by Joy Nash
He started to hum, adding a grunt every time he struck the concave surface that defined his world. He tried a double backflip. The inside of the mirror was a little tight for the maneuver. His body splatted flat, arms and legs spread, his nose pressed to the mirror’s surface. His master’s office, its lines curved in fish-eyed distortion, loomed above him. As he pushed himself off the wall, the office door swung open. A familiar, black-garbed figure stepped into view.
His master. Vaclav Dusek, Nephil adept and alpha of the Alchemist clan.
Ah, shit.
Maybe, Maweth thought hopefully, just maybe, Dusek had other things on his mind. Paperwork or something.
Nope. The Nephil stopped at his desk. Maweth’s stomach lurched as the mirror lifted, dangling on its chain. His world spun wildly. He braced himself for the inevitable command.
“Maweth. Come.”
With a sigh, he somersaulted out of the mirror. He landed on the desk with a flourish he was sure would’ve earned a perfect ten in the human Olympic Games.
“You called, oh Master my Master?”
Usually Dusek chided him for his petty sarcasm. This time he didn’t. He smiled instead. At least, Maweth assumed the smug curve to his master’s thin lips was a smile. Dusek was pleased about something. His latest thrall, no doubt.
Maweth was right.
“Success, Maweth,” the Nephil said with an expansive air and a generous wave of his left hand. The gold ring on his middle finger caught the light.
Maweth repressed a shudder. Dusek’s ring, fashioned from alchemical gold augmented by a drop of his own blood, was creepy as all get out. In the place where a normal signet ring would’ve had an initial or a stone, there was a face instead—a perfect reproduction of Dusek’s countenance. The golden face could change expressions, blink its eyes, and even, on rare occasions, open its mouth and speak. The thing gave Maweth the willies.
“Stunning success. It took longer than I had anticipated, but the result was well worth it. Your latest dormant recruit not only survived her Ordeal, but revealed herself to be a member of a clan I hadn’t previously mastered. Vodou magic. The elements of flesh, blood, and breath. Quite a prize.”
“Bully for you,” Maweth muttered.
“I now possess the magic of three clans. Five elements of magic respond to my call. The next recruit awaits his Ordeal.” He rubbed his hands. “Soon all nine elements of Nephil magic will be mine to command.”
He replaced the mirror on the desk. “When they are, I will unite the magic fractured by Raphael so long ago. Have you located my next candidate yet?”
Next victim, more like. Maweth had actually been looking forward to that question. “As to that,” he said, “I regret to inform you that while you were gone, you missed not one, but two prospects.”
Dusek frowned. “How can that be? I’ve not been gone long enough for anyone to complete a transition.”
“Yes, well, it seems one clan has figured out how to shorten the transition. Instead of taking months, the Ordeal arrives just a few days after the NDE.”
Dusek muttered a curse. “Which clan is that?”
For most of his existence, Maweth had paid scant attention to the Nephilim. He’d always known when a Nephil died, of course, since the creatures were half-human. He also knew when one almost died. Which was why he was in his current predicament.
Young, dormant Nephilim were indistinguishable from their human counterparts, until they passed puberty and survived a near-death experience, or NDE. After those milestones, they entered a period of transition leading to their Ordeal. It was Maweth’s job to help Dusek locate these vulnerable, transitioning dormants.
“The new adepts belong to the Druid clan,” he said. “American branch, currently residing in Texas. Involved in illegal sex and drug trades.”
“I am aware of Mab’s operations. Proceed to the point.”
“I’m getting to it. The point is that while you were occupied with your new thrall, two Druid dormants ingested a crapload of cocaine. When they didn’t die, their Ordeals came on within days. They’re both adepts now.”
“And enthralled to their alpha,” Dusek muttered. “Making the bitch that much more powerful.”
“Well,” Maweth said. “As to that. Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mab’s enthralled one of the new adepts, true enough. But the other went rogue. He faced his Ordeal alone.”
“And survived?” Dusek said. “He must be mad now.”
“No. He’s not. At least, not any more insane than his ancestor was.” Maweth paused for dramatic effect. “The new adept, you see, is a direct descendent of Merlin the Sorcerer.”
“What!?”
Ah, but it was sweet, witnessing Dusek’s shock. Maweth grinned.
“Not possible,” Dusek said. “Merlin has no living heirs. The last of his direct line died seven years ago. I should know. I was there.”
“Mab was there, too,” Maweth said smugly. “Looks like she came away with the prize, in the form of one twelve-year-old dormant.”
“Arthur Camulus was dead. Utterly and completely dead. I saw his body.”
“Did you?” Maweth grinned. Oh, but he was enjoying this. “Think again, because the boy’s a man now and he certainly looks alive to me. He’s fairly glowing with power.” He paused. “Druid Nephilim are masters—and mistresses—of illusion, are they not? Mab, especially?”
Maweth watched understanding dawn in Dusek’s eyes. Enraged, the Nephil slammed his fist on his desk. Maweth hopped nimbly to one side.
“That damned cunt tricked me,” he spat.
Maweth nearly clapped his hands. His master was so incensed by his rival’s seven-year-old deception Maweth half-expected to see steam hissing out his ears.
He hadn’t had this much fun in months.
“Where is he?” Dusek’s tone was as quiet as it was dangerous. “Where is Arthur?”
“Not sure,” Maweth hedged. “He met his Ordeal in the States, but soon after emerging he took off over the Atlantic. Toward Great Britain, I think.”
Dusek snapped his fingers. “Tŷ’r Cythraul.”
“House of the Demon? Where’s that?”
“It’s where I sent Arthur’s parents to Oblivion.” Dusek made a sound of disgust. “Tristan Camulus was a pitiful alpha. Couldn’t control his lover, much less his clan. He entertained odd notions of democracy. Made him weak. He was almost too easy to destroy.” His expression darkened. “I’d cultivated Arthur’s bitch of a mother for months. She’d agreed to run away with me and bring her son. Arthur was to be mine when he came of age. My thrall, my bridge to Druid magic.”
“Sympathies,” Maweth said, rather insincerely. Really, this Arthur kid had had a lucky break. Maweth wouldn’t wish Dusek on his worst enemy.
Dusek jerked his thumb. “You. Back in the mirror.”
“So soon? But—”
“In,” he ordered. “Now.”
A vortex caught Maweth’s body, tossed it aloft, and turned it into something akin to an oily black liquid. The inky tornado whirled across the desk to the mirror, which quickly sucked it inside.
Maweth’s body exploded from the whirlwind, smashed into a wall, and then bounced onto the floor. He lay on his back for a moment, trying to catch his breath.
Outside the mirror, Dusek’s distorted form turned and stalked out of the room. The Nephil must be very unsettled—he’d left his office door open. That almost never happened.
With a sigh, Maweth clambered to his feet. Frowning, he brushed at the oily residue the vortex had left on his robe. There was a particularly stubborn spot...
A sparkling flash broke over him in joyful, iridescent splendor. Maweth’s head jerked up. What the—?
Forgetting the stain on his robe, he flew to the edge of the mirror. He couldn’t believe what he saw through the swirling quicksilver. A flying creature had entered Dusek’s office, via the open door. It zipped around the room—to the bookcase, to the
chandelier, to the desk—propelled by gossamer wings.
The newcomer was blond and rosy, his pudgy body draped in unraveling swaddling clothes. He might’ve been a human baby—he was about the right size—except for the wings. And the shiny gold ring floating just above his head.
Maweth’s jaw dropped so abruptly and so widely that he was obliged to put one hand under his chin and push upward to close his mouth. A cherub? A freaking cherub? One lacking a brain, apparently. No self-respecting angel—not even the most dimwitted cherub, he’d heretofore thought—would venture into Vaclav Dusek’s lair.
Amazed, he watched the celestial creature zig-zag across the room. The angel flew close to a window, catching a ray of light with its buzzing wings. The effect was dazzling.
“Pretty,” Maweth murmured.
“Ooh!” the angel exclaimed. “Shiny!”
The cherub dove toward the desk, directly toward Maweth. His prison jumped as the little guy landed. A moment later, a chubby palm slapped the face of the mirror, momentarily turning everything dark. Then the palm lifted and a sweet, round-cheeked face, weirdly distorted by the shifting surfaces of the quicksilver, took its place.
Baby blue eyes peered intently into the mirror’s depths. “Is somebody in there?”
Maweth grinned and waved up at him. “Yes,” he called out. “Somebody is.”
“Ooh. Who are you?”
“Why don’t you come in here and find out?”
***
Cybele Herne had bought thick slices of beef at a shop in the village. She’d told the butcher she wanted it so rare that it dripped. It did. She ate her share in a sandwich. Arthur devoured his plain. He’d put on the clean jeans she’d brought him, paired with a blue t-shirt she’d always liked. His dark hair, wet and in need of a cut, was slicked back from his face.
He looked, in short, normal. Like her friend, her lover. Not at all like the wild-eyed stranger who’d attacked her.
“Does it help?” she asked.
He slanted her a glance, his gray eyes troubled. “The meat, you mean?”
She nodded.
“Some.”
Better than not at all, she supposed. Adepts newly emerged from the Ordeal experienced an overwhelming urge to spill the blood of weaker creatures and eat their raw flesh. In Demon’s Hollow, Mab encouraged deathlust and feeding. After every Ordeal, a few local humans, and a good deal of cattle, were found with their heads ripped off and their bodies mauled.
One of the Texas dormants, Clayton, had transitioned about six months after Arthur’s arrival in Demon’s Hollow. Arthur had been appalled at the slaughter Clay had strewn across the countryside. In Britain, Arthur had told Cybele with a shaking voice, a new adept ate raw beef until the deathlust faded.
When Cybele had witnessed Arthur’s disgust, she’d been filled with shame. Though why that should be, she didn’t know. She’d been taught that humans were little more than resources to be used and consumed by Nephilim. The only humans given any bit of respect were human witches, whose distant echo of Nephil blood allowed them to bear full Nephil young. But this odd British boy, a year younger and almost a foot shorter than Cybele, had caused her to question everything she thought she knew.
His opinion of the human race could not have been more different from Mab’s. Voice vibrating with conviction, Arthur declared that humans weren’t to be used by Nephilim. They were to be protected. This ideal, handed down through Arthur’s line for generations, had originated with his most famous ancestor, the sorcerer Merlin Ambrosius.
Cybele had been skeptical at first. But slowly, Arthur had persuaded her to his point of view. Luc came to believe as well. At least he had until Mab crooked her little finger at him.
And look where that had led him. Oh, Luc.
She shoved the thought away as she rose and collected the dirty plates. They rattled in her hands as she walked them to the sink. It was hardly worth the bother. She couldn’t wash them. The tap was dry. She stood for a moment, staring down at the bloody remnants of the meal. An old linen tea towel hung over the front edge of the sink. Had it been draped there for the past seven years? The thing was insanely normal—a souvenir from Stonehenge, printed with an image of the famous stones.
“Is the plan still the same, then?” she asked.
Arthur’s voice was tight. “I don’t see how it can be anything else. If I don’t defeat Mab, she’ll give you to Rand.”
The thought of Rand guiding her through the Ordeal, taking control of her body and mind, was nauseating. Not quite as bad, though, as imagining Arthur dead. Mab had tolerated Arthur for seven years, biding her time until she could force him into the Ordeal under her control. She’d wanted him as her thrall, wanted control of his magic. Now that Arthur was a free adept, with the promise of Merlin’s magic within reach, Mab would work to enslave or eliminate him as quickly as she could.
“I could attempt the Ordeal on my own,” she said. “Like you did.”
“No,” Arthur snapped. “You will not.”
Cybele flinched. She turned and leaned against the sink. To her surprise, Arthur had left the table. He stood on the other side of the room, palms braced on the wall, head bowed.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He turned and pressed his spine to the wall. She wanted to go to him, put her arms around his neck and press her cheek to his chest. She wanted to feel like she was free to do that at any time, and he would welcome her.
She stayed where she was. “The Ordeal was awful, wasn’t it?”
His expression hardened. “Leave it, Cybele.”
She bit her lip. “Leaving it” wasn’t much in her nature. “Forcing it” was more her style. But in this instance, she found herself backing down.
“So,” she said. “It’s to be a challenge.” She eyed his rigid shoulders. “Can you win a duel?”
He made a harsh sound. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
His uncertainty left her cold. If he couldn’t defeat Mab, there were only two other ways things could end up. Arthur would be dead, or he’d be wearing Mab’s thrall collar. She wasn’t sure which outcome would be worse.
But how could he possibly win, if he didn’t believe he could? She approached him slowly, hating herself for her caution. She’d never felt cautious around him before. But then, she didn’t know this new Arthur. Oh, she’d known the Ordeal would change him. She wasn’t an idiot. But somehow she hadn’t expected him to be so...harsh.
She stopped, close enough to feel his body heat. He watched her with wary eyes, unmoving. She didn’t like that reaction at all. She resisted the urge to brush a wisp of hair out of his eyes. She gave him a small smile instead. He didn’t return it.
The pad of her finger brushed his mother’s touchstone. A spark of magic leapt. The star inside the gem glowed brighter.
Arthur covered her hand with his, pressing it against his chest, the pendent under her palm. His eyes met hers. His gray irises, light in the middle, with a darker ring around the edge, looked like ice.
“I promise you,” he said urgently. “I will give the last drop of my power, and my body’s last breath, to see you safe.” His fingers tightened, squeezing almost painfully. “But I have to warn you. You need to be prepared. I might not be able to defeat her. I might end up dead. Or wearing a collar.”
She forced her voice to remain even. “You don’t think your power is strong enough?”
He released her and paced to the other side of the room. “Oh, it’s strong enough. The trouble is, I can’t control it.”
“You’ll learn.”
“Maybe. Given enough time. Time and... Hell. I have no idea what it’ll take. I can throw hellfire, obviously, but constructing a glamour?” He spread his hands. “I can’t create even the simplest illusion.”
“I can teach you.”
He shot her a look. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
“Why not?”
“I won’t have you within striking range. Not until I
’m sure I won’t hurt you. Right now, calling magic is like trying to shoot a single leaf off a tree with a hand grenade.”
She turned and leaned against the wall, in the spot he’d occupied just moments ago. The plaster was still warm from his body heat.
“A grenade might do the trick in a duel,” she said. “It might even be better than a direct hit.”
“No.” He opened a cupboard, frowned at the boxes and cans inside, and then closed it again. “The advantage would be Mab’s. She’ll slice me in half before I can even summon so much as a spark of hellfire.”
“What kind of sad-ass talk is that?” Honestly, Cybele felt like strangling him. “How the hell are you going to win if all you think about is losing?”
“We need to think about it.” He swung around to face her. “We need to plan what you’ll do if it happens.”
She crossed her arms. “No. I won’t discuss it. Because it’s not going to happen.” Someone had to believe that, since he clearly didn’t.
And she did believe it. She’d always believed in Arthur, from the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. No matter that he’d been twelve years old and shivering, eyes blank with shock and grief. When she’d looked at the British boy Mab had brought to Texas, she’d felt her magic stir for the very first time. Tingling in her palms, spinning in her brain. A hum in her ears and a strange vibration in her chest. Yes, she’d known. Even though he was a dormant, and only a male, she’d sensed a rare and powerful magic. It hadn’t surprised her at all when she’d learned Arthur was Merlin’s heir.
And that was before he’d filled her mind with his strange notions about the human race and his duty toward it. Before he’d helped her step away from Mab and discover her own strength.
“The ancestral memories will help,” she said now. “Once you can see them clearly.”
He laughed, an ugly sound. “If I ever see them clearly.”
“You saw one strong memory. It led you to the moonstone. More memories are bound to follow.” She paused. “Can’t you make out anything else at all?”