Spell of the Highlander by Karen Marie Moning Page B
Authors: Karen Marie Moning
Tags: Fiction
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realizing the car in front of her had stopped again, she hit the brakes and came to an abrupt halt a bare inch behind the rear bumper of the car in front of her. The guy behind her honked angrily. Not just once, but
laid
on it, complete with assorted hand gestures. “Right,” she snapped through tears, making a gesture of her own in the rearview mirror, “like it’s
my
fault traffic stopped moving again. Get over it.”
Traffic was the least of her concerns. She closed her eyes.
The cops might not know why the professor had needed the money, but she did.
It would seem the mirror was a bona fide relic, after all, albeit one that had come—she was now willing to bet serious money—hot off the black market.
The professor had indeed gotten mixed up in something bad.
“Garroted,” Mark was saying. “He was actually garroted. Nobody does that anymore, do they? Who does that kind of thing?”
She palmed the microphone on her cell, stared unseeingly out at the sea of stopped cars. “What on earth is going on?” she half-whispered.
Mark continued talking, a distant, chafing din.
The professor and I have already had our time together this evening,
the blond man had said. And she’d pushed the comment brusquely aside, too wrapped up in her own petty concerns and interests.
And now the professor was dead.
Correction,
she thought, a little chill seeping into her bones, according to what Mark had just told her—time of death 6:15 P.M. Monday—he’d been dead before she’d even gone to pick up his books that night.
The whole time she’d been standing in his office he’d been dead.
“And get this,” said Mark, still blathering away, “Ellis, the department head, tells me I’m gonna have to take the professor’s classes for the rest of the term. Can you believe this shit? Like they can’t afford to hire—”
“Oh, grow
up,
Mark,” Jessi hissed, thumbing the OFF button.
When finally she managed to escape the tenth level of Hell, Jessi made a beeline for side streets and headed straight back to campus.
Thoughts tumbled in disjointed confusion through her mind. Amid them all was a single clear one, drawing her like a beacon.
She had to see the mirror again.
Why—she had no idea.
It was simply the only thing she could think of to do. She couldn’t bring herself to go home. In her current state of mind she would climb the walls. She couldn’t go to the hospital; there was no longer anyone to visit. She had a few close friends, but they tended to work as much as she, so dropping by unexpectedly wasn’t the coolest thing to do, and besides, even if she did, what would she say—
Hi, Ginger, how have you been? By the way, either I’ve gone insane, or my life has taken on distinct shades of Indiana Jones, complete with mysterious relics, foreign villains, and spectacular audiovisual special effects.
When she got back to the office there was police tape across the door.
That stopped her for a moment. Then she noticed it was campus police tape and tugged it aside. Violating university procedures didn’t seem quite as felonious a felony as breaking a law in The Real World.
As she jiggled the key in the lock, making sure it really
was
locked this time, she asked herself just what she thought she was going to do once she was inside.
Strike up a conversation with a relic? Lay her hands on the glass? Try to summon a spirit? Make like it was a Ouija board or something?
As fate would have it, she didn’t have to do a thing.
Because the moment she opened the door, a shaft of light splintered in from the hallway, straight onto the silvery glass.
Her feet froze. Her hands clenched on the door. Even her breath stopped mid-inhalation. She wasn’t certain, but she fancied her heart paused a long, ponderous moment, as well.
The towering, half-naked, absolute sex-god of a man standing inside the mirror, glaring out at her, snarled, “‘Tis high damned time you came back, wench.”
5
When Jessi was
laid
on it, complete with assorted hand gestures. “Right,” she snapped through tears, making a gesture of her own in the rearview mirror, “like it’s
my
fault traffic stopped moving again. Get over it.”
Traffic was the least of her concerns. She closed her eyes.
The cops might not know why the professor had needed the money, but she did.
It would seem the mirror was a bona fide relic, after all, albeit one that had come—she was now willing to bet serious money—hot off the black market.
The professor had indeed gotten mixed up in something bad.
“Garroted,” Mark was saying. “He was actually garroted. Nobody does that anymore, do they? Who does that kind of thing?”
She palmed the microphone on her cell, stared unseeingly out at the sea of stopped cars. “What on earth is going on?” she half-whispered.
Mark continued talking, a distant, chafing din.
The professor and I have already had our time together this evening,
the blond man had said. And she’d pushed the comment brusquely aside, too wrapped up in her own petty concerns and interests.
And now the professor was dead.
Correction,
she thought, a little chill seeping into her bones, according to what Mark had just told her—time of death 6:15 P.M. Monday—he’d been dead before she’d even gone to pick up his books that night.
The whole time she’d been standing in his office he’d been dead.
“And get this,” said Mark, still blathering away, “Ellis, the department head, tells me I’m gonna have to take the professor’s classes for the rest of the term. Can you believe this shit? Like they can’t afford to hire—”
“Oh, grow
up,
Mark,” Jessi hissed, thumbing the OFF button.
When finally she managed to escape the tenth level of Hell, Jessi made a beeline for side streets and headed straight back to campus.
Thoughts tumbled in disjointed confusion through her mind. Amid them all was a single clear one, drawing her like a beacon.
She had to see the mirror again.
Why—she had no idea.
It was simply the only thing she could think of to do. She couldn’t bring herself to go home. In her current state of mind she would climb the walls. She couldn’t go to the hospital; there was no longer anyone to visit. She had a few close friends, but they tended to work as much as she, so dropping by unexpectedly wasn’t the coolest thing to do, and besides, even if she did, what would she say—
Hi, Ginger, how have you been? By the way, either I’ve gone insane, or my life has taken on distinct shades of Indiana Jones, complete with mysterious relics, foreign villains, and spectacular audiovisual special effects.
When she got back to the office there was police tape across the door.
That stopped her for a moment. Then she noticed it was campus police tape and tugged it aside. Violating university procedures didn’t seem quite as felonious a felony as breaking a law in The Real World.
As she jiggled the key in the lock, making sure it really
was
locked this time, she asked herself just what she thought she was going to do once she was inside.
Strike up a conversation with a relic? Lay her hands on the glass? Try to summon a spirit? Make like it was a Ouija board or something?
As fate would have it, she didn’t have to do a thing.
Because the moment she opened the door, a shaft of light splintered in from the hallway, straight onto the silvery glass.
Her feet froze. Her hands clenched on the door. Even her breath stopped mid-inhalation. She wasn’t certain, but she fancied her heart paused a long, ponderous moment, as well.
The towering, half-naked, absolute sex-god of a man standing inside the mirror, glaring out at her, snarled, “‘Tis high damned time you came back, wench.”
5
When Jessi was
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