“Fair enough. Carry on.”
“It’s about being called . . . ” I paused, gathering my thoughts. “It really sucked, Lindsey. Balthasar was in my head, and there was nothing good or comforting about it. It was manipulation, pure and simple, and in the most fundamental way.” I frowned. “I guess my question is this: If there are ways to fight it, why do any Novitiates let their Masters do it?”
She looked saddened by the question, which made me feel like a freak for having asked.
“Because immortality is a long time, Merit. Humans and empires will come and go in that time. Sorcerers and shifters will come and go,” she added quietly, and I refused to think about the implications of that statement. I refused to consider the possibility my beloved humans, shifters, and sorcerers wouldn’t be around forever.
“That’s the crappy part of our reality,” she continued. “But your connection with your Master? It’s there as long as you’re alive. A wisp of flame in the darkness. You’re never alone. Not really.” She tilted her head at me. “Didn’t you notice when Ethan was gone? I mean, in your head?”
How could I separate that? I’d felt his loss utterly and in so many ways—emotionally, physically, psychically. Yes, I knew he wasn’t there any longer, but his sudden absence had been devastating, the mental silence only one small sliver of it.
“I was grieving,” I said. “I don’t know that I could separate it out.”
She nodded. “I get that. Actually, now that I think about it, I wonder why Ethan didn’t sense Balthasar out there somewhere.”
“Maybe he did,” I said. “He’s never said that he didn’t.”
But we still looked at each other, added that fact to the growing list of concerns about this man we’d called Balthasar, a man who was powerful enough to call our Master and invade my brain, and brave enough to glamour humans in the middle of downtown Chicago.
o;You’d have to get in line. Ethan’s first.”
She nodded. “So, back to this particular instance, it’s not that Balthasar was literally in your head, right? And you weren’t actually in some other room. It’s more like there’s a”—she paused, clearly thinking of the right phrase—“joint psychic space. A psychic spot he’s pulled you into.”
I nodded. “I tried to put up walls—mental blocks. They didn’t help much.”
She nodded. “Unless you’re an amazingly strong psych—top one percent—mental blocks aren’t going to work against that kind of glamour.”
“What if he tries to pull me into a joint psychic space again?”
“Well, first, you remember it’s a metaphysical construct, not a real thing.”
“But he hurt me. Slapped me and left a mark.” The reminder made my cheek sing sympathetically.
“Psychic wounds have physical manifestations,” she said. “Just because he connects with you psychically doesn’t mean there’s no physical effect. But remember—it’s still glamour. He can’t really force you into that psychic space—not physically anyway. But he’ll try to convince you he can. That’s what glamour’s all about, after all. And second, if he gets you in there, you let it ride.”
“I let it ride?”
She nodded. “Have you ever ridden a bus, and there’s no seats left, so you have to try to stand up in the middle, hold on to one of those ‘oh shit’ straps?”
“Uh, sure,” I said, just deciding to go along for the metaphorical ride.
“Well, to stay upright, you have to be fluid. If you lock your knees, you’ll tip right over. But if you keep your legs loose”—she hopped to her feet, waved her arms snakishly—“you’ll stay upright. You can’t just ride the bus. You have to ride the bus.”
“Okay.”
“Glamour’s like that. Your instinct will be to fight—to put up mental blocks. For most vampires, that won’t work. You have to keep your knees loose and ride it out.”
“Ride it out,” I murmured, thinking suddenly of a late night last April, when I’d first met Celina. She’d tried to intimidate me, but I was still naive to her power, and I let her magic flow right around me. That had managed to piss her off, which made the effect doubly fun.
“I’ve kind of done that before,” I said, and told her the story. “But even then, casual magic didn’t affect me this way. This is overwhelming, even the light stuff. Even the stuff not directed at me.”
She nodded. “I think the strategy would still be the same. You’re standing on the bus, or floating through waves, or whatever analogy you prefer. But you let it ride over you, flow past you. Let the magic move in and out, across you, without actually touching you.”
“Lot of metaphors,” I pointed out.
She grinned, chucked me on the shoulder. “You’re the lit student.”
“And you’re a Yankees fan and the daughter of the pork king of Dubuque.”