Page 16 of Professor and the Seer
Having spoken to her a few times now, he began to understand why. How hard it must be to know what someone would say before they opened their mouth. To see them hurt, dying. To know if they’d betray or disappoint.
As they headed into the woods, she stuck close to him, showing a trust he took seriously. While not a combat wizard, he’d not been exaggerating when he professed he excelled at defense. His mom claimed he got it because she’d raised him to be a good boy. Grams had snorted at the time and exclaimed it was more like he’d descended from a literal white knight. Apparently some great-something granddad had been a hero in his time. John had his doubts about his existence because, in all his digging, he’d never found any ancestor who fit the bill.
A quiet Frieda couldn’t entirely hide her anxiety, but before he could murmur reassurance, she whispered, “I’ll be okay.” A second later she sighed. “Sorry. Sometimes I don’t realize I’m replying to the future and not the present.”
“Don’t apologize. It must be hard to differentiate reality from what’s to come.”
“Sometimes it’s hard to figure out which timeline I’m in. Nothing worse than congratulating someone on their engagement, only to find out she chose to say no,” she said wryly.
“Oops?”
She snorted, but it pleased him to see some of the tension in her had eased.
The woods thinned as they neared the property. Outdoor lights illuminated the tended garden that extended all the way to a patio. He conjured a shield to protect them, not just from magic but also from projectiles.
Frieda suddenly clutched his arm as they stepped from the shadowy woods into that light, although it might have been less about being exposed to anyone watching and more about the body lying face down in the grass. One of the guards.
“He’s alive,” he softly reassured.
“Not for long,” was her reply. “He’s got a heart condition.”
They walked carefully, following the stone path that weaved around the cultured plants. A dog snored in a patch of flowers, crushing the tender blooms. Another guard lay slumped over a bench.
The house, a sprawling single-story ranch style, had lights on in several rooms, but he aimed for the French doors on the patio. They stood ajar with Dina waiting just inside.
As they neared, Dina spoke aloud with no apparent fear of being overheard. “Coast is clear. Guards are either tied up or unconscious. Except for one. He tried to shoot Enyo in the back, and Bane got pissed.”
Understandable. His friend had waited a long time to find love. Now that he had, John wouldn’t want to be the person who put Enyo in jeopardy.
“Where’s the owner of the place?” he asked.
“Master bedroom. Enyo’s watching the doors to it. Bane’s outside to ensure they can’t escape via the sliding door or windows. Follow me.” Dina led the way through a living room that had warm-colored fabric sofas and a woven rug. The art in the room was obviously local. The hall maintained the homey vibe, as did the peeks into the few rooms they passed with open doors. The master bedroom proved to be clear across the house, the double doors with the intricate carving making it obvious, as did the pair of guards trussed on the floor in front of them.
Enyo saw them coming and put a finger to her lips. Then she beckoned Dina, who strutted forward, hands extended.
Rather than unlock the door silently, she blasted them open and, as she stepped inside, boomed, “I want to speak to the asshole who tried to kidnap my sister!”
“I do like her style,” Enyo chuckled as she followed.
Frieda rolled her eyes and muttered, “So much for subtle.”
“You could do worse than a family that loves you,” John replied. “Stick close to me so that my shield covers you.” He went first, Frieda tucked in behind him.
Like the rest of the house, the bedroom had been decorated in warm tones: reds, yellows, oranges, and pops of bright blue. The gray tile floor and beige-painted walls provided a backdrop for the vivid palette. The massive space held a mini living room, the loveseat and matching chair facing a mounted television over a stone hearth. A big wooden armoire took up some space, along with a long dresser, but the biggest item of all: the bed. Four posters with draped veils, mounded in pillows, and lying amidst those cushions, an old man with a breathing tube taped to his nostrils, the hum of a machine providing oxygen.
He had to be seventy or older, judging by the frail condition and deep wrinkles. The hair on his head was a sparse gray and white. But the old man’s gaze? Sharp. The set of his jaw angry but silent, most likely because Dina had gagged him. John saw the magic binding the fellow.
“Should I blast him to pieces?” Dina offered, waggling her fingers.
“That death is too fast for what he did. Daring to come after one of us,” Enyo declared. “I say, let me carve him bit by bit.”
“Messy and we just replaced our wardrobes,” Dina chided. “I could zap him with electricity?” Sparks danced in the air before her, making the old fellow’s eyes widen with fear.
Frieda stepped away from John and approached the bed, head cocked as she eyed its occupant. She lifted a hand. “Let him speak, Dina.”
“If we must,” her put-upon sister sighed.
“It’s you,” the man exclaimed. “The prophetess.”