Tricked

that was a stupid thing to say. This was not going well, but there was nothing to do now but plunge deeper and hope I’d be able to swim out again. » I mean you have all these modern American hang-ups about the subject. You’re getting all defensive about something that should be perfectly natural and relaxing. «
    » That is a cheap rhetorical device. By accusing me of being defensive, I cannot respond without proving your point, however unrelated it might be to the original topic. And the original topic under discussion here is your presumption that you have anything to say at all about my sex life. «
    » See, I told you this would be epically awkward. I was simply trying to explain that I’m not the sin police, and if you want to make a move on Mr. Drinky McDrinkypants over there, you can go right ahead. «
    Granuaile’s lips drew into a tight, furious line. » If you were anyone else, I would slap you so hard you’d have two cheeks on one side of your face. «
    » Well, then, I sincerely apologize and commend your restraint. But you’ll need to explain what I’m doing wrong here. I’m honestly not trying to insult you. I’ve never been in a relationship like this before, and I don’t know how to handle it. «
    » What kind of relationship do you think we have? «
    » This kind. Don’t tell me you haven’t felt the weirdness here. We used to flirt, Granuaile, and now we can’t, because you’re my apprentice. «
    » You just got done telling me you’re not the sin police and celibacy is for people who hate themselves, and now you’re saying we can’t flirt? «
    » That’s correct. «
    » And you don’t see a contradiction there? «
    I shook my head. » Not at all. The student-teacher relationship is sacred. This is true across cultures and throughout history. «
    Granuaile scoffed. » You can’t be serious. People have messed around with their teachers forever, and vice versa. «
    » Yes, but at the sacrifice of the relationship. Teaching and learning cannot continue once you cross that line. I would feel pressured to go easy on you to save your feelings. Or I’d lower my standards to ensure your success. You’d wind up being a much less powerful Druid, and I don’t think either of us is the type to settle for mediocrity. So we cannot even get close to that line. «
    She looked away and down at her drink, carefully mastering her expression to be noncommittal. Perhaps she gave the barest nod of agreement. Whether she did or not, she wasn’t happy. That meant we were in trouble; she was having the same difficulty I was, but until then I hadn’t seen much sign of it from her. My neck twitched, and Granuaile’s might have as well. Guilt ferrets are bastards.
    › Atticus, something dead your way comes. ‹
    Is it Leif?
    › I don’t know. Can’t see him, but I caught a whiff of dead. Comes and goes. There it is again. Must be coming from the other side of the building. ‹
    I lifted my eyes to the bar’s entrance and saw Leif walk through, his hands thrust in his pockets as he casually scanned the seats for us. I held up a hand to attract his attention. He spotted me and tilted his chin upward to indicate he’d seen us. He didn’t move in our direction, though. Instead, he carefully scanned the rest of the room, seeking out traps or escape routes or perhaps other people. It awakened my own paranoia, and I began to look around as well.
    Oberon, do you still smell dead people?
    › No, it’s gone now. ‹
    According to what I saw in the magical spectrum, everyone in the bar was human except for Leif. Once we were both satisfied, he approached us.
    Granuaile had never met Leif—he was nocturnal, after all, and she tended to stay in her condo at night—so she had no way of knowing if he looked the same or not. But as he grew closer, I had to school my features not to reveal any of the horror I felt. Leif hadn’t recovered fully after all.

Chapter 17
    I could still recognize him easily—even from a distance in dim light—but up close his complexion had the consistency of a Play-Doh sculpture, lumpy and clumsily shaped with chubby fingers. His hair, once full and shining with undead lustre, lay lank and greasy against his head. Patches were missing; I’d salvaged only a few hairs in Asgard, so it was remarkable that it had even grown back in this much, but the effect was to make him look diseased.
    » I know I have looked better, Atticus, « he said, extending his hand to shake, »