Do You Believe in Magic

chapter NINETEEN



When she finally made it home, Francie dropped her gym bag and collapsed on the sofa. She should be extremely embarrassed, she thought, as all the shouts from the spectators rattled around in her brain. “Wooooeeeee! Sexxxxy!” had been one. “I’ll play the winner,” came from a number of male throats, while the women yelled, “Dibs on the loser.” “Grrrrrreat moves!” “Let’s hear it for co-ed basketball!” “You can guard me anytime.” And those were the mild ones.

Somehow, she’d broken through the crowd and run for the locker room. Her teammates followed. From what they’d said, she’d gathered they had returned to the court to try again to persuade her to come with them. They had been caught up in the match and stayed to support her. Their presence had attracted the attention of several men, and before long, a sizable number of people were laughing, cheering, and generally whooping it up.

They had all watched her rub herself all over Clay, kiss him like a slut, and behave like a complete idiot. The Y would probably expel her, rescind her membership, toss her out on her ear. Which might be for the best. She didn’t know how she could ever show her face there again.

But, damn it, she’d won. He had been cheating as much as she was. Sweetheart, who couldn’t take it in the end?

She’d won. She’d made her first ever slam dunk, to boot. She should be swinging from the chandelier in triumph. She should have asked the Y to give her the net. She should be happy, gleeful, rejoicing.

But instead, she felt like she’d been trampled right into the court’s hardwood floor.

What about Clay? She hadn’t seen him after the swarm of onlookers parted them. He’d looked so shocked, so dejected, so disheartened. What would she have said to him? Crowed in victory? Told him her winning didn’t matter, she’d talk to him anyway?

No! It did matter. How could she talk to him about magic that didn’t exist? Even theoretically.

But, what if it did? What if, contrary to everything she had ever learned in science classes, contrary to her own view of the world, Clay really could put spells on computers and cause them to do his bidding?

She hadn’t given him the chance to prove his claims. Instead she’d gotten scared, but frightened of what? Going to bed with him? Having sex? Somehow, given the effect they had on each other, “having sex” seemed like an extremely puny description of what might happen.

So, what had caused this reaction? Memories of Walt? Fear Clay would do to her what Walt had? Looking at the situation as dispassionately—what a word—as she could, she had to admit fear was probably at the center of her reaction.

And what about the electric, searing attraction with Clay? He claimed that soul-mate-imperative “force” was causing it, or bringing them together, or causing her pain. She still couldn’t accept its existence or influence. Hormones, it was all hormones, and pheromones, and chemical changes in the brain caused by infatuation. Not some ancient magical compulsion—simply a legend whose power was imaginary.

And now? She had “won.” He said he would leave her alone. She hadn’t understood when he said his bothering her would be only in her head, but she did now. That’s exactly where he was, embedded in her brain cells.

What about in the chambers of her heart? She bent over as agony lanced out from that much abused organ. A tremendous sob wracked her body. She gave in to it and let herself cry until she had no tears left, just a chasm of desolation in her chest.

Eventually she roused herself. The crying jag had had one effect: her mind was numb now, and she was too exhausted to think about Clay. She’d decide what to do after she had had some sleep.

She looked at the clock: midnight. She was still wearing her basketball outfit, having thrown her street clothes into her bag in her rush to leave the Y. Feeling like a twenty-pound weight was attached to each limb, she made her way to the bathroom, stripped, and stood in the shower for a while.

That helped, but only marginally. The pain in her chest persisted, but had subsided to a low constant throbbing in place of the sharp stabs.

Maybe she’d call in sick in the morning. What did she have to do tomorrow? No meetings, only . . . Only the setup for Clay to trap Kevin tomorrow night. But she wasn’t part of the technical tasks. And she didn’t want to hear about how good Clay was, how great a computer wizard. And she definitely did not want to see him. She’d better call in right now.

She turned off the water, hurriedly toweled herself dry, and headed for the phone. After leaving voice-mail messages for Herb and several others, she finished her nighttime routine, took a couple of aspirin, and fell into bed. And finally into a fitful, but thankfully dreamless, sleep.





“F*ck, f*ck, f*ck!” Clay slammed his kitchen door and threw his gym bag on the floor. He badly wanted something to hit, but now that he could let his fury out, he had no target. He’d had to hold it in at the Y, where he’d managed to joke and laugh with his buddies, all of whom claimed to be extremely jealous of his match, and all of whom heckled him unmercifully about losing. He didn’t know why his jaw hadn’t cracked under the strain of his gritted smile.

What the hell was he going to do now? It was unheard of for one soul mate to reject the other. If a practitioner married someone who wasn’t his soul mate—which happened in the past as families made dynastic decisions instead of letting hearts and the SMI rule—he spent the rest of his days in loneliness, unhappiness, and despair.

Why couldn’t his own soul mate have been a practitioner? She would have understood. They wouldn’t be going through this torment.

He’d been so certain he would win that idiotic game and then demonstrate to that skeptical woman he could do magic. Instead, what had happened? Damn the imperative! How could it fail him when it counted the most?

He filled a glass with water and drank deeply. He had to hand it to Francie, she had turned the SMI around on him with a vengeance. He’d been able to handle its effects before, but this time, he’d just petrified, frozen, solidified while she literally ran rings around him.

Damn! She had felt so good in his arms during that kiss. His body began to stir at the memory, and the now-familiar ache began to build in his chest. He sat heavily on one of the kitchen chairs.

Get hold of yourself, Morgan, he admonished himself. Think. What are you doing to do now?

He rubbed a hand over his face and concentrated. First, he refused to give up the hope, no, the certainty Francie would be, no, was his. Despair and desperation did not appeal to him, and after all, he did have the SMI on his side. The imperative was alive and well. If nothing else, their reactions to each other during the game proved it.

He’d honor his word and stay away from Francie. Let the imperative work on her and hope it didn’t kill him in the meantime. He didn’t like his next idea, but he’d have to ask Daria and Glori for real help. What choice did he have? Maybe a woman could get through Francie’s defenses. Besides, he’d promised to stay away, but he hadn’t said a word about his sisters. For now, should he call Daria tomorrow?

Tomorrow. Oh, damn.

Tomorrow the cops were coming early to set up for Brenner and the hacking session that evening. Brenner. What a jackass. Clay clenched and unclenched his fists and wished he could take out his frustration on the hacker’s face.

But beating up Brenner would serve no other purpose. Difficult though it may be, he’d have to be civil tomorrow. He’d better wait until Thursday night to call Daria. He’d never be calm in the evening if he had to discuss the Francie situation with Daria in the afternoon.

Clay rose, grabbed the gym bag, and walked upstairs to his bedroom. Once there, he realized there was no way in hell he could go to sleep. His body was in no mood to relax.

He changed into swim trunks, grabbed a towel, and went downstairs and out into the backyard. The night was cool, but the pool was heated. He turned on the pool lights and the motor to create a current to swim against. The well-insulated motor emitted only a quiet hum as the jets kicked the placid surface into a froth of white water.

Clay swam until he was so waterlogged he thought he’d sink. At first he’d concentrated on swimming technique, then occupied his mind with inventing curses he’d like to throw on Brenner and “Walt.”

Finally, he came to a sort of equilibrium based on the mantra, “Francie is my soul mate. Everything will be all right.” He flopped onto his bed about three in the morning and immediately slept. Mercifully dreamlessly.