The Source (Witching Savannah #2)

The Source (Witching Savannah #2) Page 19

“We know different though,” I said. “And sooner or later, the rest will see too.” I touched his arm, and felt a jolt run through him. For a second, his face flushed and his lips quivered. I stepped back, and the moment passed.

“I am sure you already know,” he said, his tone turning distant, professorial, “that everything is made of energy. Living energy. Everything around us here. The walls, the floor, your bed and desk. Actions, circumstances are made of energy too, and energy can’t be destroyed. Even so, the way energy organizes itself changes over time. This house is well maintained. The roof is fairly new; the paint is fresh. Your family continues to pour new energy into it to keep it in the condition they desire. If they did not, the house would eventually decay and fall apart.” He paused and sat at my desk. At nearly seven feet tall, he was strangely oversized for the seat. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, I think so. Entropy and all that.” I’d taken a steady progression of university classes in physics, math, languages, art, and literature. Aunt Iris had long since become frustrated by the fact that I’d never earned a degree, even though I had credits enough for three. I loved the learning, and I think a part of me felt afraid that a diploma would symbolize that my learning days had come to an end. My rational mind told me that I owed it to myself to finish my degree, and I also needed to set a good example for my son. I wanted him to know that his mama always finished what she started. I promised myself that I would do just that after Colin was born.

Emmet looked at me with pride. “Yes. Things fall apart. The same thing holds true in regards to events. We build the events in our lives. We furnish them with our intellect and decorate them with our emotions, but then we walk away. We never bring new energy to them, and with time, they fade and disappear from our senses. That’s what leads to the sense that time is passing; what we call ‘the present’ simply reflects where we collectively are focusing the most energy.”

“So the daily events of my mother’s life are still available to me if I can bring enough energy to them?”

“Yes, to a certain degree, but time has passed. More importantly, you have a deep-seated sense of having been separated from your mother.” The irony of Emmet’s words nearly took my breath from me, but he was too caught up in his lecture to notice. “The memories that are closer to you are easier to revive—they’re simply awaiting a burst of energy that’s strong enough to jar them loose. Perhaps that’s where we should start.” Emmet stood and walked up to me, standing so close the heat from his body radiated into my own.

“You appreciate this vessel,” he said after staring at me for a long moment. “You respond emotionally to it, perhaps even physically as well.” Strong hands grasped me and pulled me into steely arms. His mouth found mine and forced it open, his tongue, a flickering flame, forcing its way inside. A burst of fire shot down my spine, and I would have been jolted off the ground had his arms not been holding me so tightly. I was breathless when he finally released me. I reached back and slapped him as hard as I could. My hand left its mark, but Emmet didn’t even react. Instead, he grabbed me and spun me around again.

There before me sat a much younger version of myself wearing a pink sundress I’d hated. I had been way too much of a tomboy for Iris’s liking, and she’d been on a constant mission to get me to dress like a girl. The pink-dressed me sat at the table, crayons in hand and an angry expression on my face. The sight made the present version of myself smile. Emmet loosed his grasp on me, and I drew nearer. I remembered this moment now. Iris had put me in a time-out because I had thrown a fit over having to wear that very same dress.

“When you imagined your father, you drew my form, my body, for him,” Emmet’s voice came from over my shoulder. “With your crayons.”

I was shocked, but I knew he was absolutely right. The sketch showed large and sturdy hands on a man as big and strong as a tree. I had imagined someone to whom I could appeal the injustice of pink dresses and time-outs. I had forgotten the image as I had grown past my childish hope of finding my dad. In broad strokes, that image stood behind me now. I turned to face him.

“This vessel could have taken any shape—a child, a woman, a common household pet, even. When you came across it rising from the earth, it contained nothing but pure potential. Your consciousness cast it in this form. As you dealt with Ginny’s death and the issues between you and your sister, your longing for a father figure resurfaced, perhaps not consciously, but strongly enough to give birth to this image. You provided the mold into which the energies flowed. They simply responded to the need you projected onto them.”

Oh, no, it didn’t make me feel in the least little bit icky to realize I was attracted to my idealized paternal figure. Well, maybe Emmet was only a manifestation of my childhood perception of the idealized male, I quickly rationalized. Satisfied with that extenuation and deeply determined never to consider the issue again, I said, “I didn’t know,” and took a few steps back from him.

“And then you named me,” he responded, regaining the distance I had put between us. “Like it or not, you have made your mark on this body. You’ve put your stamp on me. The line selected you and turned me into a person, a man, in the same instant. I cannot believe it happened by accident or chance.”

He knelt before me, bringing his eyes more in line with my own. “Mercy, I remember the incidents from the lives of the nine who made me. All their joys and shames, their accomplishments and little infidelities. But, Mercy . . . Seeing your face is my first memory.”

“Get up, Emmet,” I said, trying to diffuse the passion I felt in his declaration, but he reached out and took both of my hands.

“Mercy, the line didn’t make a mistake. The line made me for you. You are my only purpose and my only passion.”

I might have felt threatened or uneasy, but I knew that Emmet spoke nothing but the truth. “For now, maybe, but you’ll find others.” His face grayed; he was stricken. I didn’t know why he had chosen this particular moment to make his declaration, but he had offered all he had and all he was to me. Completely. This had been his big gamble, the moment when he put all his chips on the table. It broke my heart to reject him, but we both knew I was saying no. “I’m pregnant. I’m marrying Peter.”

“If you wanted to marry Peter, you already would have.” Anger crept into his voice. My choice had stung him. “He had to rely on the old woman’s magic to reach you.”

“No. I was confused,” I said, speaking calmly, ignoring the heated resentment I heard in his voice. I didn’t want to hurt Emmet. I had never even considered that he might have feelings for me. “I was deceived by Jackson. I would have turned to Peter anyway. I have turned to Peter. He’s my oldest friend. I love him. I am carrying his child.”

“I would gladly raise your child as my own,” Emmet vowed to me.

“Enough,” I said, shaking my hands from his. “Get out of my room.” I should have ordered him out of my house, out of Savannah, but in spite of what my good sense told me, I didn’t have the heart. He had nowhere else to go.

“As you wish.” He stood, reaching his impressive full height. “At least you’ve learned how easily passion can lend itself to use in magic, and why your mother would have used it to reach her goals.”