Avalon's Last Knight

by Jackson C. Garton

  I should probably text her, apologize for acting like a huge dick all the time. No one deserves that. She doesn’t deserve it.

  Because Gwen is my ride or die. My rock.

  Gwen is my soulmate—and I don’t mean that in a romantic sense of the word. She’s just the type of person who will get in the face of a homophobe at a right-wing rally, someone who would drive three hours in a raging snowstorm just to have a cup of coffee with you, someone who would legit stare death in the face, on your deathbed, and say fucking try me.

  I turn around and glance over my shoulder. Arthur and Gwen are discussing something, and Tammy is staring at the phone in her hand. I bet Tammy is the same type of person. They both share a similar kind of energy. I should probably apologize to her as well. God knows I need all the allies I can get at the moment. Maybe I’ll ask Arthur if she has a Facebook, send her a message. Not right now, but maybe later.

  I don’t know why I’m such an asshole all the time. I hate feeling like this.

  I find a spot on the warm sidewalk and take a seat, but it’s so hot outside that I find it difficult to get comfortable. Maybe leaving the store was a mistake, maybe I should just go back inside.

  “Hey!” a voice calls out from across the street, and I whip my head around, only to see Morgan and Mordy standing on the other side of the road, bags of candy in each hand.

  “I’ll be damned,” I say to myself and get up from the concrete ground. “Hey, y’all! What’s up?”

  The two clad-in-white siblings cross the street and greet me with smiles and waves. I envy the way they look cool without even trying—Mordy’s dreads are pulled into a single knot, and his sister’s are fashioned into buns, one on each side of her head. It’s not even so much the way they dress or how they look, but rather how they carry themselves. Tall and proud, completely oblivious to the outside world. A string of baby’s breath in a bouquet full of black hydrangeas.

  “Mordy, right?” I ask, extending my hand cautiously, hoping that a handshake is not a personal affront to Morgan. “And Morgan, was it?”

  Morgan laughs and takes my hand with vigor. “Yeah, Morgan Lafayette. We’re siblings. And I’d like to apologize for the other night!” she says. “I wasn’t really feeling being around so many white witches, if you get my drift.” Her eyebrow rises when she says the word ‘white’. “This place is wild, though.” Morgan gestures to the block with her hand. “I don’t see how you remain sane. Everyone just—”

  “Stares at you,” all three of us say, simultaneously. Boisterous laughter follows, and I immediately feel completely at ease with these outsiders. Maybe it’s because I’ve always felt like an outsider myself, or maybe it’s something else, I can’t tell.

  “So what do you do around here other than hang out at loud parties with terrible music and shitty weed?” Mordy asks. He holds out his bag of candy and I stick my hand inside, grabbing a few pieces. “Are you a witch?” He gestures to the black jewel and Magic 8-Ball charm hanging from my neck.

  The way he’s looking at me with enormous green eyes full of curiosity reminds me of Arthur, and it doesn’t make me uncomfortable necessarily, but it does make me self-aware of how I’m put together this morning. I didn’t expect to run into anyone other than Gwen. I bet I look like a walking pile of wrinkled denim and black leather.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve been practicing witchcraft since I was a small child. How about you two?”

  Mordy puts his arm around his sister and says, “Santería, which is why we’re dressed like ghosts.”

  “Santería?” Last year I took an anthropology class on world religions, and while most of it had been whitewashed, ethnocentric bullshit, some of it had been interesting, like brujería. I recall liking aspects of Santería, too. “Like Cuban witchcraft, or whatever?” I say.

  “Afro-Cuban witchcraft,” Morgan corrects me politely. “Spiritual aspects from both of our peoples, you feel me?”

  “Does that freak you out?” Mordy asks, his tone playful and airy.

  I look up at him. His silver tooth glitters in the sunlight, adding to his unyielding composure, and I shift my sunglasses down ever so slightly, revealing my golden irises.

  “Are you cool with curses and evil eyes, that kinda shit?” I ask.

  Mordy and Morgan exchange looks. “We are totally cool with that kinda shit,” Morgan replies. “And then some.” She winks at me.

  Black magick. Dark magick. Forbidden magick.

  I look down at my phone and see that I have four missed texts from Arthur. One text apologizing for Tammy’s behavior, another regarding hanging out tonight. I don’t read the other two because I need to sort through my feelings and put a cap on them before I end up doing something really stupid, or saying something I regret.

  “Why don’t you text me your number?” Mordy asks. Morgan is already halfway across the road when I realize that it’s just the two of us.

  “Really?” I say, surprised that he would want anything to do with me.

  “Yeah, really.” Mordy pulls out his phone and taps mine with it. “Unless you’re scared, that is.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “Practicin’ magick with a couple of weirdos from out west.”

  Much like Arthur, Mordy commands your attention when he’s speaking, so much that you don’t want him to stop, and I like his accent, his manner of speaking. He’s a really cool dude.

  A dimple forms in each cheek and he beams at me. I think he’s flirting with me, but I don’t know why, not when my hair is sticking to my face and I’m covered in sweat from the heat.

  “I ain’t scared of nothin’,” I say. “You’re the one who’s messin’ with Brown holler magick.”

  Mordy grins and replies, “Brown holler magick. Now that’s the kinda shit I’m looking for.”

  Chapter Four

  Le Morte D’Arthur

  When I got called into work this morning, I didn’t expect to be working by myself or pulling a double. Emmett has got the most incompetent fucking people working here. I actually don’t know how he manages to keep any staff, or how Emmett gets anything done.

  Who counts the inventory? Who unloads the inventory? Who stocks the inventory?

  Unless he knows how to make a broom sprout arms, I don’t see how things get done behind the scenes. Emmett can’t upload a picture to Facebook—how could he possibly juggle scheduling people who simply don’t show up for work when it’s their turn? I honestly don’t think he’s ever fired anyone, either. Everyone just gets fed up and leaves on their own, except for maybe Caspian, but that’s because Caspian thinks he’s a wizard or something.

  Truly mind-boggling.

  Next to Saturday afternoon, Tuesday is our busiest day of the week. From sunup to sundown we have grannies coming through that door with clipped coupons from the newspaper, and Boy Scouts buying up all the construction paper to make things like paper cranes for patients in the hospital. It’s nearly seven o’clock now, and I don’t think I’ve sat down since I took a five-minute break right before it got busy again, around noon or so.

  I’m exhausted and hungry because I forgot to eat this morning, and ended up eating the peanut butter sandwich from my packed lunch for breakfast. The bag of potato chips got me through the afternoon rush, but now I’m ravenous, ready to eat anything.

  After I’ve finished counting the money in the register, the bell above the door rings, signaling the last customers of the evening—hopefully, anyway. I’m not exactly sure how to close the store, because Emmett is usually the one who handles that type of stuff—this is only my second time doing it—but I figure it couldn’t hurt to keep track of how much money I made today. Besides, I like math, and I’m good at it.

  “Good evening,” I say, still on my knees, trying to remember the goddamn safe combination. “I’ll be with you in a second!” I would normally just text Emmett, but I have no idea where he is, or what he’s doing, or if he even knows how to use a smartphone.

  “T
ake your time,” a familiar voice says. “We’re in no rush.”

  I pop my head over the counter, only to see Mordy and Morgan perusing the small selection of clay bowls we have stacked at the front of the store. Mordy picks up a red bowl and turns it over. Morgan shakes her head at him, and he puts it back where he found it.

  “Anything I can help you with?” I ask. “Are you looking for a specific type of bowl?”

  “84183,” Morgan says, taking a small break from the milkshake in her hand.

  “Huh?” I ask, stupidly. “84183?”

  “The safe,” she replies. “Try it.”

  I do as she says, and the safe clicks, then opens. She walks over to where I am and peers over the counter. “Was I right?”

  “How did you do that?”

  “Nothin’ special. We’re all witches here,” she says. “Some of us are just more attuned to our environments, that’s all.”

  Morgan and Mordy are dressed in white again, but this time Morgan is wearing a sleeveless crop top and a pair of skinny jeans. Like Mordy, her hair is pulled into a knot today, and sitting atop the mound of dreads is a pair of large white-framed sunglasses. Her fashion sense is on point.

  I’m not into women like that—never have been—but I am certain that every time she walks past a hot-blooded hetero male, her soft curves turn heads. Gwen would stop dead in her tracks, I know that much. Mordy’s wearing a tight T-shirt that hugs every part of his arms and upper torso, and a pair of off-white chinos.

  His butt looks really good in the pants. Really good.

  “Lance,” Mordy says, breaking the spell I’ve found myself under. I blush and quickly meet his eyes, acutely aware that I’ve just been staring at his ass for God knows how long. The smile on his face indicates that either he doesn’t care or didn’t see me staring at him. I hope it’s the latter, rather than the former. “Morgan said you might be hungry.” He reaches into his shoulder bag and withdraws a damaged box of oatmeal cream pies—my favorite snack food—and I’m certain that if the box were given to me, I would eat every cake. “So we stopped at a gas station on the way here,” he says. “This was the only box they had.”

  When he pulls out three bottles of Yoo-hoo, I gape at the both of them. Yoo-hoos are what I drink when I’m feeling stressed out or depressed. Something about the watery chocolate goodness just gets to me.

  “Thank you,” I say, accepting the gifts with caution. “But how? Why? Are you a psychic?”

  Morgan laughs. “I prefer soothsayer, but yes, I am blessed with the gift of sight.”

  I gawk at the food in my arms. My stomach growls loudly in response to the cream-filled cookies I’m carrying, and I find the two of them staring down at me.

  “Look, I know we don’t know each other,” Morgan says. “And I was a huge bitch when we first met. I’m sorry for that, it was entirely my bad. But the three of us share the same vibe. Our energy is the same. I know you feel it.” Her eyes search mine, anxiously awaiting my response.

  What she says is true. I do feel it, like some intangible magnetic force is constantly drawing me toward these two—but part of me is afraid to embrace it. Just looking at them pulls at something inside of me, some latent darkness that I’ve always known was there, but tried to hide. Sleeping nephilim just waiting to be summoned.

  “Why don’t we get together tomorrow?” Mordy asks. “We can get coffee. Or lunch. Whatever’s good for you, Lance.”

  Morgan nods, then slowly shakes her head a moment later. “Wait. You know what, scratch that—I can’t. I have to witness a santiguó with Tío Myrddin, and I have no idea how long that’ll take. Mordred,” she says, turning to her brother, “why don’t you two get together instead?”

  “Your name is Mordred,” I interrupt, looking at Mordy, both of my hands now suspended in the air. “And your uncle’s name is Myrddin?”

  Morgana. Myrddin. Mordred. Lancelot. Arthur. Gwenhyvfar. Avalon.

  For better or for worse, we are all connected.

  There’s no way this is purely coincidental. If I tell Gwen—and that’s a big if—she won’t be able to rationalize her way out of this. Legends that once were are no more, because they’re being retold right before our eyes.

  “Okay,” I say, finally. “I can do coffee tomorrow before my shift starts, if that’s all right. Does nine work for you?”

  Morgan smiles at me and takes my hand. “We are going to learn so much from one another. You just wait and see. I thought this summer was going to be so fucking boring.”

  Her touch makes my skin prickle, but it isn’t an unpleasant feeling necessarily, more like the feeling you get right before you sneeze.

  Morgan and I exchange phone numbers and say goodbye.

  As the twins exit the store, Emmett passes them, walking through the doorway. Morgan suddenly hisses at my boss, and Mordy rubs his hands back and forth vigorously. I’m not entirely sure what’s happening, but the room suddenly grows dark and it feels like I just walked into a meat freezer.

  “Get out of my store!” Emmett says, crossing his forehead, mouth and chest with his thumb, his gray breath detectable in the darkness. “This is no place for your kind.”

  “Vete a la mierda.” Fuck off.

  Mordred takes a step in front of his sister as if to protect her, and pushes her behind his back so that he’s completely blocking her way. “I will snap your goddamn neck like a twig, old man,” Mordred says. “You’d better watch yourself, juramentos.” Oathbreaker.

  “Lance.” Emmett calls out my name, now pulling me into the situation. “You are not to let these two back into my store. Do you understand me?”

  Morgan spits at Emmett. “Don’t worry, you geriatric piece of shit. We won’t be back.” She then looks my way, fashioning a phone out of her thumb and pinky. “Lance, a pleasure always. Give me a ring whenever.”

  Mordred is visibly too angry to speak, and Morgan has to drag him by the arm out of the store. I still have no idea what just happened. When Morgan and her brother pass the large window up front, she makes a gesture with her hand, and the overhead lights blink once, then every bulb in the store bursts in the air like glass confetti. I cower beneath the counter, next to the safe, my hands gripping the sides of my head.

  “Lance, you may go home.” Emmett’s voice is off. “There’s no need for you to stay.”

  “But, Mr. Crabtree,” I say. “The glass.”

  Emmett puts up one hand. “No worries. I can clean it myself. Just be careful when you leave.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, surveying the floor that is now covered in glass shards. “I don’t mind.”

  Emmett waves and locks the door behind me. Arthur had offered to give Gwen and me a ride home tonight after work, but her shift doesn’t end until the store closes at eight o’clock, so that means I still have a little over a half an hour to fart around and do nothing.

  I find a seat on the still-warm sidewalk and pull out my phone. For the last hour or so, Arthur has been texting me, sending memes and silly animal gifs. I guess I was so caught up in the madness that I didn’t register the buzzing in my back pocket. The last text asks if I have any plans this evening, followed by a picture of him holding up a video game controller and a slice of veggie pizza.

  Before I can respond to the multitude of texts, Arthur’s truck pulls up out front.

  “Hey,” he yells out the passenger window. I get up from my spot and walk over to meet him. He turns off the truck. “What are you doing?” he asks. “I thought you had to close the craft store tonight.”

  The passenger window is already rolled down, so I lean my elbows on the metal frame and shake my head. “Not tonight,” I say. “Some folks came in the store, caused a bit of a scene with the owner, and he sent me home early.”

  “What kind of scene? Are you okay?” Arthur is always worried that something bad has happened to me, or is going to happen to me. He slides across the bench seat and scans my bare arms, clearly amazed by the lack of injuries I should have
suffered, but didn’t.

  It was almost as if I had been protected somehow from the violent display of power, but suggesting these two strangers might have created a magickal barrier could add some unnecessary speculation that I just don’t want to deal with at the moment.

  “Did you know the customers?” he asks.

  “No, I’m fine, and kinda? Two kids I met at Gwen’s party.”

  Talking about Mordy and Morgan with Arthur feels almost like a betrayal, and I’m not quite sure why, because I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not the one responsible for upsetting Emmett, or the layer of broken glass now lining the countertops and floor, and I’m not sure he’d fully understand the importance of their names—Mordred and Morgan Lafayette.

  “What happened, exactly?” Arthur asks.

  Emmett had said ‘Your kind’. But I’m not sure if he was being a huge racist, or if he was talking about witchcraft. Or both. Emmett Crabtree has been my boss off and on for the past five years, and if he’s racist or prejudiced toward people of color, it’s news to me. He’s spacey and doesn’t know how to delegate tasks, but he’s never treated me differently, so I choose my words carefully.

  “They were leaving the store, and Emmett was walking into the store. After they passed one another he told them to get out, then told me they weren’t allowed in the store ever again, and they left.”

  “Did he send you home early because you knew them?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I say. “Once they were outside, the lights flickered immediately and then every bulb in the store shattered.”

  “Holy shit,” Arthur replies. “That’s super intense. Are they witches?”

  “Yes? But it’s more complicated than that. Morgan and Mordy are Santería initiates, I think.”

  “What’s Santería?”

  I don’t feel like giving Arthur a lecture on world religions at the moment, and instead offer him a bottle of Yoo-hoo. “A form of witchcraft. Just Google it,” I say. He takes the bottle, puts it in the cup holder and returns to the window, pulling me close. I barely have time to close my side bag, his actions are so fast.