Burning Books Page 8

  “We’re eat here regularly.” Magnus again, with a bit of condescension in his tone.

  “Then I will keep my unnecessary opinions to myself,” Welch said affably.

  It wasn’t so much a meal as it was a verbal jousting match punctuated by delicious food, with Magnus the aggressor and Cary Welch his unwilling but unflappable opponent. Molly shriveled in embarrassment, not even the delightful Shrimp BLT assuaging her shame at her twin’s behavior. When Magnus excused himself to the restroom, she breathed a mental sigh of relief. Joyce’s sigh was audible.

  “I’m so sorry, Dr. Welch. I have no idea why he’s being so contrary.”

  Welch chewed his rockfish leisurely, wiping his mouth with his napkin as he swallowed. “Cary, please. I see you don’t share the normal twin bond.”

  “No, much to my regret.”

  “There’s a bond there, but it’s more like that between siblings separated by age. I’m to assume from his mental illness that he’s the subordinate twin? Ordinarily, it’s the subordinate who succumbs to mental issues.”

  “I’m older by two minutes. And yes, generally I make the decisions. How much has Joyce explained about Magnus?” Molly slid a sidelong look at her friend, who had the grace to fidget uncomfortably.

  “Just enough to let me know what I was in for today.”

  “You expected Magnus would accompany us?”

  “I expected a protective brother wouldn’t allow his sister to meet a strange man for lunch all by herself.”

  He flashed that smile again. It went through Molly like a hot spear, radiating warm waves to all parts of her body. The pull of that smile, of his intelligent conversation, of the kind concern in his eyes drew her to him. She wanted to pull her chair up beside him, lose herself in conversation, commit herself to those wonderful multicolored eyes. Already, her heart pounded in anticipation of their parting handshake, to feel both his hands engulf hers in that strangely intimate handshake men reserved for women they respected.

  Joyce cleared her throat. Molly realized she’d been staring. She looked away, blushing, but Cary Welch simply took another bite of his rockfish, watching her speculatively without amusement but with undisguised curiosity.

  Molly was gratified to see that Magnus had dialed down his testosterone by the time he returned to the table. He was polite and pleasant throughout the rest of the meal, although entirely unapologetic for his previous behavior. Welch held no apparent grudge; he engaged Magnus in conversation as readily as the rest of them.

  When the meal had been cleared away, dessert declined, and the table cleaned, Welch ordered more coffee and unslung the satchel from his chair back. Delving into it, his hands emerged first with a pair of white silk gloves, which he pulled on with no self-consciousness despite the disdainful curl of Magnus’s lips. Now protectively clad, his hands dove once more into the bag, bringing out a rectangular bundle wrapped in white silk and secured with silk ribbon, and a brown-paper-wrapped package secured with twine, which he handed over the table to Molly.

  “Your shirt, Molly, fresh from the dry cleaners.”

  “Oh, that wasn’t necessary at all, but thank you.” She tucked it into her capacious purse.

  He squared the books on the table in front of him but didn’t release the ribbon. “Aside from your name printed on the back endpaper, there’s really nothing exceptional about these books.”

  Molly flashed a triumphant look at her brother. Now he had no reason to fear the books, no leverage with which to stop her reading them.

  “At first glance,” Welch added.

  Molly turned a sharp gaze on him. There was no doubting that he’d taken this approach quite deliberately: the first sentence designed to soothe her; the addendum designed to reassure Magnus. He’d selected the order of delivery carefully as well. Magnus, on the offensive, would focus solely on Welch’s last statement, dismissing all that came before it. The agreement with Magnus’s assertion that the books weren’t merely books made them allies. Behind his amiable outward persona and unremarkable first impression, Dr. Cary Welch was very clever indeed.

  “Have you heard of a fetish?” Welch directed the question at Molly, but his gaze moved around the table to garner a response from everyone.

  Magnus said, the edge returning to his voice, “Do you mean like a sexual fetish?”

  “While fetishes can certainly be erotic in nature, they’re not strictly relegated to the sexual realm. A fetish in magic is an object imbued with magical properties. There is extensive lore on using the written word as a fetish—to be clear, attaching magic to written text. What’s written isn’t important; what is important are the triggers that activate the magic.”

  “And those are?” Molly inquired faintly. Magic. She was actually sitting here in Anthony’s Oyster Bar & Grill in the middle of a sunny March day with her brother and her ever-practical schoolteacher book chum, listening to an anthropology professor talk about magic.

  “The very act of reading could trigger the magic. Or reading certain words. Or perhaps touching certain words with your bare flesh. Or, possibly, reading the text out loud, or just certain words out loud.”

  “Such as my name.”

  “Yes.” He held her gaze for a long moment. The steady contact helped ground her. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t having her on. He also wasn’t embarrassed by his knowledge of the occult, in spite of his reluctance to meet in his university office.

  “Which do you think it is?”

  “What makes you think I think it’s any of them?”

  “We wouldn’t be talking about them otherwise.”

  The room narrowed to just the two of them. Peripherally aware of Joyce and Magnus at the table, Molly nevertheless could not seem to acknowledge their presence. Cary Welch had wanted the books wrapped in silk and had returned them wrapped in silk. He had donned silk gloves before handling them today, even though they were still wrapped. He had cut straight through many possibilities right to fetish magic. A professor of anthropology, his study of humankind and its various cultures undoubtedly had led him to the knowledge of many strange beliefs and customs and—oh yes, and possibly to the experience of many unexplainable phenomena. He clearly believed they were more than just books.

  “I think it’s all of them.”

  Six words that brought three different reactions. A cold chill wrapped Molly in a numbing embrace. Joyce shuddered in dread but wore an expression of utter fascination. Magnus, on the other hand, looked terrified and ill.

  “I believe the magic is keyed to you, Molly. Now we just need to determine who did it, and why.” Welch left Molly in her invisible icy capsule for the time being, turning instead to Magnus. “Joyce has said you don’t like the books. ‘They’re bringing something dark,’ she told me you said. Can you explain what you meant, Magnus?”

  “They’re bringing the darkness,” Magnus whispered. Molly’s cocoon of shock melted. Oh, Lord—he was going to have an episode right here in Anthony’s. Molly was sufficiently human to regret that it would be months, if not years, before she dared to venture back, praying that the memories of the staff were short and proved to be as fuzzy as the missing year.

  “Describe the darkness to me, Magnus.”

  Joyce glanced at Magnus with apprehension. “Cary, I don’t think this is the time or the place.”

  “Please describe it, Magnus,” Welch insisted firmly.

  “A darkness. A blackness. Not just here”—he indicated his eyes—“but here.” He laid his hand alongside his temple. His fingers closed convulsively over his hair. “It’s . . . it’s more than just visual. It’s despair. Misery. Calamity. I worry.” His eyes locked on Welch’s, dark, intense, his gaze so forceful that Molly half expected the professor to fly backward and smash through the windows behind him. “I worry for Molly. I think the books are bringing danger to her.”

  Molly couldn’t prevent her outburst—“Oh, Magnus, really? Magic?”—and then immediately wished she could recall her words when her twi
n flinched.

  “I can’t say that Magnus is right, or that he is wrong,” Welch said, his gaze returning to Molly’s. His fingers tugged at the ribbon around the books, freeing the bow. The silk wrapping fell away. Magnus turned even whiter.

  Welch opened the topmost book to the middle. When he held it up toward Magnus, her brother shrank backward in his chair. Molly squirmed uncomfortably. The story was so personal, she felt as though the men were intruding into the woman’s most intimate self.

  “Can you read the words?” Welch asked.

  Magnus shook his head. Welch lowered the book, staring down at the page, and closed the cover. Molly sighed in relief.

  “I can’t, either,” Welch said.

  “I’m sorry, but—Cary, are you actually afraid to read the books because you think they contain magic?”

  He remained silent, staring down at the book for a long time. When he raised his head, his expression was haunted. “I’ve traveled the world, Molly McKinley. I have seen many things that I can’t explain with science.” He closed the book and laid it atop its fellows. “I’ve never before seen a book that I can’t read.”

  “Maybe if we sat with you, your nerves would settle, and you’d be able to read. I know the story isn’t the most pleasant—it’s very creepy, actually—but I think that if—”

  “The words make no sense, Molly. They appear to be English, but they mean nothing to me. It’s like the words swim on the pages, and then just bounce around in my mind because they have no meaning. It’s not that I’m afraid to read the books. It’s that I am physically unable to read them.”

  “But . . . but that . . . it makes no sense.” Yet she had experienced the same phenomenon at first.

  “If you look at it from a scientific, logical viewpoint, you’re right—it makes no sense. There must be a rational explanation, yes? Fatigue, eyestrain, dim lighting. None of those apply right now. I’m well rested. I didn’t read last night, so my eyes are rested as well, and I’m sitting in bright daylight. I still can’t read those words.”

  “And you have an explanation for that?”

  “Yes. The words are keyed to you.”

  “Someone made magic books to—what? Ensnare me? Enchant me? Curse me? Kill me?”

  Welch shrugged. “I don’t know the purpose. I’m no expert in magic, and no expert on your life. What I do know is how those books make me feel.”

  Her heart pounded. Oh, he understood. The story carried a current of menace that followed her off the pages. Magic? Maybe. Or maybe it was just skillful mood-building by an accomplished storyteller.

  “Scared? Threatened? Like you’re losing your sense of what’s from the book and what’s real?”

  “That right there is one more reason you shouldn’t read any more,” Magnus pointed out vehemently.

  Cary Welch stared at her. She thought at first that he was stunned by how accurately she had described his own reaction to these strange volumes. Then, belatedly, she realized he was at a loss for words. The moment spun out too long until their easy connection became awkward. He glanced at Magnus, at Joyce, and then looked back at Molly with careful elation.

  “No, Molly. They make me feel . . . I don’t know. Hopeful? Relieved? Like something I’ve been searching for has been found, and it’s only a matter of time until I get it back.”

  ∞3∞

  Cary Welch gave two books back to her, wrapped in silk again, after he had paid their lunch bill. Magnus protested both of these events—the former with apprehension and the latter with a contentiousness that exasperated Molly.

  As Magnus opened the driver’s door and climbed in behind the wheel, Welch said, with a slightly raised brow, “A quick word if you don’t mind, Molly.” Joyce climbed into the backseat with her own dose of apprehension. It was no secret that Magnus made her uncomfortable.

  Welch led her a few yards away from the car, keeping his back to its occupants, shifting his leather satchel to the other shoulder. The other three books were wrapped up inside it, to be taken to his father’s lab for further examination. Grateful that he had at least left her two volumes so she could continue the story, she nevertheless pined for the three still in his possession.

  “Has he been diagnosed?”

  “Magnus? If he has, it was during the lost year. I can’t seem to remember to ask his psychiatrist about it, although you would think Magnus himself would have shared his diagnosis if he’d been offered one. He’s very open about his condition.”

  He stared at her with those disconcerting eyes. Molly was unsure exactly where to look. Her gaze just wanted to follow the colors as they blended one into the next, soothing sea colors that promised serenity. She realized she’d been staring silently, and judging from a slightly smug smile curving his mouth, he’d noticed.

  Her face flaming, she said, “I apologize. Your eyes are just so unusual.”

  “Don’t ruin it by apologizing!” he protested, genially affronted. “I’m quite flattered. I couldn’t quit staring at you myself.”

  Her blush became painful. “Oh. Well, I don’t see why. My eyes are just plain brown.”

  “Plain brown? On the contrary, they’re a very lovely shade that brings to mind sunlight shining through a brown bottle. I didn’t mean your eyes, though. You have a familiarity about you. I feel as though I know you already, although I know we’ve never met.”

  “Maybe we met during the lost year.”

  “Perhaps.” His expression clouded for a moment, then cleared. “Anyway, about Magnus. I’d be amazed if his psychiatrist hasn’t seriously considered sensory-processing disorder. Make a point to remember to ask soon, because I would like you to continue reading the books, but I wouldn’t like for Magnus to feel so distressed over it. With a diagnosis could come some coping techniques to help him deal with the anxiety the books cause.”

  Molly shifted from one foot to the other, catching a glimpse of Magnus in the car behind him, impatiently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “You don’t believe the books are dangerous?”

  “All knowledge is dangerous.”

  “So they’re books of knowledge.” She barely managed to hide her skepticism. “To me, they read like the diary of a deranged woman so desperate for love that she convinces herself she’s in love with her stalker—whom she hasn’t ever even seen.”

  His eyes popped wide. “So that’s what’s written in them?”

  “Oh, I forgot. You can’t read them.” Her brow puckered into a frown. “That is a bit unusual.”

  He chuckled. “More than a bit, I’d say. It was my first clue that the books were magical in nature.”

  “Because, of course, nonmagical books burst into flames when you’re done reading them.”

  “See, I didn’t experience that firsthand, so I have only your word.”

  “And Magnus’s. Magnus saw the book burn.”

  “You’ll understand if I hesitate to take Magnus at his word.” His direct, unflinching gaze told her it didn’t matter if she understood or not, he would still treat Magnus’s testimony as suspect.

  “I understand. I do have a question before we part ways.”

  “If I’m not being too forward, I hope that we aren’t parting ways for good.” She blushed again. “The books are a mystery whose solution I would love to know. And I would give just about anything to be there when you finish reading one, to see if it burns like you said the first one did.”

  The books, the books, the stupid, silly books. Swallowing her disappointment that his interest wasn’t personal, she said, “I can send a message through Joyce.”

  “Don’t be silly, Molly.” He produced a business card like a magician. “I would be delighted if you called me yourself.”

  She reached for the card, stopping just shy of taking it. Her fingers curled inward toward her palm. “One thing first. My question.”

  “That’s right. Forgive me for digressing.”

  “Joyce told me she knew a friend who is an expert in both the occu
lt and chemistry. I believe you said you’re an anthropology professor.”

  His smile faded. “Indeed, I am.”

  “Should I hope that your minor was in chemistry or occult studies?”

  “It would be a vain hope.”

  “I was afraid so.” If she were expecting chagrin, it undoubtedly would be a vain expectation as well. “May I ask your expertise, then?”

  “I have a doctorate in anthropology . . .” He seemed reluctant to continue, but—grudgingly—offered up the confession: “And a master’s in psychology.”

  “Oh, beautiful. Just beautiful.” Molly spun away from him, disappointment swamping her relief at the books having been examined by a so-called professional. Instead, Joyce had called out the psych squad. When she faced him again, he was watching her carefully but without guilt or embarrassment.

  “Are you willing to hear me out?”

  She shot a black look at the car, where Joyce studiously read something on her phone and Magnus looked increasingly impatient. “I don’t think it’s you who should be offering the explanation.”

  “I feel I should. Please don’t be angry with Joyce. She tried to get someone else to examine the books, but when she showed them to him, he refused to even touch them.”

  “Great. So they’re worse than we imagined.”

  “I don’t think it’s like that. He took one look at them and said, ‘I know what those are, and I want nothing to do with them.’ He didn’t explain further. Joyce was at a loss what to do. She had promised you an occult and chemistry expert. So she gave you the next best thing.” A doctor of anthropology doubling as a shrink? “His son.”

  “And you have the same level of expertise your father possesses?” She raised a brow.

  “Not nearly. But I do know a lot. And, although your glare warns me not to say it, I’d wager I know a lot more than you on this subject. Additionally, I have access to his lab and to his library. He may not want to examine the books himself, but that doesn’t mean he won’t offer his input as I muddle through. He won’t be able to help himself, especially if I make myself seem more clueless than I actually am.”