The Props Master 1 Ritual RealityChapter 21 Summons
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The Props Master 1: Ritual RealityChapter 9: Special Delivery free porn video
Rebecca Hart Allen, PhD, Professor of Sociology. The name was on the door in bold black letters. Wayne could no longer delay the dreaded meeting. He had not been Dr. Allen’s favorite student last term and he found that genuinely regrettable. His grade point average showed as much. At least he didn’t have to base his chances for graduate school on that single pass/fail class. He was generally a good student and enjoyed school, which was unusual for people in theatre. But it hadn’t shown in Dr. Allen’s class.
Neither was his poor performance her fault. He slept through her classes. He deserved less than he got. She kept her end of the bargain, even though she said it was fraudulent research. He passed. Never again would he schedule a seven-thirty a.m. class. Sometimes theatre and school just didn’t mix.
He wouldn’t be in front of her door if it weren’t for the added work-study he’d been granted to help him earn money for the summer trip to England. Next fall they would pay him for his work as theatre technical director. This spring, however, he was nothing more than campus delivery boy. He considered leaving the package at Dr. Allen’s door, but Miss Peterson in the mail room had distinctly said, “Deliver in person. If she’s not there, wait.” It must be important. Maps, if he was any judge of what would come from New York in a five-foot tube that weighed this much.
He raised his hand to knock.
The door swung open just as Wayne’s fist started down and he narrowly missed punching Dr. Allen in the face. She ducked aside, scattering papers on the floor and flattened herself against the wall behind the door. Wayne dropped his package and then fell to his knees to gather the papers she had spilled, spluttering out his apologies as he scrambled around on the floor.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Allen,” he said. “I was just knocking. I’ll pick all this stuff up for you. I’m really sorry.” He raised his head to see the club in her hand being lowered to the floor. “Jesus,” he breathed. “I mean, I’m sorry, Dr. Allen. Really.”
She was medium in build and height, but she dominated a room. She was an attractive—Wayne guessed—thirty-five or so. He’d heard she was the youngest department chair ever at the university. Even when he had been awake in her classes he was afraid to ask questions. She was skittish around people and quick-tempered when faced with indolence. Wayne had heard stories more horrific than his own. They said she had been attacked on campus a couple of times. With the recent antiwar demonstrations, he understood a little of why she kept her door locked, even when she was in. He knew a massive demonstration was planned for the weekend. She saw students only in her classroom or by appointment.
As she lowered the stick to the floor, Wayne could only pity anyone who tried to attack her. She always carried that stick or had it leaning against the wall behind the podium in her classroom. No. You’d have to be a fool to tangle with this woman.
“Well, Mr. Hamel?” asked the professor. “To what do I owe the surprise of this visit? Pipe bomb from the student liberation front?” She still didn’t set the stick aside, making Wayne more nervous than he had been.
“Delivery, Dr. Allen,” he said. He felt very young and foolish in her presence. “Miss Peterson said to deliver this in person.” He laid the papers on the desk and picked up the cardboard tube to hand to her. “I figured it must be pretty important.”
“Thank you,” said Dr. Allen.
“Is there anything I can do for you while I’m here?” Wayne asked cautiously. “I mean, like, something to be delivered to someone else? That’s my job, you know.”
“Yes, I am aware of your function,” said Dr. Allen. “If you can stay a few minutes, I need some exhibits taken to Good Hall. I was afraid it would take me two trips.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said.
“And do get up off the floor, Mr. Hamel. It’s not necessary to kneel to me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he scrambled to his feet, cracking his head painfully on the desk in the process. Dr. Allen had the envelope torn from the tube and graciously didn’t notice. Wayne glanced around the room at the array of relics on the shelves. One set of shelves was filled with figurines of women—some stone, some china or ivory, some wood. In the midst of these stood two goblets. One was pewter and the other silver in a brass stem. Both were heavily decorated. It was a bizarre collection. He turned to ask Dr. Allen about the collection of old “dolls.”
Rebecca Allen sat with a wooden staff in her hands, the cardboard tube discarded. The note lay on the desk in front of her. Her shoulders were shaking in sobs. Wayne stood on the opposite side of the desk, stunned at the sight. He was concerned about Dr. Allen, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the walking stick. It was so familiar—so charged with power. He tore his eyes away and looked at the weeping professor.
“Mrs ... Dr. Allen,” he said. “Are you all right? Is there something I can do?”
“No,” she answered. “Nothing.” She searched around on the desk until she found an empty tissue box then swore beneath her breath as she pitched it into her waste basket. For once in his life, Wayne’s timing was impeccable as he offered a clean handkerchief to her. She took it with quiet thanks and wiped her eyes.
When she looked up, the boy was gone. She sat still in her chair, gently stroking the length of the worn old walking stick. She read, again, the note in front of her.
Dear Rebecca, I’m penning this note at Phillip’s request. He’s nearly blind and so weak that writing is impossible. I can’t tell you how worried I am about him. I’m not even certain he is being coherent in the message he has asked me to write. You will have to be the judge of that. He insists it is imperative that you receive his walking stick.A couple of weeks ago, we sat in his study as a storm raged outside. The lights went out. Phillip was muttering beneath his breath and I leaned closer to hear what he was saying. From his perspective, I could see his staff leaning near the fireplace. I don’t know how to say this, but I swear that it began to glow. We were suddenly hit by a massive bolt of lightning that deafened me. The wood in the fireplace leapt into flames. This is true, as certainly as I am writing it. Now Phillip won’t rest until I’ve sent you his walking stick.
In all the years that I have known him, he has never parted with it for more than a weekend, and then not without duress. I think he believes the fire was a sign of some sort—perhaps that he is dying.
William is waiting to take this to the post. Please come and visit soon. Bring Serepte.
Love, Margaret
“Please Doc, don’t die,” Rebecca whispered. That would make this whole mess unbearable. She knew what he must be going through. Her own staff was inseparable from her. And this which the famed explorer had carried with him for over three decades would mean so much more. It held so much of the man’s personality—perhaps had created so much of him—that she could almost speak to it and expect Doc to answer. Perhaps seeing the fire leap once more from Iäpetus was a sign. She knew he had seen the rod call fire once before, when it was placed in his hands the first time. This was, after all, the Second Face of Carles. She and The Swordmaster had called it to life just two weeks ago at the equinox.
There was a soft knock at the door. Rebecca looked up to see the student messenger once again. He held a glass of water in his hand and offered it to her. Rebecca smiled.
“Mr. Hamel. How very gallant of you,” she said. “A glass of water and a clean pressed handkerchief for a lady in distress. Chivalry is not dead. Thank you.”
He shifted a little from foot to foot.
“My dad said that the mark of a gentleman was to always carry an extra handkerchief. You never know when it might be needed.”
Rebecca looked at him. About twenty, she estimated—perhaps twenty-one. Ragged blue jeans and a shirt that looked like a paint rag. His hair was shoulder length and his beard had never been trimmed. There was a twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth and finally she burst out laughing. Wayne smiled, too, a little unsure if he had made a joke or was one; and not really caring. She was a pretty woman when she smiled. What he had seen in the past few minutes had shown that she was not totally invulnerable.
“Thank you, Mr. Hamel. You have brightened a gloomy day,” she laughed. “I wish I had seen that side of you while you were in my class.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Allen. It wasn’t that I don’t like cultural anthropology. It’s just ... well, I got what I deserved,” he admitted.
“Oh, you got better than you deserved,” she said. “I did enjoy your performance in Hamlet, however.”
“You saw the show?”
“Oh yes,” she answered. “If I am going to get up at the ungodly hour of five o’clock and spend my morning lecturing to a zombie, there had better be a trade-off.”
“Did you sleep through the performance?” Wayne asked, almost hopefully.
“No. You were far too loud.”
She turned her focus from the boy again and back to the walking stick lying across her lap. Stroking it once gently, she laid it on her credenza. “Hang in there, Doc. We need you,” she whispered. She turned back to see Wayne staring at the staff again. She needed to get this moving.
Rebecca picked up her own red walking stick and the armload of papers that Wayne had gathered for her. She pointed at the box next to her desk. “This is the heavy box, if you would be so kind.” He lifted the box and went out the door. She paused to lock it and led him down the hall and out of the building.
“We’re going to England with it, you know,” he said conversationally. She looked at him curiously.
“Antecedent, Mr. Hamel?”
“What?”
“It what?”
“Oh. It, Hamlet, the production. We’ve been invited to tour England,” he explained.
“A bit like carrying coals to Newcastle, isn’t it?”
“Why argue? We get to go to England this summer and that’s what counts.”
“Yes, I suppose it makes sense in that light. It appears that I may get to go to England this summer, myself.”
“You go there a lot, don’t you?” She looked at him sternly. Why would he think that? “Are you taking one of the slots in the show?”
“No. I didn’t know there were any ‘slots’ available.” It was an interesting thought, though. She filed the information away to be considered later. “I simply need to return an item to its makers,” she said sadly.
“That staff you just got. Dr. Allen, is that ... I mean, it just looks like ... That’s it, isn’t it?”
Rebecca was alert and cautious. He’d written about the staff in his term paper in December. Had he made the connection? Did he have any reason to suspect this was it? Could there have been a picture?
“I’d rather not discuss the staff,” she said abruptly. “It belongs to my daughter’s godfather. He’s very ill.”
“I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do...” He left the sentence unfinished. “I mean, if you’d like me to help cart all this junk back to your office after your lecture tonight, I’d be happy to.” He plopped the box down on the podium in the lecture hall.
“This junk, if you have not just broken it, happens to be artifacts of the Inca Indians,” she said. “But I am a bit nervous about being out alone lately. Will you stay for the lecture?”
“I, uh...”
“Don’t need a nap tonight? I see,” she smiled.
“That’s not it,” he rushed. “I’m supposed to work in the scene shop tonight. I’d love to hear the lecture, really.” She laughed again.
“That’s considerably more enthusiasm than you showed for it last term,” she was saying through her laughter. He laughed with her. “But I really shouldn’t tease you like that. You’ve been a great help and a perfect gentleman this afternoon. I want you to know I appreciate it.”
“You want me back then?” he asked.
“Class is out at a quarter after nine. It will take me ten or fifteen minutes to pack it all up and then I could certainly use your help if it is not too inconvenient.”
“I’ll be here at 9:30,” he said quickly. “See you later, Dr. Allen.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hamel.” The boy was gone in a flash. Lord, what a charmer. But why the curiosity about the staff? Rebecca began unloading the box and setting the artifacts out on display, forgetting him with the thought. Tears once again fell from her eyes as she worked.
Rebecca was nearly finished packing the displays when he came running through the door of the lecture hall with his wet, stringy hair stuck to his face and neck. He’d stopped to shower and change into clean clothes before he came to help the professor.
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