Brimstone (38 page)

“Fine.” Anything to get him to give me the keys. He hesitated a moment longer, then dropped them into my palm. I didn’t wait, but fled the coffee shop like the coward I was.

P
arked in my own driveway, I called Justin and told him succinctly that I was safe at home, answering his concern. Yes, I was all right. I’d just had a long, stressful day, and my psyche was wrung out like a dishrag.

By the time I’d driven home, the warm September wind whipping through the open Jeep and clearing my head, the panic had abated, and these didn’t even feel like lies. My
ESP for Dummies
book had said emotional state can affect your Sight. Of course, it talked about blocking reception, not suddenly getting an imaginary slide show, but still.

I’d justified away my intuition for almost eighteen years. I have a talent for denial that puts even my mother to shame.

When I went inside, the living room was dark, but there was light from both my parents’ bedroom and Dad’s study. I called a greeting, got goodnights in return, and climbed the stairs to what we jokingly call my suite. There’s a study area on one side, and French doors, which I almost never close, mark the bedroom.

My phone rang as I was dropping my satchel by my desk; warily, I dug it out of my pocket. The caller ID flashed a number with the university’s prefix, and I flipped open the phone and tried to inject some perky into my “Hi. This is Maggie.”

“Hi, Maggie. This is Cole Bauer.”

“Hi, Cole.” I sat on the edge of the desk chair. “Sorry about the phone tag.”

“It’s all right, as long as you’re working on round two.”

The words went in, but my spent neurons failed to process them. “What?”

“I want a report for each round. We’ll carry it through the week, with a blacked-out photo. You don’t mind a pseudonym, do you? You need to preserve your anonymity.”

Slowly, my brain translated. “I guess you liked the piece?”

“The way the Greeks dominate this campus, they deserve to be skewered a bit. Plus, it’ll sell papers. Well, the
Report
is free, but you know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Beyond my agreement, comment was unnecessary. With contagious excitement, Cole outlined a scheme of James Bond complexity for keeping my identity a secret.

“So what’s my code name?” I asked, when he gave me the chance. “Can I be Secret Squirrel?”

I’d been joking, but he answered, “Morocco Mole would be more appropriate.”

“But too obvious.” I used the same serious tone. We agreed on the details of the rest of the week, and said good-bye.

I hung up the phone, numb and fatigued, as if the ping-pong bounce of my emotions all day had burnt out my circuits. But I wasn’t quite done yet. As I dug in my dresser for a pair of pajamas, the cell rang again.

I flipped it open without checking the caller ID. “Hello?”

“Maggie?” Lisa. I must have at least one emotional circuit left, because my throat closed up at hearing her voice precisely when I needed her.

“Hey,” I managed.

“What’s wrong?” Her tone, always brusque, was tinged tonight with concern. “You sound weird.”

I flung myself onto the ancient love seat in the corner of my study. “I’ve had a very weird day.”

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t sound particularly surprised.

“How did you know?” I asked, unable to keep the wariness from my voice.

“I looked in my crystal ball, what do you think?”

That was the thing with Lisa. She joked about things like taking over the world or raising an army of zombie minions to do her bidding. Things that, in retrospect of the last year, weren’t funny at all.

“Seriously, Lisa. You didn’t do a spell or something, did you? Because you know I’m ethically opposed …”

“Look, I didn’t call for a lecture, all right?”

Silence, while I weighed how much I desperately wanted to talk to her versus my conviction that her dabbling in—jeez, “sorcery” sounded so melodramatic. Let’s say, my fear that her arcane studies would do nothing to obliterate the enormous blot already on her karmic account book.

Lisa broke the silence first. “I just called to chat. I didn’t know you were upset until I heard your voice.”

“Oh.”

“I’m an evil genius, Maggie Quinn. I can add two and two without the benefit of a magic wand.”

I sighed and slumped deeper into the cushions. “You’re not evil, Lisa. Just … goal oriented.”

She gave a bitter laugh, and redirected the conversation. “So what’s up?”

“First I had a piece rejected by the city paper and my journalism professor is kind of a dick. Then the editor of the school paper liked my story, but it means I have to keep going through this Rush business, which is wearing on my nerves. And I finally saw Justin, but I think he might have an Irish girlfriend.”

“Did you
ask
him if he had an Irish girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Maggie, you idiot.” She’d said that so many times over the years, I could picture the roll of her eyes, the shake of her head. “You know those books, where the only thing keeping the moronic heroine apart from the hero is the fact that they don’t talk to each other? How you always want to smack the girl?”

I knew exactly what she meant, but I had new sympathy for those morons. “You don’t even like Justin.”

“That’s not the point. You do.”

“And then there’s the
way
I found out.” Time to turn the subject from what an idiot I was. “I had a vision.”

“Like one of your dreams?”

“No. Well, sort of, but different, on fast forward or something. And awake.” I explained picking up Justin’s
phone, and the psychic slide show. “Images and impressions, really fast. It was weird.” And scary, but I didn’t tell her that.

She paused, and like a lot of Lisa’s pauses, it was uninterpretable. “This is a new thing?”

“Yeah. Maybe it was a fluke.”

“Maybe some jealous Irish witch zapped you through the phone.”

“Gee, I’m
so
glad you called to cheer me up, Lisa.”

“Don’t mention it.” I heard a squeak, like bedsprings or a chair, the sound of settling in. “How are classes?”

“All right so far. Mostly jaunting back and forth across campus, collecting syllabuses. Syllabi? How about you?”

“Georgetown is pretty cool, but expensive. Good thing I didn’t blow through my savings account after I got the scholarship. I’ll need it to keep me in Diet Coke and eye of newt.”

“Oh, really,” I said, in the same matter-of-fact tone. “Do they have one-stop occult shopping over there?”

“No, but you wouldn’t believe what you can get on the Inter net.”

“Don’t scare me more than I already am.” I meant it as a joke, but it fell flat, the way things do when they’re too true.

A pause. I pictured her in a dorm room, a cramped, drab place transformed with posters and throw pillows and thrift store finds. She’d be sitting cross-legged, her chestnut hair falling around her elegant face. The only thing I couldn’t imagine was her expression. Regretful? Wistful? Stubborn?

All three laced her voice when she finally spoke. “I wish you’d understand. Studying this stuff … it’s something I have to do.”

“Why?” I challenged her, not for the first time. “Because
it’s there, like Mount Everest? An intellectual challenge you can’t resist?”

“It isn’t just idle curiosity.”

“Oh, well, that’s a relief. I’d hate to think you were jeopardizing your soul to satisfy a mental itch.”

“Jeez, Mags. You make it sound like I’m sacrificing kittens or something. I’m making a scientific and theoretical study of occult folklore. It’s not any different from what Justin is doing.”

“Justin is studying brownies and green men. You’re practicing spells and potions.”

“Your point?” She was 100% stubborn now.

I pressed my hand over my eyes. “It’s harnessing a power that isn’t your own and making things
happen
. It’s exactly what got us into so much trouble this spring.”

“Maggie, there are things out there. Real things. Scary things.”

“Things we shouldn’t be messing with!” I said.

“Don’t you think it’s better to understand them? How the supernatural works and how to fight it?”

“No.” I was adamant, but
ESP for Dummies
mocked me from the floor by the couch. “I think we were lucky the last time, and we should leave that stuff alone.”

“Says the girl with the Psychic Friends Network in her head.”

“
I
can’t help it.” Which seemed truer by the day. “
You
have a choice.”

“No.” Her voice was taut with sadness. “No, I really don’t.”

I wanted desperately to understand why she thought that, when this path could only be dangerous for her, when
she knew what awful bloody things that kind of power could lead to.

“We always have choices, Lisa.”

“That’s what this boils down to, isn’t it? You don’t trust me.”

Now it was my turn to pause, condemning her with my reluctance to answer.

“Right.” She charged on when the silence stretched too long. “Well, you have no reason to, I guess. Except maybe that we’ve been friends since the seventh grade.”

“I trust your
intentions
, Lisa, but—”

She cut me off. “But we all know where those lead. I’m sure Azmael is keeping my seat warm for me.”

“That is not funny.” I felt sick, furious at her, terrified for her, and completely freaked by her saying the demon’s name aloud. “Do
not
joke about that.”

“Evil genius sorcerers never joke about Hell, Maggie.” Self-loathing clipped her words. “Later.”

She hung up. I called her back immediately, but she didn’t answer, had turned the phone off or simply ignored it. For all I knew, she’d blown it up with her magic wand.

Nothing had been the same between Lisa and me after that night at the prom. Though arguably, neither of us was the same person that we were going in. Facing demons will do that to you. We emerged intrinsically bound by the experience, but in a way, strangers to each other.

We’d tried to ignore it. But then I’d dreamed about her on Midsummer Night. I’d seen her in a circle of girls I didn’t know, some kind of New Agey ceremony that seemed innocuous. I got a feeling of renewing energy, something like
the smell of green spring grass or the heavy, lush scent of ripe berries. No alarm there. But from my mental perspective I could see Lisa’s face, could sense her whip-smart intellect crackling behind a carefully neutral expression. And I knew that was trouble.

Our confrontation afterward was pretty well recapped in tonight’s argument. I told her what I thought about her playing with fire; she insisted I didn’t understand what she was trying to do. I thought I understood very well. Lisa was trying to control the uncontrollable.

I picked up the ESP book and it fell open automatically to the pages of exercises, worn and gray on the edges, the spine creased where I’d held the book open while I practiced meditations for clarity, protection, and strength. Hokey, yes. I’d felt ridiculous sitting cross-legged and still on the floor. But I did them anyway, all summer long. Clearly, I was no stranger to the need for control.

Eventually, I made it to my desk chair and contemplated the blank screen of my laptop. I needed to get my Rush thoughts down while they were still fresh, but my brain churned restlessly. Opening my playlist, I looked for something soothing.

Nothing in the library appeased my frayed nerves. Bare-naked Ladies—too flippant. Kelly—too power pop. Joss—too blond. Fiona, Sheryl, Sarah—all too Lilith Fair. Where was the “you’ve pissed off all your friends and now you’re all alone” music?

Susie Braddock’s name leapt out at me. I’d forgotten I had one of her songs.

In a new browser window I typed her name into Google. The search engine helpfully supplied the first ten of a gazillion entries. I clicked on the official fan page of the Grammy-winning artist, free-associated through Susie Braddock’s bio, then on to the Roll Over Beethoven Foundation, and other notable SAXis. Finally I felt calm enough to do some work on my newspaper assignment and started closing windows.

The bottom page was a pop-up window; a lousy ad, though, because I couldn’t tell what it was selling. It consisted of an animated GIF that took up the entire window, some kind of diagram, like a black and white test pattern made up of circles and linking lines. They pulsed slightly as I stared, so subtly that I couldn’t tell if the motion came from the symbols or an optical illusion.

I went to click on the window, to make it active. But as soon as I touched the trackpad, the whole image disappeared, and a new box appeared to tell me that MS Extorter had unexpectedly quit.

Crap. The only thing I hate more than pop-up ads are ones that crash my browser. One Java applet too many, I guess, telling me how I could get bigger boobs, which I might be interested in, or see nude girls on ice, which I definitely was not.

M
y article appeared below the fold on the front page of Tuesday’s
Ranger Report
. The Greeks were aghast, the rushees were titillated, and the Rho Gammas were on the warpath.