Dark Debt (Chicagoland Vampires 11)
“I don’t remember feeling any magic, not going in. I did feel magic coming out of it, like I was being pushed through a tunnel. I felt that same sensation when Balthasar glamoured me in Ethan’s office. That tripped something, triggered some vampire sensibility. We think my immunity was actually a malfunction, that glamour is now affecting me the way it’s supposed to.”
Lindsey nodded. “Like when Celina kicked your ass and your senses fell into place.”
It wasn’t my finest moment as a fighter, but it was an important moment for me as a vampire. “Yeah, like that. I’m becoming a vampire in bits and damned pieces. And now, either because of what happened then or what happened in his room, or both, I’m extra sensitive to it. Morgan used glamour tonight, and I nearly lost it.”
“I would really like to have a few choice words with Balthasar.”
“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.”
“All that and a bag of chips,” she agreed, then jumped to her feet, and held out a hand to help me up, too.
“Thanks for the help.”
“No worries. Least I can do since you held back my hair during my last psychic barfathon.”
“I did do that,” I agreed. “Listen,” I said, toying the zipper on my jacket absently, “while we’re here, can I ask you a personal question?”
“Is it about my sex life?”
“I will never ask you a question about your sex life.”