Seawitch

“How can you call me odd when I’m concerned for the welfare of the entire paranormal world?”

“Wouldn’t you have to be odd to be concerned about that in the first place?”

“I would think that was your field of expertise.”

“Are you calling me odd?”

“Strange, even.”

“Wonderfully strange? Or just the garden variety of strange?”

He broke down and laughed, a flush of pink and gold sparks zipping around us like champagne bubbles. “Exquisitely, marvelously strange.” He chuckled and kissed me again, spinning us both around like a top until we lurched to a stop against the drain board.

I glanced over his shoulder. I wished I hadn’t.

“Umm . . . what’s that?”

“What?”

“In the sink.”

He blushed. “I burned a pot pie.”

On a stove or a hot plate, Quinton can make a decent meal out of anything—or almost nothing. But where a microwave is concerned, he’s jinxed. I suspect that nature compensates for genius in one field by making people stupid in a related one. Quinton, who plays with electrical and quantum theory and can build an alarm system from a greeting card, two rolls of wire, and a tube of toothpaste, can’t use a microwave without setting his dinner—or the oven—on fire. I’ve been told Albert Einstein had difficulty tying his shoes.

“Oh, my,” I muttered, trying not to break the fragile mood.

He sighed first, the brightness of the moment fading but not collapsing completely, I was glad to note. “I’ll clean it up,” he said, turning back toward the sink.

I held him back long enough to kiss him again and then left him to it while I went to write up some notes on my home computer.

Chaos the ferret was sitting on my chair, attempting to heave herself up onto the desk to wreak some havoc on my paperwork. I picked her up, giving her a quick scritch behind the ears, and deposited her on the floor, much to her ire. As I watched her dance in mustelid fury I remembered the way Solis had kissed his kids and his wife with casual ease, and for a moment I felt a pang of loss that I had never had that comfortable acceptance of place with a family. My family was Quinton, the ferret, and my annoying mother. I didn’t dare bring a child into the world; I didn’t know what might happen to it developing half in the Grey all the time. And if it emerged into the world healthy and human, what might happen to it then, surrounded by ghosts and monsters? It wouldn’t be like Brian Danziger, who seemed to be a perfectly normal little boy except for the educational effects of growing up with a witch and a paranormal researcher for parents.

I sat down, feeling a little melancholy, and turned on the computer. I logged in to check my e-mail while the word processor started up.

There was still no message from Ben or Mara Danziger. I typed up my paltry notes for the insurance company, then sat and poked at a few Web sites, trying to find some information about dobhar-chú, but it’s not easy to search for something you can’t spell and don’t have any keywords for. I swore under my breath and muttered, “Damn it, Mara, why don’t you write back?”

I hadn’t noticed Quinton walking up behind me and I jumped a bit when he said, “You wrote to Ben and Mara.”

I replied a little defensively, “Yes, I did. I know you thought I shouldn’t, but they are the experts . . . and I miss them. But what does it matter, since they didn’t write back?” The thin glow of our good humor of minutes ago collapsed and I felt cold and dreadful.

“You’re still treating them like resources, not friends.”

“That’s not fair. Or true. Even if you think it’s selfish and unfair of me, this at least gives me an excuse to communicate with them. I have to say something. . . .”

Quinton humphed.

I was a little ashamed of myself, but that wasn’t going to stop me asking them questions. “I suppose the issue is whether picking people’s brains and asking favors is the only interaction I have with people. . . .”

“Not entirely, but it’s a big one.”

“Would it help if I wrote back about something other than the only thing we have in common?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “That’s the problem: You assume that you have nothing else in common, nothing else to talk about. So you don’t bother.”

“I do! I just don’t know what to say! What the hell else should I say? I don’t have kids. I’m not married—well, not the same way they are. And we don’t have any other activities or hobbies in common. Where does the conversation start?”

“Do you like Mara?”

“Of course I do! I like Ben, too.”

“And Brian?”

I thought about it. “I don’t know. He’s a kid. I guess he’s all right. For an alien.”

Quinton laughed. “I will grant you that most children are like aliens to many of us who don’t have any of our own. But he’s a good kid.”

“You know I am trying. I can fake friendly long enough to interview someone, but I don’t know how to just . . . be friendly. It doesn’t come easily to me, and if I’m faking it, I’m plainly not being a real friend.”

“Sometimes you just have to fake it until it’s true.”

“I can try, but I’m a cold, prickly bitch. So I hear.”

He sighed and I could feel him trying to exorcise the last of his own pique. “Not from me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ride you about it. I was out of line the other night. I know that social butterfly is not in your repertoire.”

I made an effort to turn the conversation to a lighter note and swiveled my chair around to face him. “Oh, come on. I don’t have to learn the whole butterfly thing, do I?” I teased. “You have to wear toe shoes for that. I hate those.”

“Your call, but you’ll look silly in the wings and hiking boots.”

“I think I’ll just stop when I reach the chrysalis stage.”

“What, all encapsulated away from the world and mutating?”

“Hey!” I said, directing a mock glare at him. “I could be a very dynamic chrysalis.”

“You are a very dynamic chrysalis.”

“Ooh, low blow, J.J.”

He blinked at me. “Why do I find it disturbing when you call me that?”

I winced, mentally cursing myself in light of the conversation we’d just had. “I am sorry. I promise I won’t do it again. It’s just that your name—umm, names—came up with Solis. He doesn’t know what to call you and I guess that got me wondering, too. I mean, I call you by a nickname, but we’re . . . almost like an old married couple. It suddenly seemed strange.”

“I prefer it. I don’t really like being named after my dad. My grandfather was OK—he was the Jason. But being ‘James,’ or—worse—‘Jimmy,’ kind of curdles my blood. I’d rather be Mom’s son than Dad Junior.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I can see that.”

And we both seemed to have decided to drop the subject. I went back to my computer and he went back to removing the burned pot pie from my dish. The ferret ignored us both and stole the keys from my bag, which I’d foolishly left on the floor, and we later spent twenty minutes looking for them. We found them behind a stack of ancient videotapes I’d forgotten I owned. Which led to laughing about old movies, then finding some online and watching them together. Which always leads to snuggling and snogging and then, of course, to various bed gymnastics and horizontal dancing. I had a feeling I’d be sleeping late. . . .