David Coe - Spell Blind

Despite all that, however, Namid seemed pleased when we were done.

“You conjured well, today,” he said, as I stood and stretched my back. “You are starting to cast by instinct.”

I was sweaty and tired, but I felt good, the way I would after a long workout. “Well, you don’t give a person much choice.”

“I will leave you,” he said. “You have a big date.”

I laughed. “Yes, I do.”

He started to fade.

“Namid, wait.”

The fading stopped, and a moment later he was as substantial as he ever is. Once more I had the urge to reach out and touch him, just to see what it was like. He was staring at me, and I realized he was waiting to know why I’d stopped him.

“What you told me before about the red sorcerer-is it true?”

“About him tracking you?”

“About him not being able to hurt me anymore now than he could before. I thought that once an enemy tested you three times-”

“We call it ‘sounding’.”

“Sounding,” I repeated. I’d heard the term before, though in my fear I hadn’t yet connected it to what the red sorcerer was doing. “Well, he’s sounded me three times. I thought that means he can do anything to me, and I’m powerless to stop him.”

“A runecrafter can always ward himself.” He paused, eyeing me, perhaps trying to decide how honest he could be. “The danger to you is greater, it is true. But your skills are increasing as well. And as this crafter learns more about you, you also learn more about him. You are linked to each other now. He can hurt you more easily, but you can sense him sooner. The sounding is not without risks for him as well.”

“He must be pretty confident then. He probably knows that I can’t hurt him.”

“You are more than you think you are,” Namid said. “You would be wise to take precautions; keep yourself warded. But he would be wise not to underestimate you.”

“Thanks. Really,” I added. “I mean that. Thank you, Namid.”

He tipped his head to me, and then started to fade again. This time I let him go.

I drove home, showered and changed before getting back into the Z-ster and driving to Tempe. It was early still, but I hoped that maybe Billie would be done with her work already. I kept an eye on the mirrors, but no one was following me. I tried to make myself relax. Even without any reassurances, I knew that Namid was right. I was getting stronger, and just as magic was an act of visualization and of will, so too was it a product of faith, of belief in oneself. If I convinced myself that this red sorcerer had power over me, I wouldn’t survive his next attack. If, on the other hand, I believed that I could protect myself from whatever he threw at me, I at least gave myself a fighting chance.

I found Billie’s house without too much trouble, and parked out front. I started to climb out of the car, but then stopped myself, making certain once again that I hadn’t been followed by the red weremyste. Satisfied that he wasn’t nearby, I walked up the path to her door and knocked. The house was small, built in Spanish Mission style, and it seemed to have been well cared for, at least from the outside. There was a little garden out front with flowers and a few small cacti, and a small lawn that had recently been cut.

Billie came to the door in a t-shirt and jeans, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Seeing me, she gave a puzzled smile, her forehead creased. “Hi!” She peeked at her watch. “I know I told you not to be late. .”

I shrugged. “Yeah, sorry. I’m kind of through for the day, and I thought maybe, if you were, too, we could get an early start. But if you’re still working I can come back later.”

“I have a bit left to do. Not much. What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking about a walk in the desert.”

She wrinkled her nose. “The desert?”

“You’ve never taken a walk in the desert?”

“Well, no. I mean, why would I?”

I stared at her, shaking my head. “Amazing. Why did you come to Tempe if not for the desert?”

“I came for a job,” she said. “An editing position at a publishing house. I stayed for the sunshine. But the desert. .” She gave a shrug of her own. “I guess I’m kind of a city person. A Northeastern city person.”

“One walk in the desert will change that,” I said. “You game?”

She smiled at me, and I knew she’d say yes. “You still taking me to dinner?”

“Of course. No sense walking in the desert if you’re not going to eat afterward.”

“All right,” she said, pushing the door open so I could come in. “I need ten minutes to finish and post the piece I’m writing.”

“What’s the piece about?” I asked, stepping past her into the house. Her smile faded as she stared at me, and I knew. One question: that was all it took to put me on my guard. “It’s about the Blind Angel case, isn’t it?”

Billie nodded, as wary as I was.

“Do you mention me in it?”

“No. We’ve been off the record, and I’ve been focusing on other aspects of the story.”

“Like what?”

“The Deegan family mostly. The senator is getting a lot of sympathy right now, but the fact that his daughter was using drugs might come up eventually. I’m writing about the risks his opponents would be taking by raising the issue, and how he might deal with it if they do.”

“Sounds interesting,” I said, relaxing a bit.

She exhaled, her relief palpable. “Thanks. I won’t be long. Make yourself at home.”

Her computer sat on what appeared to be her dining room table, surrounded by piles of papers, several magazines, a newspaper, and a dictionary. She sat down in front of it, stared at the screen for a minute, and then began to type.

I wandered around the living room. The house was as nice inside as it had appeared from the street. Wood floors, high ceilings; she didn’t have much furniture, but all of it was tasteful. Her walls were covered with framed black and white photos of people and city scenes. None of them was signed, and I wondered if they were Billie’s. I turned toward her to ask, but she was typing furiously, her brow furrowed in concentration. I figured I’d be wise to leave her alone.

After about ten minutes she sat back. Still she frowned at the screen for another few seconds, before hitting the ‘return’ key.

“Okay,” she said, standing and grabbing her denim jacket off the back of her chair. “I’m ready.”

“Will you get lots of comments on your blog?” I asked.

She nodded. “Hundreds probably. Some of them will say that I’m brilliant; others will call me a stupid bitch. I make a point of not reading them. I get to have my say with the article. My readers can say what they want after I post it.”

“That’s a mature attitude.”

She smirked. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

We walked out to the Z-ster, with which she appeared only mildly impressed. Not a car person. That was okay. She wasn’t a desert person either, but I was about to cure her of that. I started up the car and on the spur of the moment decided to go south. I put us on Interstate 10.

“So, where are you taking me?” she asked after we had driven for a few minutes in silence.

“Sonoran Desert National Monument. It’s between here and Gila Bend on State 238.”

She nodded. “All right.” Another brief silence. Then, “Tell me what you like so much about the desert.”

“What?”

“Well, I want to know what I should be looking for.”

I considered this for some time, taking the exit off the interstate and getting on the state road.

“Fearsson?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m thinking. It’s a bit like asking me why I like chocolate.”

“But that I understand.”