The Portal 00 - Legacy of the Witch

news. Or any television, because the
news constantly interrupts. But it sometimes feels as if I can hear the cries of
my people.” I blinked against the emotion I rarely gave voice. How was it that I
was discussing these feelings with him when I never discussed them with anyone?
Ever. “Can we talk about something else, please? The work I’ve come to do,
perhaps?”
    He studied my face for a moment, and I thought he was searching
for something to say to erase the pain that undoubtedly showed in my eyes. But
he must have decided nothing could do that, because he gave up with a sharp nod.
“Sure. Let’s get right to it. This way.”
    Turning, he walked out of the kitchen, through the dining room
and over to the wide staircase. His big, sock-covered feet moved soundlessly up
the thickly carpeted steps.
    I started to follow, then paused.
    He doesn’t think I’m a prostitute, does
he? I replayed everything he’d said so far in my mind, or tried
to.
    Sensing my hesitation, I think, he turned. “Anything
wrong?”
    “No, of course not.”
    “Well, come on, then. The office is right up here.”
    Office. Phew. Okay, great. I got myself moving again and
remembered to keep a keen eye out for the box as he led me down the second story
hallway, past a handful of closed doors I presumed were bedrooms to an open one
at the far end.
    His office must have been intended as the master suite. He’d
converted it, and beautifully. A huge desk took up one corner, rich dark walnut,
clearly an antique. A squat fat computer monitor sat atop it, the tower on the
floor nearby. A smaller, more modern desk sat in another corner, also sporting a
computer, and there was a table in between that held a printer, a fax and a
small copier.
    The carpet in here was the same thick plush beige as the stairs
and hall, soft and cushiony under my feet. Big windows filled the triangular
peak facing front, letting in tons of light.
    “There’s a walk-in closet there, with most of the office
supplies. And the master bath has everything you should need.” Then he frowned.
“Did you leave your bags in the car? The agency did tell you this job includes
room and board for the duration, didn’t they?”
    This was getting better and better. And scarier, too. I was
expected to stay here? For how long? And with this man, who seemed to get inside
my brain, unleashing parts of the story I’d never known before. Parts my gidaty had never told me. Parts I hadn’t made up to
tell her. Parts that felt more like memories of that dark-eyed man-boy, Harmon.
“Yeah. Uh, yeah, they’re in the car.”
    The telephone on the big desk rang. He held up a finger to me
and went over to pick it up, while I prayed in silence, Don’t let it be the agency he just mentioned.
    He spoke briefly, then hung up. “I’m sorry. I have to go out
for a bit. So I guess you get a reprieve. Look, your room is back down the hall,
first door on the left. Mine’s at the opposite end. Take some time to get
settled in. Make yourself at home. And maybe?” he picked up a stack of printed
pages “…give it a read. See what you think. All right?”
    “All right.”
    “Thanks, Amarrah. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
    And then he left. I watched out the window, where I had a clear
view of the driveway and the two-car garage that matched the rich gleaming wood
of the house itself and sat kitty-corner to it, with a covered walkway in
between. One of its doors rolled up slowly, and a sporty looking red Jeep came
speeding out of it, darting down the drive and out to the road, its motor
growling loudly with each shift.
    He was gone, and I was alone in the house.
    The phone rang. I picked it up hesitantly. “Sergeant Brockson’s
residence,” I said.
    “Hi, there. This is Linda from Sumner Temps. I need to speak
with Harrison Brockson, please?”
    This must be the agency! “He’s not here, but I can take a
message and see that he gets it.” I twisted the twirly telephone cord around my
forefinger as I listened.
    “All right. Please give him my apologies. The temp we had lined
up had a family emergency—gave us no notice at all. We’re scrambling to find him
another—”
    “Actually,” I interrupted, thinking fast, “we have several
agencies finding us several temps, and I’m new here, so can you be more
specific? What job exactly was this temp you were sending supposed to do?”
    “I didn’t realize he was working with more than one
agency.”
    “Well, not for the same