Necrophobia by Mark Devaney Page B

of empty plates and mugs congregating around him. The strain of today had evidently given him a ravenous appetite. The world beyond his desk might as well have not existed, he was unaware of Claire’s approach.
    “I thought I’d find you here. What are you doing?” She asked sitting down opposite him on the table.
    He didn’t respond for several heartbeats until he shook himself out of his trance.
    “My apologies.” He looked up and adjusted his spectacles. He seemed far older now; even in the dim lighting he looked ancient and exhausted. His skin pale and almost translucent; the after-effects of his powerful magic left him drained and withered. Dark rings circled his drooping eyes magnified by the spectacles. “Making notes. I know nothing of this ‘Valdgeirr’ — the dragon Haures slew.”
    Claire nodded, noticing the lack of pen and paper around him. He was instead surrounded by half-opened dusty books and stone-cold mugs of tea, steam rose from a fresh one.
    “I see you’re feeling better. I didn’t get a chance to explain — Sister Elisa rules that hospital with an iron fist.” A faint smile crossed his thin-lips.
    “Aches a bit, but I’m not dead so I can’t complain. Thanks by the way.”
    “Least I could do, you helped a foolish old man running in alone like he’s thirty years younger. Could have done with someone like you back then.” He placed his open hand on the table and the warm mug of tea flew towards his outstretched fingers. He drank deep and shook his head. “You did very well in fact, especially without magic.”
    She shrugged, feeling a little irritated by the implication. “Lots of people don’t use magic. It’s dangerous and unreliable.”
    “Forgive my impertinence.” His weathered hands raised in defence. “Magical ability tends to be inherited; you can use magic but you don’t. Neither are you one of those unfortunate few that are immune to and incapable of magic. I find that unusual.”
    Claire frowned and chose her next words with care. “I’ve never needed magic, I manage without it.”
    “Certainly you do. However, magic is a tool as much as a knife, or an arrow. You’ve enough wisdom about you to use the correct tool for a job and it’s unusual you would discount perhaps the most valuable tool of all. If you so wished I am sure you could succeed.”
    “I tried. I did but every time I tried I… why are you so interested anyway?” She leaned back on the hard wooden chair, the cushions worn thin with age and folded her arms. “I don’t need to explain myself. You’ve been keeping secrets this whole time — you’re lying about taking notes as well.”
    “I’ve lived a life of secrecy and I cannot change who I am now and for that, I apologise.” He sat back, his shoulders slumped and he sagged looking hurt by her accusations. “I may have withheld information but I have never lied to you.”
    “And your note-taking?”
    “When I was young and filled with zeal and idealism I experimented with magic my knowledge out-pacing my wisdom. I was frustrated I couldn’t remember every important detail I learnt so I devised a spell to improve my recall. I was successful and that’s where the problem lies — now I’m incapable of forgetting anything.”
    “Sounds useful.”
    “I was naive and thought it would be a fantastic idea. Your mind protects you by allowing you to forget that which is unpleasant or useless and to clear your thoughts. I denied myself any such protection and it’s taken its toll on me.” He rubbed his eyes and stared into the distance for a while.
    “Can’t you reverse the spell?”
    “The results would be catastrophic. I’ve no idea what memory would be lost, what damage I could do to my already weary brain. It’s too late for that now.” He sighed. “I’ve taken an interest in you because you remind me of Eleanor. I remember her as if it was only yesterday and in perfect detail and I think in some ways I owe her.”
    A bitter