Four

She heard the blood rush and roar in her head, pulsing in time with the gallop of her heart. He sat calmly, studying her as if she were some mildly interesting lab experiment.

Her temper began to tick like a bomb.

“What kind of a stupid question is that?”

“With some, it’s an instinct—hereditary knowledge. Others are taught the way a child is taught to walk and talk. There are some who come into it at the onset of puberty. Countless others, I believe, who go through life without ever realizing their potential.”

Now he made her feel as though she was a slightly dim-witted student. “I don’t know where you get this stuff—or where you’ve come up with the half-baked idea that I’m . . .” She wasn’t going to say it, wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying it. “This hocus-pocus area is your deal, not mine, Dr. Weird.”

Intrigued, he cocked his head. “Why are you angry?”

“I’m not angry.” She leaned forward. “Want to see me angry?”

“Not particularly. But I’m willing to bet that if I put a sensor on you right now, I’d get some very interesting readings.”

“I’m finished betting with you. In fact, I’m finished with you period.”

He let her get to her feet, continued to make notes. “You still have forty-five minutes on your time. If you’re going to renege . . .” He swept his gaze up, met her furious stare. “I can only assume you’re afraid. It wasn’t my intention to frighten or upset you. I apologize.”

“Stuff your apology.” She strained against pride, always her most fretful war. She’d made the damn bet, she’d accepted the terms. With a bad-tempered jerk, she scraped her chair back out and sat again. He didn’t rub it in, only continued to make notes, as if, Ripley thought, grinding her teeth, he’d known all along he would win.

“I’m going to take a wild leap here. You don’t practice.”

“I have nothing to practice.”

“You’re not a stupid woman. And my impression is you’re very self-aware.” He watched her face. She was trying to remain steady. But there was something beneath the calm veneer, some strong, even passionate emotion.

He wanted desperately to dig in. Discover it. Discover her. But he would never get the chance, he realized, if he alienated her so quickly. “I’m assuming this is a sensitive area for you. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve already told you what you can do with your apology. You can do the same with your assumptions.”

“Ripley . . .” He lifted a hand, spread his fingers in a gesture of peace. “I’m not a reporter looking for a story. I’m not a groupie looking for a show or a neophite searching for a mentor. This is my work. I can promise to respect your privacy, keep your name out of my documentation. I won’t do anything to hurt you.”

“You don’t worry me, Booke. You’re going to have to look for your guinea pig elsewhere. I’m not interested in your . . . work.”

“Is Nell the third?”

“You leave Nell alone.” Before she could think, she reached across, gripped his wrist. “You mess with her, I’ll take you apart.”

He didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. Her pupils had gone so dark they were nearly black. Where her fingers gripped were points of heat so intense he wouldn’t have been surprised to see his skin smoke.

“Bring harm to none,” he managed in a voice that somehow remained steady. “That’s not just Craft philosophy. I believe it. I won’t do anything to hurt your sister-in-law. Or you, Ripley.”

Very slowly, watching her as he might a guard dog who had snapped its chain, he brought his hand up to cover hers. “You can’t control it, can you?” His voice was soft. “Not completely.” He gave her hand a squeeze that was almost friendly. “You’re burning my wrist.”

With that statement she lifted her fingers, spread them. But her hand wasn’t steady as she looked down, saw the red welts where her fingers had been.

“I won’t do this.” She struggled to bring her breathing back to normal, to close off that violent spike of energy. To be herself again.

“Here.”

She hadn’t heard him get up, or go to the sink. In an instant he was standing beside her, offering her a glass of water.

After she’d taken it, gulped it down, she was no longer sure whether she was angry or embarrassed. But she was sure it was his fault. “You’ve no right to come here, prying into people’s lives.”

“Knowledge, and truth, save us from chaos.” His tone was quiet, reasonable. And made her want to bite him. “Tempering them with compassion and tolerance makes us human. Without those things, fanatics feed on fear and ignorance. The way they did inSalem , three hundred years ago.”

“Not hanging witches anymore doesn’t make the world tolerant. I don’t want to be part of your study. That’s the bottom line.”

“Okay.” She looked so tired all at once, he noted. Bone-weary. It stirred him, a mixture of guilt and sympathy. “All right. But something happened the other night that might make that difficult for both of us.”

He waited a moment, while she shifted in her chair then gave him her reluctant attention. “I saw a woman on the beach. At first I thought it was you. Same eyes, same coloring. She was very alone, and brutally sad. She looked at me, for one long moment. Then vanished.”

Ripley pressed her lips together, then picked up her wine. “Maybe you’ve been drinking too much Merlot.”

“She wants redemption. I want to help her find it.”

“You want data,” she tossed back. “You want to legitimate your crusade, maybe cop a book deal.”

“I want to understand.” No, he admitted, that wasn’t all of it. That wasn’t the core of it. “I want to know.”

“Then talk to Mia. She loves attention.”

“You grew up together?”

“Yeah. So?”

It was easier, he decided, even more pleasant, to deal with her when she had her attitude back in place.

“I caught some . . . tension between the two of you.”

“I must repeat myself. So?”

“Curiosity is the scientist’s first tool.”