dismissive hand in the air.

Desmond was quiet for a moment. “I hope you weren't alarmed when you woke up alone in the house. I didn't want to wake you when I had to leave.”

“You mean you tried, but I was snoring so loud I didn't hear you?”

He smiled. “You are uncommonly self-aware.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” I sat on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island. Despite being sleek and industrial-looking, the stool was fairly comfortable. “You got grub?”

Desmond put the bag of takeout on the island. “Yes. Burgers and fries. I hope that's all right with you.”

“Are you kidding? If they're bacon burgers, I might have your children.” I reached in and pulled out the Styrofoam containers while Desmond sat down next to me. I opened mine, lifted up the bun, and said, “You know I was just kidding, right?”

“I think we should name the first girl Eloise,” he said casually.

I felt a small flush in my cheeks, and my mind raced against the clock, trying to think of a wiseass answer before things got weird. I'm not good under pressure, though, so all I said was, “I like Sam for a boy.”

Desmond considered it. “Sam's a good name.”

We tucked into the food for a while. I was quiet until I got my equilibrium back, and then I said, “So, why all the guilt and brooding? And don't try to deny it. You're one long black trench coat away from being freakin' Rochester on the moors. What's up with that?”

Desmond stopped chewing and stared at me for a moment, then swallowed before speaking.

“I apologize,” he said. “For reasons that surpass understanding, your bluntness continues to surprise me.”

“I know some of it,” I said. “You were researching potions to give powers to nonmagical people. Stacy said you almost killed her and a couple of other people, and you dosed Leo with a potion that made him forget he loved Stacy. That it?”

Desmond lowered his head. “Hardly.”

I popped a fry in my mouth and chewed while I thought. “Look, it sounds bad. I'll give you that. But you obviously feel bad about it, and from what I can tell, no one died. All's well that ends well, right? If they hate you, they hate you. You've gotta get over it.”

Desmond was quiet for a while, and when he finally spoke, he kept his eyes low, deliberately not meeting mine.

“I wanted a nonmagical subject who had gained powers to work with me as proof of my success,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. “I was ruthless in my attempts to obtain that subject.”

I took another bite of my burger. “Ruthless … how?”

He had stopped eating, apparently having lost his appetite. “I withheld the potions that could mediate the effects. I withheld the potion that could reverse them. I risked the lives of many people here.”

“Okay,” I said, not sure what else to say. I'd gathered that much from the clues I'd been given.

He looked straight ahead, staring into the middle distance, not meeting my eye. “By way of explanation … not excuse, simply explanation … I had been self-administering a potion that dampened my own emotions, my sense of right and wrong, and my empathy, and I was…” He swiped crumbs off the table, his long fingers delicate and steady. “I'm not a good man, Eliot.”

“So I hear.” I processed all this for a moment, and was surprised by how little his confession truly bothered me. “I don't know. You've been pretty good to me.”

He finally looked at me, with anger in his expression. “You're a fool if you think you know me.”