“Well, this is a fascinating little excursion,” said her self-appointed knight in black armor, shrugging on his coat, “but as it’s not getting you any closer to medical help ...”
She lifted her eyes from the hat—the black hat—and stared at Hartgrave, the only other person in the room.“You.”
He crossed his arms, a vision of impatience. “Yes?”
“It was you!” Her headache faded as rage took over. “You attacked me!”
“What?”
“You were floating and you fell, and when I tried to help, you knocked me out!”
He shut the door. Ominous. But all he said was, “Yes, I’d say you have a concussion.”
“You were doing magic.”
He walked toward her, boots clacking against the stone in exactly the way they had when he cut through the basement in the dark. “Do you realize how completely delusional that sounds?”
She backed out of reach. “Youwere.”
“Dr. Daggett, for pity’s sake,” he said, grabbing her arm.
She tried to wrench free, but the moment her bare wrist came into contact with his hand, a shock went up her arm like an electrical charge. The surprise of it—as much as the pain—made her cry out. He must have felt it, too, because he jumped back with a gasp.
Then he tripped over her three-hole punch, useful as a weapon after all, and would have ended up flat on the floor—again—if not for what happened next. He stopped mid-fall. Feet in the air.
“Aha,” Emily yelled.
He tipped his head back and pressed his hands over his eyes.“Scheiße.”
She wanted to throttle the man. “Thought you’d cause a little memory loss and send me on my way? You could have killed me!”
His “yes,” as he righted himself, came out more hiss than word. But she was too angry, and possibly concussed, to take this as a serious threat.
“Listen, you—”
“No.” His face was ashen. “No. You listen to me, Daggett. You were not supposed to be here. You will never come here again.”
“Oh? Do the Ashburn powers-that-be know you’re here?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Magic is exactly my business! And I can’t believe you had the gall to tell me I’m wasting my time studying its history when you’re a wizard!”
“Don’t call me that,” he snarled, a belated reminder that he could, in theory, cast magic hazardous to her health.
She glanced at the door, weighing whether to make a run for it. He must have caught her intent: The next moment a thick line of blue-black fire leapt in front of it, flickering against the stone.
“Have a seat,” Hartgrave said. Not a request.
Fine. She didn’t want to leave, anyway. She’d worked hard to get in.
He gestured toward a corner of the room, which incongruously contained an armchair, a bed and several other pieces of furniture. Keeping a mistrustful eye on him, she sidestepped to the chair and braced for unpleasantness.
But he merely walked to the closest wall, laid his hands on it and stood there for a moment, as if checking on something. After that, he slumped on the bed, rubbing the back of his neck with both hands and issuing no threats.
She couldn’t satisfactorily explain to herself why she felt disappointed.
A muttered curse as he reached farther down his spine suggested he’d hit a particularly sore area. She winced.
