A Discovery of Witches(37)
“I’m not having magic involved in my work,” I said stubbornly.
“You’re no Hooke, Diana,” Matthew said roughly. “He was only a human, and he ruined his life trying to resist the lure of magic. You’re a witch. If you do the same, it will destroy you.”
Fear began to worm its way into my thoughts, pulling me away from Matthew Clairmont. He was alluring, and he made it seem as if you could be a creature without any worries or repercussions. But he was a vampire and couldn’t be trusted. And he was wrong about the magic. He had to be. If not, then my whole life had been a fruitless struggle against an imaginary enemy.
And it was my own fault I was afraid. I’d let magic into my life—against my own rules—and a vampire had crept in with it. Dozens of creatures had followed. Remembering the way that magic had contributed to the loss of my parents, I felt the beginnings of panic in shallow breath and prickling skin.
“Living without magic is the only way I know to survive, Matthew.” I breathed slowly so that the feelings wouldn’t take root, but it was difficult with the ghosts of my mother and father in the room.
“You’re living a lie—and an unconvincing one at that. You think you pass as a human.” Matthew’s tone was matter-of-fact, almost clinical. “You don’t fool anyone except yourself. I’ve seen them watching you. They know you’re different.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“Every time you look at Sean, you reduce him to speechlessness.”
“He had a crush on me when I was a graduate student,” I said dismissively.
“Sean still has a crush on you—that’s not the point. Is Mr. Johnson one of your admirers, too? He’s nearly as bad as Sean, trembling at your slightest change of mood and worrying because you might have to sit in a different seat. And it’s not just the humans. You frightened Dom Berno nearly to death when you turned and glared at him.”
“That monk in the library?” My tone was disbelieving. “You frightened him, not me!”
“I’ve known Dom Berno since 1718,” Matthew said drily. “He knows me far too well to fear me. We met at the Duke of Chandos’s house party, where he was singing the role of Damon in Handel’s Acis and Galatea. I assure you, it was your power and not mine that startled him.”
“This is a human world, Matthew, not a fairy tale. Humans outnumber and fear us. And there’s nothing more powerful than human fear—not magic, not vampire strength. Nothing.”
“Fear and denial are what humans do best, Diana, but it’s not a way that’s open to a witch.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Yes you are,” he said softly, rising to his feet. “And I think it’s time I took you home.”
“Look,” I said, my need for information about the manuscript pushing all other thoughts aside, “we’re both interested in Ashmole 782. A vampire and a witch can’t be friends, but we should be able to work together.”
“I’m not so sure,” Matthew said impassively.
The ride back to Oxford was quiet. Humans had it all wrong when it came to vampires, I reflected. To make them frightening, humans imagined vampires as bloodthirsty. But it was Matthew’s remoteness, combined with his flashes of anger and abrupt mood swings, that scared me.
When we arrived at the New College lodge, Matthew retrieved my mat from the trunk.
“Have a good weekend,” he said without emotion.
“Good night, Matthew. Thank you for taking me to yoga.” My voice was as devoid of expression as his, and I resolutely refused to look back, even though his cold eyes watched me walk away.
Chapter 9
Matthew crossed the river Avon, driving over the bridge’s high, arched spans. He found the familiar Lanarkshire landscape of craggy hills, dark sky, and stark contrasts soothing. Little about this part of Scotland was soft or inviting, and its forbidding beauty suited his present mood. He downshifted through the lime alley that had once led to a palace and now led nowhere, an odd remnant of a grand life no one wanted to live anymore. Pulling up to what had been the back entrance of an old hunting lodge, where rough brown stone stood in sharp contrast to the creamy stuccoed front, he climbed out of his Jaguar and lifted his bags from the trunk.
The lodge’s welcoming white door opened. “You look like hell.” A wiry daemon with dark hair, twinkling brown eyes, and a hooked nose stood with his hand on the latch and inspected his best friend from head to foot.
Hamish Osborne had met Matthew Clairmont at Oxford nearly twenty years ago. Like most creatures, they’d been taught to fear each other and were uncertain how to behave. The two became inseparable once they’d realized they shared a similar sense of humor and the same passion for ideas.
Matthew’s face registered anger and resignation in quick succession. “Nice to see you, too,” he said gruffly, dropping his bags by the door. He drank in the house’s cold, clear smell, with its nuances of old plaster and aging wood, and Hamish’s unique aroma of lavender and peppermint. The vampire was desperate to get the smell of witch out of his nose.
Jordan, Hamish’s human butler, appeared silently and brought with him the scent of lemon furniture polish and starch. It didn’t drive Diana’s honeysuckle and horehound entirely from Matthew’s nostrils, but it helped.