Originally Human

here?"
    "They were… someone was… they want to catch me. Keep me."
    "Not to kill you?"
    "No, they want to—want to—" His head swiveled towards Erin. "Don't!" And he heaved himself sideways, one arm outstretched like a drowning swimmer reaching desperately for rescue.
    The circle broke.

----
Chapter 4

    THE
pop
! was like clearing your ears during an airplane's descent with a jaw-cracking yawn, except that it happened under my solar plexus. It should have been similar for Erin, though with more of a sting.
    It should
not
have made her eyes roll back in her head as she sank to the floor in a faint.
    I jumped and managed to keep her from hitting her head, ending with both of us on the floor with her head in my lap. Michael rolled off the couch so awkwardly I thought something had happened to him, too. But no, he'd simply made an odd dismount, for he fetched up on the other side of Erin's lax body and sat, staring at her in appalled fascination. "I didn't do it," he said. "I didn't mean to do it."
    "Breaking the circle shouldn't have harmed her." I checked her pulse. It was strong and steady, thank goodness.
    "No, it wasn't that. But it wasn't me, either—at least, it came through me, but I didn't will it. Maybe…" He put his hands on either side of her face and focused intently on her.
    I looked at him sharply. "What are you doing?"
    "Trying to fix her. Be quiet."
    Should I let him try to repair whatever he'd inadvertently damaged? Or prevent him from doing more harm? Before I could decide, Erin blinked herself back to us. "What… Molly?" She put a hand to her temple. "I have such a headache. What happened?"
    "I don't know. Michael broke the circle, and you collapsed."
    "Michael? Who's Michael? And what," she demanded, "am I doing lying on the floor with my head in your lap?"
    "You don't remember?"
    She shook her head.
    I considered going back to bed.
    "The amnesia should be temporary," Michael said. "I think."
    "You probably can't remember."
    "I believe that's sarcasm."
    "Good call."
    Erin sat up, pushing her hair out of her face. Her headband had come off. "The last I remember, you'd woken me up at a godawful hour to ask for help. How did—"
    Someone knocked on my door. We all jolted.
    "Michael, get on the couch and look like an invalid," I said, scrambling to my feet.
    "What does an invalid look like?"
    "Pale. You've got that part down, so just lie still and pull the blanket up over you. Make sure your wounds and genitals are hidden. Erin—"
    "Not wearing a stitch, is he?" She watched Michael's beautiful backside as he moved to the couch. I couldn't blame her for finding the sight distracting. "But I'm clothed, so we weren't performing a ceremony."
    "No, we—" The knocking came again, louder. "Be right there!" I called. "Erin, I know you need answers, but for now pretend you're here to help me with my nephew Michael, who's recovering from a mysterious fever. I thought he'd been cursed, which is why I called you." I headed for the door.
    "You don't have a nephew," she informed me.
    "That's a fiction," Michael said. "We are supposed to fool whoever is at the door." He pulled the blanket over himself and lay down as stiff and straight if he'd been en-coffined. "Do I look ill?"
    Erin was staring at him. "If you had a fever, there wouldn't be anything mysterious about it. Not with those wounds. What—"
    "Shh! Michael, until our visitor leaves, speak Gaelic." I jerked the door open and sang out a cheery, "Good morning!" to the stranger on my stoop.
    He was alone, so he wasn't from the Mormons. Probably not a salesman, either, not in that suit—gray wool, not top-of-the-line but not shabby, either. Either a Baptist or a business clone, I concluded. Probably the latter. Houston was only forty-five minutes away, and the dress-for-successers there wore suits in spite of our subtropical weather. This was not a testament to endurance; they simply never experienced more than a nibble of it, moving as they did between air-conditioned house, air-conditioned car, and tall, chilly office building.
    Or maybe they were icing down the parking garages now, too. "Such nice weather we're having," I told him.
    "Lovely," he agreed politely. He was about thirty, with seriously thick lenses on his gold-rimmed glasses. "I need to speak with you a few minutes, ma'am."
    "This isn't a good time. Have they started air-conditioning the parking garages yet?"
    "Uh… not to my knowledge. Perhaps I should introduce myself." He reached