This choice: "I want to see this stuff first hand." • Go Back...Chapter #28A Date With Melody's Boyfriend by: Seuzz   "Well ain't this a pretty sight," Will Prescott chortles. He leers at Melody, who is wrapped in Blackwell's bathrobe. "Can I get a look at what this Joe guy sees in you?"
She returns his leer with a faint smirk, and opens the robe. He goggles, then looks away as waves of crimson and pallor wash over his face. "Yeah, I didn't think you'd get excited over it," she says.
"If it's good enough for this Joe guy, it should be good enough for me," you say as you tuck Melody's thin blue blouse into her ratty jeans. "But you two stay out of each other while I'm gone."
"You can't tell me what to do," Melody retorts.
"No, but I can still tell him." You nod at Will. "Come on, be nice to each other. We're all basically the same person."
"Then you know how I feel about being in here," Melody says, gesturing at her body.
"It's not so bad," you say, and baldly adjust your small breasts, settling them more comfortably inside the bra and blouse. "It's not Yumi, but it's still a girl."
"And you don't have to worry about getting in trouble with me," Will grins. "Golems shoot blanks." He looks between you and Melody, and his face curls up a little. "Come on, guys, aren't either of you a little bit curious what it'd be like to be with, uh, yourself?"
"No," you say, and look over at Melody when she hesitates.
"No," she says, and then bridles. "Okay, maybe a little. This is a real female body, not imago like you're wearing." She jerks her chin at you.
"As long as it's good enough for Joe," you say, and snatch up her book satchel. "I'll call if it turns into an all-nighter."
"He is a blonde god, isn't he?" Melody says with a very Prescott-like leer.
"Shut up, and start researching poltergeists. How are you doing in there, professor?" you call into the library.
"It's coming," Blackwell calls back. "Though not in the same sense of the word that you three seem to using."
* * * * *
You want to see this Joe person for yourself; and you want to set lots of hands to work on researching the paranormal possibilities; and you've been wanting to test out that anima band.
And it's all come together. You'd put the anima band onto Melody so you could wear her mask; and she, with your mind and will inside her, will work with Prescott and Blackwell in a crash research course while you meet with Joe. You've already called him, and set up a coffee date near the university.
He's waiting in a booth, and smiles broadly.
You feel some of Melody's own thrill as you approach. He's young--probably no more than a college freshman--with solid, rounded muscles that bulge invitingly beneath a tight t-shirt. His shaggy blonde hair glints with golden highlights, and his eyes twinkle with playful mischief. And then there's his grin, which is wide and white and guilelessly friendly. Melody feels relief and warmth when he has her under his gaze.
He's got manners, too, and stands as you sidle up to the table, and helps you take the satchel off your shoulder. He also lightly runs his fingertips along your shoulder blade. He likes to touch you--Melody--but not in a forward way. It's a flattering touch, with no sense of pushiness. "I'm sorry I'm late," you gasp. "Traffic."
"Were you over at the professor's?"
"Blackwell's, you mean? Yes."
"He's working you hard."
"I'm learning a lot."
"About what?" He relaxes against the side of the booth, and fixes you with that wide, curious-laden gaze.
"I've told you. Antiquities. Right now I'm researching an old scandal in Hanoverian England."
"It was nothing but old scandals with them, wasn't it?" he laughs. "Regency period?"
"George the First. Don't you pay attention to what I say?"
"I pay attention to you," he says, and you blush. "Are you interested in that stuff?"
"I could be talked into it. If there's a thesis to be written. But why are you interested in Blackwell?"
He shrugs. "Because you've been talking about him. We could talk about some of your other professors, if you like. Or just about you." He stretches a lazy finger to touch the back of your hand.
"Well, why do say working for him is bad for my health? That poltergeist stuff?"
"Oh, that," he laughs. "I just said that because of something else you said you were researching. Some old witch trial in Saxony."
"I thought you said you only pay attention to me, not to what I say."
"I listen to both. I was only joking when I mentioned the Regency. George the Fourth was more fun than George the First."
"He was a disgusting old reprobate."
"Then let's talk about you." He turns a placemat over and takes out a pencil. "Don't mind if I doodle. Where were you born?"
You blink. "Uh, Columbus. My family moved here when I was thirteen."
"How many people are in your family?"
"Enough," you say, and he laughs. "I have two parents and a brother." You have to stop from correcting yourself, for in your haste to answer you've described your own family, not Melody's.
"When's your birthday?"
It's a curious conversation that follows. It starts off with a lot of direct questions, but meanders off into light talk about this and that before returning to more direct questions. Joe is a good talker, and you find yourself relaxing, even though the conversation pulses in odd ways. Some of his questions--the biographical ones--are ordinary. Some are odd but thoughtful: "Do you think dogs have souls?" Some are just crazy: "What color is the number seven?" You argue with him over several of them, especially when he chides you: "That's not what you really think, is it?"
You ask him several times what he's doing, for he's doodling in a purposeful way the entire time, and though the questioning feels light, he gradually seems to turn serious. "Just a parlor game I like to play with people," he says. At the end of it, he puts the placemat away and takes out a little golden disc. "Here's another one," he says. "You'll like it. Try to get the bead from one end to the other."
"Oh, one of those, huh?" You take it. Its surface is crisscrossed with lots of faint, thin bands, like the surface of a computer chip, and a little bead that shines like quick-silver slides along. You don't see how it stays attached to the disc, and you have to concentrate hard on it, for the bead keeps sliding over into a corner toward Joe instead of to the spot he indicates.
"Lemme show you," he says after awhile, and takes it from you. His fingers brush over yours. "Like this." He guides it along with seeming expertise, bringing it to rest in the desired spot. He looks up at you sharply from under his ragged bangs. "You're a talented girl," he says with a grin.
"I couldn't get it."
"Most people can't, not at first. It takes a lot of practice." He puts it away. "I'm really glad I met you, Melody," he says. "Especially after talking to you just now." His eyes glint, but there's a gravity to them. "I wondered about you, almost as soon as I met you. I'd really like to continue our talk back at my place." He puts his hands over yours.
"Why? That old black magic?" Your heart is beating hard; you don't want to get trapped with him, and Melody, despite her attraction to him, is similarly suspicious.
"A kind of black magic," he says. "But Blackwell's kind, if I can be honest with you."
You suppress a shudder of surprise at the way he's linked Blackwell with black magic in a way that doesn't sound coincidental.
"I'll level with you, Melody," he says. "The professor really is not good for you. In fact, I'm pretty sure he means you a lot of harm."
You stare at Joe. He seems very sincere. "I know he seems creepy," you say slowly.
"You've been out to his house. What did you think of it?"
You shift uncomfortably. It's what Melody would do, but it's what you would do too. "It's like a big crypt."
"You think dogs would like to hang out there? What does your gut say about his place, and about him?"
You remember how you felt when you first met him, how you actually turned down his offer to work for him. He meant only to get the Libra back from you, and you strongly suspect that his original idea had been to get rid of you, the way he eventually got rid of Lucy. It was only dumb luck--the fact that you showed some kind of natural talent for magic--that dissuaded him, and persuaded him to take you on as his apprentice.
A sorcerer's apprentice. They always get in trouble, a little voice says in your head.
Oh, but you're not the apprentice anymore. The sorcerer is himself dead. You're the sorcerer now.
And look what happened to the sorcerer, that little voice says. Never mind what happened to Blackwell. Do you want to turn into what he was?
Your eye has turned inward, but now it turns outward again, and you see Joe again. His expression mixes concern and sincerity. He seems very serious, too. His mixing of "Blackwell" and "black magic" in the same breath did not feel like a pun on your late mentor's name.
"What are you talking about, Joe?" you ask.
He clasps his hands over yours. "Do you trust me, Melody?" He gazes deeply into your eyes.
You feel a sudden, nearly overwhelming desire to confess everything to him, and to see if he'll help you out of what suddenly feels like a hole you've been digging for yourself.  | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
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