“What is it?”
I placed the shoe box atop the desk blotter in front of him. Aidan stared at it for a long moment; then his blue eyes met mine. “Intriguing.”
I nodded. “In a creepy sort of way, sure.”
“Would you like me to sequester it? I know of a rather effective little Etruscan binding spell I picked up in my travels.”
“No, I’d like you to open it and tell me what you see.”
“Probably best not to open it.”
“How so?”
His elegant eyebrows rose. “Is this a joke?”
“Not hardly.”
“Why in the world would you want to open”—he inclined his head toward the box—“that?”
“Do you know a fellow named Tristan Dupree?”
“Of course.”
“You do?” I had assumed Aidan knew of Tristan Dupree. I just hadn’t expected him to admit it.
“How is Dupree doing these days?”
“Seems like his old self.” In fact, Tristan looked exactly as he had when our paths crossed more than a decade ago. Exactly. “Anyway, he says I stole something from him.”
“Did he?”
“Do you know what it is? He said it was a bleeg, or something like that? I didn’t quite catch it. I wondered if he was trying to say ‘bag,’ and maybe referring to the Satchel you had me watch over?”
Aidan sighed. “It’s not the Satchel.”
“Then what is it?”
“Lily, Lily, Lily. When will you listen to me? Have I not been nagging you to study your craft more intensively?”
“Just tell me what it is, Aidan.”
Aidan rose, pulled a fat volume off the bookshelf, flipped it open, and handed it to me, pointing to a passage on one page.
“I would guess Tristan was referring to a bēag.”
I read: Old English bēag, referring most often to circular jewelry such as rings, bracelets, necklaces; also garlands, collars, crowns; might include shackles and coils, or precious objects in general. From the Proto-Germanic baugaz (bow or ring); from the Proto-Indo-European bewg (to bend). Cognate baug in some German dialects (ring, collar), or Icelandic baugur (circle). Relative of bagel.
“Tristan thinks I stole his bagel?”
Aidan smiled. “More likely a ring.”
“Or it says here it could be a collar, a garland, or a crown. Any precious object, really.” I blew out a frustrated breath. “Could I ask you something?”
“That’s why you’re here.”
“Why do magical folks have to be so gol-durned nonspecific? Why do they always have to talk in riddles? Why can’t they just say what it is they want, in modern English? I’d take Spanish, or Nahuatl, for that matter.”
“That would take all the fun out of it.”
“Not for me. I get plenty of fun with my vintage clothes. Going out to dinner, hanging out with my friends . . .”
“If you’re asking seriously, I would say it’s because the flow of power we tap into is primordial, beyond language. We are interpreting symbols and sensations, which don’t lend themselves to specific meanings.”
“Huh. I never thought of that. Good point. Anyway, so what does ‘bēag’ tell us?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“I can’t—I don’t remember stealing anything from anybody, much less Tristan Dupree. Do you think he might be working for somebody?”
Aidan looked thoughtful. “I suppose it’s possible, but I haven’t heard Dupree associated with anyone in that way. He’s generally a loner, and while he might ally himself with folks from time to time, he’s more of a contract worker than a salaried employee, if you get my drift. Coming after you in San Francisco indicates something more serious is afoot. Did he frighten you?”
A little, though I was loath to admit that to Aidan. I shrugged.
“Anyway, if I stole anything from anybody when I was with my father in Germany, it’s probably in there,” I said, pointing to the shoe box.
His gaze fell to his desktop. “The box you’re afraid to open.”
“Looks like I’m not the only one.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m afraid, exactly. More like prudent.”
I held Aidan’s gaze, and after a moment he let out a sigh.
“You don’t remember what happened in Germany . . . none of it?”
“Not really. I get little details from time to time, flashes of memory, but nothing concrete, nothing more than a quick picture.”
“And yet you remembered Tristan.”
“I remember meeting him. But I don’t remember what went on.”
He gave me a strange look.
“What is it?” I demanded.
He shook his head. “I think the first thing we should do, long before opening this box, is to meld our magic to help you remember.”
I hesitated. The first time Aidan and I melded our magic, we ended up melting metal. The second time went slightly better; he was more prepared for my energy, and I was more in control. Still, it wasn’t exactly a good experience. It was . . . passionate and sensual, but also overwhelming. Threatening. I lost all sense of time, and it made me feel like I was drowning.
Avoiding Aidan’s gaze, I glanced over at the bookshelf, then at Noctemus, and then at a huge brass urn etched with elaborate linear designs. The etchings reminded me of the map of the busload of witches crisscrossing the country, and that thought brought me strength. After all, I was descended from a long line of strong, wild, magical women. Even though I was mostly a solo act, I was but one in a community of witches.
It was time to face what had happened when I went to find my father, so very long ago.
“Are you sure this will work?” I asked.
“Of course not. If you’ve repressed the memories this long, they won’t be easy to retrieve. But it’s worth a try. Ready?”
I nodded.
We stood, facing each other. When I interacted with other witches—in coven meetings, for example—we had always come together heart to heart, and hand to hand. Not so with Aidan. He placed his hands on either side of my head, then bent his head to touch mine, forehead to forehead.
A shock of energy reached out, like a sustained spark between us. I could feel the sensation of electricity running from his head to mine.
We breathed together, until
