The Wizard of Seattle Read online

  That was what she had told herself at sixteen, and his habits over the years seemed to bear out that deduction. If he had affairs, there was certainly no sign of them, and since he tended to date women who were in Seattle only temporarily—for business or pleasure—gossip could only speculate on his prowess as a lover.

  Serena refused to speculate. As an adoring teenager, she had convinced herself that he was a monk with his mind on a much higher plane, and nothing had happened to destroy that creation.

  So there was no reason for her to feel jealous about Lenore Todd. The woman would be in Seattle only a week or so for an environmental seminar, according to what Merlin had told Serena when he’d met her a few days ago. He always told Serena about the women he dated, because she always asked, and there was always an indifferent note in his voice when he answered.

  Serena listened for that indifference. And heard it this time. But the increasing tension and frustration she felt made it difficult for her to be reassured.

  Though her turbulent emotions had made the previous night a rather miserable one, she had managed to sleep, and today she had managed—more or less—to assume her usual relaxed attitude toward Merlin. It was getting harder, though, for her to act as if nothing had changed, as if she were still that obsessed child who had crossed a country to find him, wanting nothing in life except to be a wizard.

  Because something had changed. In Serena. Her determination to become a Master wizard had not lessened, but she had grown up these last years, and she had come to the realization that there was much more to life. To her life, anyway. She was a wizard, yes, but she was also a woman, even if Merlin couldn’t see that was true.

  And it was getting very difficult for her to fight the resentment she felt every time he treated her like a child.

  It was nearly noon on Saturday when Jeremy Kane fell off his couch. He struggled up, using the cluttered coffee table to lever himself back onto the cushions, and sat there for several minutes with his head in his hands. It was a familiar pose, his dizziness a familiar sensation, and he waited grimly for his head to stop spinning.

  When it eventually did, he got up slowly and made his way into the narrow alley kitchen of his apartment. Mixing tomato juice and a few other ingredients, he made his usual pick-me-up and drank it down, then fixed another and carried the glass back into his cramped and messy living room.

  He sat down on the couch again and pulled his loosened tie off, fumbled for the remote, and turned the television on. He switched to CNN out of habit, just in case anything interesting had happened in the world while he had been passed out. It took him three tries to wrestle his jacket off, and the sound of paper caught his attention even as he wondered at the unusual brevity of his hangover.

  The dizziness had faded almost instantly, the nausea he usually felt was totally absent, and his mouth didn’t feel or taste like the bottom of a bird cage. Even though his pick-me-up was good, it wasn’t that good.

  “What the hell?” he muttered, bothered, as always, by anything out of the ordinary. Even his voice sounded better than it had any right to, only a little raspy. Then he pulled the neatly folded paper from the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket, unfolded it, and stared at it.

  It was his rough draft of the announcement awarding the newspaper’s grant. When he had gone to the party last night, he had left the draft in his old manual typewriter, he was sure. Looking across the room to his small desk, he could clearly see the top of the typewriter even over the usual clutter of newspapers, magazines, an empty pizza box, two cracked mugs half filled with cold coffee and cigarette butts, and the remains of a two-day-old microwavable dinner.

  There was no paper in the machine.

  Kane might have been a drunk, and he might have lost or squandered most of the raw talent that had made him a nationally recognized name at the tender age of twenty-five nearly two decades before, but he was not a stupid man, and he did not doubt either the evidence of his eyes or his memory—neither of which had ever foiled him. And he had never drawn a blank after a night of drinking, even on those frequent occasions when any merciful God would have spared him the memories.

  So he remembered the previous evening, and the only unusual thing he could call to mind was that Serena Smyth had asked him to dance. She had never done that before, even though they had been introduced years ago, and though he saw her at many of the high-ticket social and charity events in Seattle.

  She had asked him to dance. And while they danced, she had sweetly encouraged him to talk about himself and what he’d been doing lately—a sneaky tactic if he’d ever seen one. She had even casually asked the address of his apartment, he recalled, which had made him grow an inch or two and had filled his head with something besides brains.

  And then … And then he had a vague memory of leaning heavily on her as he staggered back to his chair, and falling into the sweet blackness of unconsciousness.

  Had Serena brought him home? Why on earth would she? Just to get her hands on this announcement? There didn’t seem to be any other reason. She certainly hadn’t stripped him, had her way with him, and then put his clothes back on before leaving. He would have remembered that even if he’d been nearly dead.

  No; it had to be the announcement. But why? She was friendly with Seth Westcott and his girlfriend, Kane knew that well enough, but it didn’t seem likely she’d go to so much trouble just to find out what would be announced in a few days. And if she had brought him home to get an early peek at the announcement, then what would possess her to remove the draft from his typewriter and leave it in his jacket pocket—where he could hardly fail to find it?

  Jeremy Kane didn’t like puzzles, and though his instincts might have dulled over the years, he could still recognize something that didn’t make sense. He also had so little going on in his life that even a minor mystery was a welcome thing—though that was something he didn’t like to think about. So he decided it wouldn’t hurt to find out more than he already knew about Miss Serena Smyth.

  He placed a call to a private investigator in Seattle who owed him a few favors, and was lucky enough to catch the man in his office on a Saturday afternoon.

  “Taylor, I need a favor,” he announced without preamble.

  Brad Taylor groaned. “I’m not gonna dig up any more dirt on politicians for you, Kane,” he said quickly. “I’m sick of wading through the muck.”

  “This is no politician, believe me. She’s sort of a society deb, near as I can figure. If you find even a few little bones in her closet, I’d be surprised. And don’t forget how much you owe me, Taylor.”

  “Okay, okay. What do you need?”

  “Everything you can find out about this woman. Her name is Serena Smyth.” He spelled it briskly, then added, on impulse. “And whatever you can find out about this guy she lives with, supposedly her uncle …”

  Following an afternoon’s work, Serena took advantage of Merlin’s absence on Saturday evening to relax her guard somewhat, which was a relief. Since she never minded being alone, the quiet of the big house didn’t bother her, and she was perfectly happy fixing herself a light dinner, taking a long bath, and then curling up on her bed with the television turned low and a big, very old leather-bound volume of incantations open before her.

  She was tempted to practice a few of the more interesting spells, but contented herself with memorizing those she especially wanted to remember. After all, you never knew when you had to tame the wildest animal or turn an enemy into a toad.

  The book was so fascinating that Serena passed a pleasant evening, and since she was tired by the long day of honing her abilities, she went to bed before midnight—and long before Merlin came home.

  The next day was virtually a repeat of Saturday, with lessons in the attic workroom in the morning, a break for lunch, and then more lessons in the afternoon. Nothing out of the ordinary happened until they were eating supper early that evening, at the kitchen table rather than in the more formal dining room, since it
was just the two of them.

  Serena brought up the subject, having come across at least three incantations regarding the control of weaker minds in her studies the previous night.

  “I thought you told me that mind control was beyond our capabilities, that we could only do fairly simple things—boost willpower or self-confidence or induce sleep, but never truly control the mind of someone else.”

  “Gray’s Spells and Incantations?” Merlin said, naming the book she had studied.

  “Uh-huh. According to him, it’s fairly easy to control another mind, especially a weaker one. But he seems to have his doubts about making people do something that’s completely against their core morality. Sort of like the limitations people believe about hypnosis, I guess.”

  Merlin nodded and said, “I did tell you we could never completely control another mind, which is quite true. Momentary control is possible, at best, but it’s almost always imperfect. The human mind is too complex to be fully controlled. And it’s a dangerous device to use without great care.”

  “Is that why you haven’t taught me?”

  A bit dryly Merlin said, “Alphabetically, mind control comes after invisibility, which is what we were working on yesterday and today.”

  Unwilling to let him get away with that, Serena said, “You called it vanishing, and so did my manual, which puts me near the end of the alphabet—and well past M or C.”

  Merlin sighed, giving up the attempt to placate her. “It’s a difficult device, Serena, and I just don’t think you’re ready yet.” He often used the word device when referring to a spell or incantation; it was another way he had of avoiding magical terms for their art.

  She looked down, pushing creamed corn around on her plate and feeling annoyed. It was easy for her to get annoyed these days, and knowing her irritation stemmed from other things did nothing to lessen it. “Yeah, I’m not ready for anything challenging, according to you.”

  “You couldn’t vanish,” he murmured.

  Serena didn’t look at him. He sounded amused, and if she looked at him and saw him smiling, she would either say something she’d undoubtedly be sorry for later or throw her corn at him, she decided mutinously. “It was my first lesson,” she said. “Give a girl a chance.”

  After a moment of silence he spoke in a very conversational tone. “Can you read my mind, Serena?”

  She did look up then, startled out of her funk. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried.” Oddly enough, she really hadn’t.

  “Do so.”

  Obediently, Serena put down her fork, folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes, and rather hesitantly sent her mind wandering. She fully expected to find herself blocked by Merlin’s mental shields; just as her powers guarded her thoughts from even a Master wizard, so would his screen his mind from her probing. At least that was what she expected.

  She felt nothing for a moment, but then, as if a curtain blocking her mind’s eye were suddenly swept aside, she saw herself. Sitting. Eyes closed, face calm. And she felt a peculiar, unfamiliar spring-coiled vitality in her lean body. A different weight distribution. A consciousness of muscle and sinew and incredible, living power contained by a strong, masterful, and confident hand. Her eyes widened, but they weren’t hers somehow. There was surprise, yet it wasn’t hers, either. There was a feeling of being enclosed in a strong, warm embrace, and seeing through black eyes….

  Get out, Serena.

  Steely. Polite.

  Hastily, she climbed back into her own body, confused. What on earth had she done? Her eyes—her own eyes—opened slowly, cautiously. He was watching her with an intent, searching stare, and despite his composed expression, she had the notion that he was deeply shaken.

  “What … what did I do?” she asked uncertainly.

  “You didn’t read my mind. You were in my mind. Inside my head, my consciousness.”

  She blinked. He didn’t sound angry, only thoughtful. Apparently his shield would allow her in, and even allow her to sense some of his emotions, while still protecting his thoughts. “I was? Did you … um … could you …”

  “Read your thoughts? No. As always. I merely felt your presence, curious and—” He broke off and looked away from her, leaving the rest unsaid. “Interesting,” he murmured finally.

  Serena tried and failed to read his expression, but she had that feeling again, the perception of a sudden withdrawal in him. She had surprised him, somehow unsettled him, and as usual he was pulling away, closing himself off from her as if she posed some kind of threat.

  She was positive that if she were to try now to read his mind, she would find no way in at all.

  She wanted to confront him right then and there, to tell him she felt his remoteness, and to demand to know what caused these swift, silent retreats of his. Had she somehow reminded him she was no longer a child, or was she entirely wrong about that being the cause of his withdrawal? What’s wrong with me? What am I doing to make you go all cool and distant?

  But she didn’t confront him. Instead, as always, she instinctively tried to find some cautious path back to the comfortable and familiar relationship they had established over the years.

  In a light, wry tone she said, “If you were trying to make a point, you succeeded. Obviously I’m not ready for any kind of mind skill.”

  “One step at a time, Serena.”

  She didn’t wince because she had her features under control, but the aloofness in his deep voice cut her like a knife. Holding her own voice as steady and light as before, she said, “And patience is a virtue, I know. Well, I’ll just concentrate on vanishing until I’ve mastered that.”

  Merlin rose to carry his plate to the sink. “A good idea. But no more studies tonight, I think. Don’t you have an early meeting tomorrow?”

  Serena’s “normal” job was as an assistant office manager at an engineering firm, which she found pleasant enough but not especially challenging. She could have been a part of Merlin’s real estate business—he had left it up to her—but she had reluctantly decided to avoid the appearance of being always in his company.

  “Yes, at eight,” she answered.

  He nodded and said, “There’s some work I should finish up in my study tonight.” Then, rather abruptly, he added, “I have to go out of town for a day or two, probably tomorrow or Tuesday. Will you be all right?”

  “Of course.” It wasn’t unusual for him to go out of town, and as far as she knew, he always went alone. Serena had asked only once where he went; he had ignored the question, and she had never asked again. She could only assume he had business of some kind, or that, perhaps, his trips concerned activities known only to Master wizards.

  “Good. I’ll see you in the morning, Serena.”

  “Yes.” She remained there at the table, reminding herself steadily that his remoteness would likely be gone by morning. Or, at the very latest, when he returned from his trip. Then things would be back to normal between them.

  After a while she got up and carried her plate to the sink. She straightened up the kitchen, then went to her room. It was far too early for sleep, but Serena got ready for bed anyway, and curled up with the book of incantations once again. But this time the book failed to hold her attention—until she idly looked for some reference to what she had experienced in the attempt to read Merlin’s mind.

  Nothing. As far as Gray’s Spells and Incantations was concerned, inhabiting the mind of another individual didn’t seem possible. There was no spell, and no mention whatsoever of the trick, which left Serena puzzled and uneasy. Was that why Merlin had been upset? Because she had inadvertently done something objectionable or unique?

  Serena fully intended to ask him about that, but when she went down to breakfast early the next morning, he had already gone.

  “He said he’d be at the office for a few hours, and then off on one of his trips,” Rachel said placidly. Middle-aged and utterly unflappable, she had been Merlin’s housekeeper for years; exactly how many she never said, and
she’d only smiled when Serena had asked her bluntly.

  “He said it would just be overnight,” Rachel continued, “to expect him tomorrow evening, probably in time for supper. Did he tell you?”

  “Yes. But he wasn’t specific about when he’d return.”

  “I imagine he didn’t know for sure himself last night,” the housekeeper offered tranquilly as she set Serena’s breakfast in front of her.

  “No, I guess not,” Serena responded a bit hollowly. She couldn’t help thinking that Merlin had known, that he had decided on this trip simply because his mental and emotional withdrawal from her hadn’t allowed him enough distance. And she still didn’t know what she had done wrong….

  His fingers touched her breasts, stroking soft skin and teasing the hard pink nipples. The swollen weight filled his hands as he lifted and kneaded, and when she moaned and arched her back, he lowered his mouth to her flesh. She tasted faintly of salt, but more of woman, a taste that aroused him further and yet drew a hazy curtain across his mind. He stopped thinking. He felt. He felt his own body, taut and pulsing with desire, the blood hot in his veins. He felt her body, soft and warm and willing. His mouth toyed with the beaded texture of her nipple, sucking as if commanded by instinct. He felt her hand on him, stroking slowly, her touch hungry and assured. Her moans and sighs filled his ears, and the heat of her need rose until her flesh burned. His hand slid down her rippling belly to cup her, fingers probing her swollen wetness, testing her readiness. The tension inside him coiled more tightly, making his body ache, until he couldn’t stand to wait another moment. He spread her legs, positioning himself between them. Her hand guided him eagerly, and the hot, slick tightness of her sheath surrounded him. He sank his flesh into hers, feeling her legs close strongly about his hips. Expertly, lustfully, she met his thrusts, undulating beneath him, her female body the cradle all men returned to. The heat between them built until it was a fever raging out of control, until his body was gripped by the inescapable, inexorable drive for release and pounded frantically inside her. Then, at last, the heat and tension drained from him in a rush, and he heaved at the intense pleasure of pouring himself into her….