Rupert didn’t say anything.
“You think getting onto this team is the best way to get your dad off your back. Well, not anymore.” Bartlett retraced his steps to his seat. “I’m not kicking you off the team. You’re too good for that. I need you.” Relaxing in his chair, he steepled his fingers together. “I’m calling your father as soon as you leave. I’ll tell him about your breach of the rules, and what he does to you after that is none of my business.”
“It won’t be necessary. I’ll explain—”
“Oh yes, you’re going to do a lot of explaining from now on. Every week until the end of the season, you’ll send a report on your performances via email to your father, with a copy to me.”
That wasn’t the sanction Rupert had expected. The sacking hatch would have been more humane.
The expression on the coach’s face softened. A very rare occurrence. “Besides, I think it’s time for you and your father to bury the hatchet. It’s been four years since Laura passed away. She wouldn’t want the two of you being at odds all the time.”
Reporting to his father, interacting with him every week, was a version of purgatory custom-made for Rupert.
Chapter 17
ON THE OTHER SIDE of his desk Jackson froze, his eyebrow arched, his eyes unblinking.
Madison’s confession justified such reaction, she had to give him that. Throwing balls of fire at cloaked figures, right in the middle of Oxford, didn’t happen every day.
Leaving her tutor to get his head around the curiosities of her life, she took a sip from her mug of coffee. As her fingers encircled the warm cup and her tongue savored the syrupy, hazelnut flavor, she closed her eyes.
Her head was heavy from last night’s one too many whiskey and Cokes, and wobbled on her neck. The music from the Christmas party still rang in her ears. Trying to relax, she slouched in her chair.
After finding Rupert in a saliva exchange with his bitchy girlfriend, Madison had escaped the party and run back through Jericho’s narrow streets. Her instinct screamed at her to keep her skinny butt as far as academically possible from Earl Boy’s clutches.
Yes, she felt excited each time he towered over her, each time she tilted her chin upward and stared into his eyes. Even the scent of his clothes turned her on. But Rupert Vance was a male slut, an elegant highborn slut but a slut nevertheless. She should not get close to him.
“This has never happened to you before?”
Jackson’s East Coast accent brought Madison back to the present. Had it happened to her before? Euh, surely she would remember knocking off strangers by firing at them with her fingertips.
“Never.”
Jackson made his comfy leather seat swivel and steepled his fingers together. “You realize that what happened takes the range of your powers”—he emphasized that last word— “to a brand-new level. We’re not talking about just telepathic or psychic abilities here.” He seemed pleased, as if she’d been his prized pupil in this venture as well as in her scholarly ones.
Madison gave him a hesitant nod. She wasn’t sure she should be elated, as her tutor obviously was, or appalled by the new range of complications. “What do you think it means?” She feared his answer.
“We’re leaving the sphere of parapsychology, the ability you have to connect with the thoughts of others, or at least the dead. We are moving into another domain entirely …” He left his sentence unfinished.
“What kind of domain?”
“Telekinesis … or something similar to it. You’re able to mobilize fields of energy and direct them with a specific purpose. Has anyone else in your family mentioned having such ability?” He looked at her as if he were an entomologist examining a new type of bug.
Madison shook her head. She knew about her ancestors, about voodooism, about talking to the dead, concocting curses, prayers and potions. But the fireball-bowl thingie … never heard of it.
“Does anything
“You think getting onto this team is the best way to get your dad off your back. Well, not anymore.” Bartlett retraced his steps to his seat. “I’m not kicking you off the team. You’re too good for that. I need you.” Relaxing in his chair, he steepled his fingers together. “I’m calling your father as soon as you leave. I’ll tell him about your breach of the rules, and what he does to you after that is none of my business.”
“It won’t be necessary. I’ll explain—”
“Oh yes, you’re going to do a lot of explaining from now on. Every week until the end of the season, you’ll send a report on your performances via email to your father, with a copy to me.”
That wasn’t the sanction Rupert had expected. The sacking hatch would have been more humane.
The expression on the coach’s face softened. A very rare occurrence. “Besides, I think it’s time for you and your father to bury the hatchet. It’s been four years since Laura passed away. She wouldn’t want the two of you being at odds all the time.”
Reporting to his father, interacting with him every week, was a version of purgatory custom-made for Rupert.
Chapter 17
ON THE OTHER SIDE of his desk Jackson froze, his eyebrow arched, his eyes unblinking.
Madison’s confession justified such reaction, she had to give him that. Throwing balls of fire at cloaked figures, right in the middle of Oxford, didn’t happen every day.
Leaving her tutor to get his head around the curiosities of her life, she took a sip from her mug of coffee. As her fingers encircled the warm cup and her tongue savored the syrupy, hazelnut flavor, she closed her eyes.
Her head was heavy from last night’s one too many whiskey and Cokes, and wobbled on her neck. The music from the Christmas party still rang in her ears. Trying to relax, she slouched in her chair.
After finding Rupert in a saliva exchange with his bitchy girlfriend, Madison had escaped the party and run back through Jericho’s narrow streets. Her instinct screamed at her to keep her skinny butt as far as academically possible from Earl Boy’s clutches.
Yes, she felt excited each time he towered over her, each time she tilted her chin upward and stared into his eyes. Even the scent of his clothes turned her on. But Rupert Vance was a male slut, an elegant highborn slut but a slut nevertheless. She should not get close to him.
“This has never happened to you before?”
Jackson’s East Coast accent brought Madison back to the present. Had it happened to her before? Euh, surely she would remember knocking off strangers by firing at them with her fingertips.
“Never.”
Jackson made his comfy leather seat swivel and steepled his fingers together. “You realize that what happened takes the range of your powers”—he emphasized that last word— “to a brand-new level. We’re not talking about just telepathic or psychic abilities here.” He seemed pleased, as if she’d been his prized pupil in this venture as well as in her scholarly ones.
Madison gave him a hesitant nod. She wasn’t sure she should be elated, as her tutor obviously was, or appalled by the new range of complications. “What do you think it means?” She feared his answer.
“We’re leaving the sphere of parapsychology, the ability you have to connect with the thoughts of others, or at least the dead. We are moving into another domain entirely …” He left his sentence unfinished.
“What kind of domain?”
“Telekinesis … or something similar to it. You’re able to mobilize fields of energy and direct them with a specific purpose. Has anyone else in your family mentioned having such ability?” He looked at her as if he were an entomologist examining a new type of bug.
Madison shook her head. She knew about her ancestors, about voodooism, about talking to the dead, concocting curses, prayers and potions. But the fireball-bowl thingie … never heard of it.
“Does anything
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