Chapter 7 #3
He maintains it for another couple of minutes while we talk about the research he started on today, and then I say, “I noticed that you don’t take your eyes off the balls. How about you stop juggling and see if you can keep them active without looking at them?”
Biting his lip, he slows the balls. “I don’t think I can.”
I say nothing, and he sighs.
“Which is why I should try, I guess.”
“You should only do what feels right. Are you tired?” I do not want to have to explain to everyone that he has some kind of magic burnout because I pushed him too hard.
“I’m still good. I feel the effort, but I’m not drained like I was with the fireball. Okay, gonna do this.” He sets his face in a determined expression: he wants to win this battle. The three balls hover in place before him, and he slowly shifts his gaze over to me. “You’ll watch them, right?”
“I’m watching.” The right-most ball is already fading—and drooping just a bit. “Can I make a suggestion?”
His eyes narrow. “Since when have you ever asked permission?”
I grin. “I’m trying to keep you on your toes. Why don’t you start in easy mode and work your way up?”
He hesitates. “What do you mean?”
“You’re trying to balance three balls in the air without looking. Why not just have one ball resting on the coffee table or something to start? Then when you’ve mastered that, you can move on to something harder.”
“They’re gone, aren’t they?” He sounds so dispirited by the idea.
“No.” I shake my head. “Although they are really struggling, and I think you’re going to lose at least one in the next few seconds.”
Sighing, he agrees, “Let’s start over.” In seconds, he’s merged the balls—which all brighten considerably as soon as he’s looking at them again—and the sole remaining one is resting on the surface of my gorgeous blackwood coffee table.
Hmm.
“Hold on.” I get up and go grab a coaster from a drawer in the sideboard. He bursts out laughing when he sees it—full-on belly laughs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him let go like that, and my lips curve up in a smile.
“It’s not going to wreck your furniture,” he scoffs when he can breathe again.
“I’m sure it won’t,” I make sure to sound as condescending as possible, “but just in case, it can’t hurt.” I hover beside the lightball. “Lift.”
Snorting, he raises it an inch, and I slide the coaster underneath. “See? Completely painless. Now let’s see what you can do.” I return to the couch, but at the other end this time, closer to Noah.
Drawing in a breath, he takes his gaze off the ball and looks at me.
“How does it feel?” I ask, keeping my attention on the lightball, which is flickering a little. “Does it seem the same as when you were looking at it?” I have an idea about what’s happening, and I want to lead him in that direction.
“I’m not sure,” he says uncertainly. “I never really thought about it. Fuck. I’ve been focusing too much on what it looks like. Let’s start again.”
I sit back and let him take charge of the exercise. First he looks at the lightball for a few minutes, seemingly just staring, but I suspect he’s performing mental evaluations. Then he makes it disappear and brings it back a few times. Finally, he nods.
“Okay, I’m ready.” The ball glows steadily on the coaster, and he turns his attention to me.
I look at the lightball. It hasn’t changed.
“Talk to me,” I challenge.
“About what?” There’s an edge of smugness in his tone, and that more than anything else tells me he’s got this whole exercise under control. He’s mastered how the lightball should feel in his mind rather than how it should look, and that’s given him more confidence.
“Anything. You can recite multiplication tables if you like. Or tell me more about the research you’re working on.”
“Actually, I have a question you might be able to help me with.”
I keep my surprise that he’s asking me for help—again—under wraps and stay focused on the lightball… which is still glowing steadily. “I’ll listen, but no promises. The last time I said yes with no limitations, I ended up helping to babysit two-year-old hellhound triplets.”
Noah’s indrawn breath is proof that he understands what a horrific experience that was—although once they fell asleep, they were pretty cute.
“This is nothing that scary,” he promises.
“I was thinking about how, when I was in the compound, the magic reacted to my needs when I was desperate. Kind of like when little old ladies lift cars to reach their loved ones. Even though I shouldn’t have been able to use the magic, when I needed it badly enough, I did.
And it takes me a lot of concentration now to do anything even remotely similar—like projecting emotions—because I’m not feeling that level of desperate need. ”
“Sure. That’s not a terrible analogy.” But I’m not sure where he’s going with this. We already covered it today.
“Right, but yesterday when Nikita used her whammy on me, I really didn’t want to lose control of my thoughts. I remember feeling disgusted that she’d violate anyone like that and desperately pleased that I could still think clearly.”
For a split second, I take my gaze off the lightball.
I have to—I need to make sure he’s okay.
Thankfully, his expression is more analytical and thoughtful than troubled, but I still make a mental note to ensure what happened hasn’t added to his PTSD…
and to see if we can’t find him someone to talk to about that.
“You think the magic responded then too? Shielded you?” I return my gaze to the lightball, which is still steady. He’s really mastered this.
“Maybe? Is it even possible to shield from that?”
I’m nodding before he’s even finished speaking.
“Yes. Vampires have a natural semi-immunity to enthrallment, a side effect of charisma. And sorcerers weave mental shields all the time. They can even do them for other people—but the risk with that is that you need to allow the sorcerer into your mind, and then once they’ve woven the shield, you need them or another sorcerer if you want to make changes or remove it. ”
“So theoretically, I could shield myself from… what did you call it before? Telepathic attack? I just have to work out how and then practice.”
“This is something you should definitely talk to David about. Even if his Wiccan friend doesn’t have an equivalent option, building mental shields is something he’s done a lot of.
He might be able to walk you through it.
” Although I’m not sure how that would work.
Sorcerers take energy from within themselves that they were born with and literally weave and knit and braid it in certain ways that allows things to happen.
Noah’s use of the magic seems to be more of a “flow through me and do what I’m visualizing” thing.
It’s frustrating not to be able to help him more.
“I think you need to challenge yourself a little,” I suggest. “Can you lift the ball?”
It takes a second, but then the ball rises about half an inch. It’s wobbling, but still glowing steadily.
“Good. Maintain it there for a bit, and then try moving it some more.”
We spend another twenty minutes playing with the lightball—moving it, splitting it into three, recombining them, splitting them again, and then, finally, juggling them.
That’s a little trickier than either of us expected. We thought that since Noah had been doing such a great job picking up the other steps so quickly, this would come naturally too.
“Stop hitting me with them!” I’d swear he’s doing it on purpose, except he looks so frustrated and pissed off. At least the balls don’t hurt—it’s just a tingly sensation brushing against my skin.
“I’m trying . Fuck, this is how I remember juggling. The damn balls never went the way I wanted them!”
Ah.
I go to stand behind him—we both leaped to our feet after the first lightball careened out of control—and turn him toward the balls, keeping my hands on his shoulders. “Close your eyes.” I need to see them, but he doesn’t.
“Andrew—”
“Trust me. Close them. Feel the balls. Is everything right? Do they feel the way they’re supposed to?”
He takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising in my hold, and considers it while I keep an eye on the balls. They return to “resting” position, in a line about a foot away.
“Yeah. They’re good.”
“Stop trying to ‘see’ them juggle. Feel it instead. Feel them exactly as they are but moving. And the way they’re moving is in a smooth arc. One after the other. You’re not juggling them; you’re moving the energy through space.”
The first attempt is a disaster, with all three balls moving at once into the same space. They merge, but I don’t tell Noah, instead letting him get the circuit started. The ball has made one full round before he says, “It’s wrong. There’s only one, isn’t there?”
“Is there?”
He hesitates, then nods. “There’s only one.” A second later, it splits back into three. The first one bobs. Then the second. Then the third. “Okay. Okay,” he mutters.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually he has all three balls moving in a more or less regular arc. It’s nowhere near as smooth as when he could see them, but they’re no longer smacking me in the face.
“Is it working?” he demands.
“Hold on.” I duck around him and grab my phone from the coffee table, then record a few seconds of his juggling. “Okay, open your eyes.”
They pop open so fast, I have to stop myself from stumbling back. It was like a horror movie moment—you know, with a supposedly dead body in a haunted tomb or something.
Of course, the second he can see the balls, their trajectory smooths out. I hold up my phone. “Put away your toys and come and see.” He hesitates, and I raise a brow. “You’ve been at this for a while now. There’s no point wearing yourself out.”
Muttering a reluctant “Yeah,” he… vanishes? extinguishes? the lightballs, then steps forward to see my phone. I hit Play on the recording but watch him instead of the clip.
The grin that lights up his face is beautiful, and in the next heartbeat I have an armful of Noah as he throws himself against me in a hug.
“I did it! Did you see?” He turns his grinning face up to mine, and something in my expression—unconcealed shock, maybe—must bring home the realization that he’s voluntarily touching me, because consternation crosses his face and he lets go so quickly, he almost falls over. “Uh, sorry.”
I swallow, trying to push away thoughts of how good he felt against me. “No problem. Heat of the moment. Very exciting. Uh…” What was I saying? “I can send you this, if you like.”
He nods almost manically. “Yes. Please. I can probably match what was happening to how it felt in my head and use it as a teaching tool. Or something.” He peters off into awkward silence while I’m very busy with my phone, texting him the video.
Because that takes a lot of effort and attention, you know.
His phone dings in his pocket, and he pulls it out. “Got it.” He waves the phone. “Uh… I’m kind of tired. Guess that wore me out more than I thought. G-Good night.”
“It’s been a long day,” I agree. “Sleep well.” Thank fuck he’s taking the initiative here, because I need some time to think without him distracting me.
With an awkward wave, he turns and hightails it to his bedroom, and I sink down to sit on my coffee table, even though that’s something I never do.
What am I supposed to do now?