by Joy Nash
“Snatches. Bits and pieces. Nothing makes sense.”
“Anything about Merlin? About his staff?”
“Not as far as I can tell.”
Merlin’s staff was legendary. It was said the sorcerer had fashioned it from several different types of wood, all twisted together. He’d placed his touchstone, a crystal orb, at the staff’s apex. It was possible the staff was nothing but a myth, or, if it had existed, that it had been destroyed. But Arthur’s father, Tristan, had believed the staff was real and still whole, lying beside Merlin’s bones in the cave where he met his end.
The trouble was, Nephil and human legends put the sorcerer in many different locations at the end of his life. Half a dozen Merlin “gravesites” were scattered across France and Britain. Tristan had visited them all during his lifetime, often with his young son at his side. He’d discovered nothing.
Arthur dragged his palm down his face, then didn’t seem to know what to do with his hand. He clenched his fingers into a fist. “If only I could remember Merlin’s final days, I’d know where to go next. I can’t go running around half-assed, without any direction at all.”
“It’ll come,” she said again. “You just need time.”
“Time we don’t have. Damn it. Mab has every advantage. I’ve got nothing.”
“That’s not true. Mab didn’t survive her Ordeal alone. Only you and Merlin have done that.”
“I’m hardly Merlin.”
“No. But once you remember—”
“Damn it, Cybele, don’t you think I’ve been trying?” He spun about and slammed his fist into the counter. “Will you please get off my fucking back?”
She sucked in a breath. She and Arthur were no strangers to bickering, it was true. Sometimes she thought they fought more than they got along. But the Arthur she knew didn’t snap and curse. Didn’t look at her as if she were poison.
He dropped into a chair. Leaning his elbows on the table, he pressed his clasped hands to his forehead. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Two apologies in one day.” Cybele tried to keep her voice light, but it just came out shaky. “What’s next? The end of the world?”
He glanced at her. “I’m a mess.”
She sat down beside him. “You’ll pull out of it.”
He lowered his hands to the table. “I sure as hell hope so. How much more of this can I take? My brain is chaos. There’s nothing in there to hold on to.”
She covered his hands with her own. “Hold onto me, then.”
With a sudden movement, he turned and drew her into an awkward hug. She went down on her knees before him. He buried his face in her neck.
“I held onto you during my Ordeal,” he said. She felt his tears, hot on her skin. “You were my anchor, my guide. You kept me sane.”
“Oh, Arthur.” She threaded her fingers though his hair, her thumb stroking his cheek. He looked up and their eyes met.
She felt a tugging sensation in the vicinity of her heart, drawing her to him. To safety and, at the same time, to turmoil and danger. It had always been this way. Arthur was a magnet to her iron. She’d long since stopped wondering why.
She kissed him. Their lips brushed and clung. But only for a moment. His hands came to rest on her shoulders, easing her back. When she made a sound of protest, he pressed his forehead to hers and sighed.
“Thank you for finding me,” he said. “Thank you for knowing where to look.”
“I always will,” she murmured.
He kissed her again, open-mouthed and hard this time. She melted into his arms. His palms slid down to her buttocks, urging her up off her knees. She straddled him awkwardly. He scraped the chair away from the table to accommodate her. She pressed her lips to his neck and licked the sweat from his skin. He cupped her breasts, teasing her nipples with his thumbs. His cock, straining against his jeans, prodded the inside of her thigh. She caught her breath on a hot roll of desire and opened her legs wider.
His hips came up off the chair. They both groaned. Cybele grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked. He nipped the side of her neck. She spread her palm on his stomach. His muscles contracted under her hand. Her fingers dipped lower, past the waistband of his jeans, her nails barely scraping the tip of his engorged penis.
His entire body jerked. Breath hissed through his teeth. She smiled and concentrated on slipping the button.
He caught her hands. “Not here. Bedroom.”
“Yes.”
She swung her leg over his lap. He surged to his feet. Their limbs tangled. Arthur went down hard on one knee, while Cybele pitched forward, landing with her stomach across his thigh. She flung a hand out to stop her fall. Her palm slapped the ground.
“Ow!” She scrambled to her feet. “Dang it, that hurts.”
Arthur stood and reached out to her. “What’s wrong?”
She blew out a breath and showed him her hand. “Looks like you missed some of the window glass.”
A jagged shard protruded from the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb. She grasped it with her opposite thumb and forefinger and yanked it out. Blood oozed rapidly from the cut, trickling in a narrow stream across her palm. “Damn. Its deeper than I thought. Get me a rag or something, will you?”
Arthur didn’t move. She looked up at him. He’d gone motionless, his gaze fixed on her hand. His breathing was harsh.
“Arthur? Are you all right?”
“No. I...your blood.” He shuddered. “It’s so...beautiful. I want...to see more of it. All of it. Spilling into the ground—” His skin darkened, lights pulsing just under the surface in opalescent shades of blue, gray, and green, lit by a touch of crimson.
Was he shifting? Her head jerked up. Their gazes clashed. His eyes had turned red. They seemed lit by a light burning in his skull.
He looked at her with an odd expression, as if he didn’t recognize her, as if he’d never seen her before. Fear squeezed her chest. How could she have forgotten? Fresh blood could trigger deathlust in a new adept. Arthur had warned her he was out of control. She hadn’t really believed him. Yes, he’d attacked her on the stair, but he hadn’t known who was there. She couldn’t believe he’d ever actually want to kill her.
She was an idiot. Because she’d bet money that right now, right here, he wanted to kill her. Deathlust, hard, cold, merciless, shone in his eyes. A low growl vibrated in his throat. The fine hairs on the back of her neck lifted. His scent, raw and elemental, terrified her.
Every muscle in his body spoke of his tenuous hold on his lust to kill. Cybele fisted her bloody hand and whipped it behind her back. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Her legs felt like so much jelly, but she knew better than to cower, or turn and run. Instead, she stiffened her spine and met his gaze squarely. Slowly, slowly, his eyes tracking her every movement, she backed away.
His body went even more rigid, if that were possible. A sheen of sweat broke out on his brow.
Their gazes locked. “You’re shifting,” she whispered.
A flicker of the Arthur she knew showed in his eyes. The tip of his tongue darted out from between his lips. His jaw clenched. “I...can’t...control it.”
He closed his eyes. Cybele moved back another step. Her butt hit the sink. Without looking, she felt along the edge. Her fingers closed on the old tea towel. She fumbled with it behind her back, winding it around her injured hand, pulling the ends into an awkward knot. Half-turning, she pulled it tight with her teeth.
“I’ve covered it,” she said.
His eyes slit open. His body jerked, but his feet stayed where they were. His chest expanded in a slow breath. He exhaled even more slowly.
“Any better?”
“The cloth helps. But not with the scent. Or the sound.”
“Blood has a sound?”
“I hear it. Rushing. Calling. Mocking. But maybe...” He swallowed thickly. “Maybe the noise is in my head. Maybe...my brain is damaged. Permanently.”
“It’s not,” she said sharp
ly.
“You don’t know that.” He arched his back, hissing through his teeth. “I’ve got to...to get away.”
The opal lights under his skin were a wild, shifting swirl. A red glow consumed his irises and pupils. His body was changing, seeking its demon form. Cybele wasn’t a stranger to the shifting. She’d seen the adepts of her clan change countless times, mostly from afar. This shift was different. For one thing, it was so close, barely an arm’s length away. And it was Arthur.
He labored over each breath. Sweat drenched his shirt. He staggered toward the door, shucking the garment over his head as he went. He flung it behind him and wrenched open the door.
He threw himself headlong into the night. By the time Cybele followed him out the door, he was at the garden gate. He gripped the iron bars with both hands, flung back his head, and groaned.
It was a low, inhuman sound, infused with primitive pain. As the cry died away, he turned and dropped into a crouch, head bowed. Cybele stopped some ten or fifteen feet away, her hands coming up to cover her mouth. She wanted to look away. She couldn’t. She could only stand, transfixed, while Arthur changed.
The skin over his shoulder blades melted. Wings emerged, slowly at first, then with a rush of power. The joints snapped open, charcoal feathers fanning wide. Under his skin, a dark rainbow of color ran wild.
He straightened. Drops of sweat poured down his torso, shimmering like jewels. He lifted his head and looked at her. She resisted the urge to shrink back. Arthur loved her. He would find control somewhere, somehow, rather than do her harm. She had to believe that.
He pinned her with his crimson gaze. He stood, still and silent, for what seemed like an eternity. He made no move toward her. His eyes didn’t even flick toward her bandaged hand. Cybele took that for a good sign.
“That looked...painful,” she said.
“Like being flayed alive.” His voice was low and rough. “The first time...was much worse.”
“This is the second time?”
“Yes.” He grimaced. “Or maybe the third. I don’t know. Cybele, I...” He dragged a hand down his face. “I have to go. I want...I need...to kill.”
At least they were in the countryside, where livestock likely outnumbered humans. “Go,” she said. “Do what you need to do.”
“I don’t like leaving you alone.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“If Mab comes...”
“She won’t. Not this quickly, anyway.”
“But if she does—”
“I’ll hide,” she told him. “You know how good I am at that. I’ve fooled her for years. Now get out of here.”
He searched her gaze and gave a tight nod. With a powerful stroke of his charcoal wings, he took to the sky.
Cybele’s breath caught. Arthur—his body, his power, his unwavering loyalty—it was almost too beautiful to bear. The cloud cover had broken. She craned her neck, tracking his shadow against the stars. Her eyes lingered on the sky even after he disappeared.
Neck aching, she looked down at the ground. Alone again, she felt deflated. Enervated. Terrified. Hopeful. Exhausted. Damn. She was one hot mess.
She sank down on a bench, her emotions churning emotions. She’d been so afraid that either the cocaine or the Ordeal would finish Arthur off. She’d been equally frightened that, without a guide, the magic would burn out his brain. Or turn him into someone she didn’t recognize.
He’s fine, she told herself. At least, as fine as he could be given all he’d been through. He was nothing like Luc.
She bit back a sudden rise of nausea. Oh, Luc.
The last few months had transformed her brother into a stranger. A hard, desperate stranger. Cybele couldn’t shake the feeling that she was somehow responsible for it, at least in part. She and her twin had been close until last year, when Mab had started showing Luc special attention. He’d left Demon’s Hollow to work at Club Tartarus in Houston. He’d assisted Draven when the Columbian runners came ashore. And he’d gone to Mab’s bed. The thought of it, even now, made Cybele’s stomach roll.
Around the same time, Cybele and Arthur had become lovers. In six years, Arthur had never once been permitted to leave Demon’s Hollow. Now, taking advantage of Cybele’s expanding skill with illusion and concealment, they snuck away from the compound at every opportunity. For the first time, Cybele had distanced herself from Luc. If she’d told him what she and Arthur were doing, and he’d told Mab, there would’ve been hell to pay.
She’d felt guilty keeping such a big secret from Luc. If he hadn’t been away from Demon’s Hollow so often, she might not have been able to do it. On the days when he was home, Cybele did everything she could to avoid him.
Maybe, if she hadn’t been so wrapped up in Arthur and their burgeoning physical relationship, things might have gone differently for Luc. She might’ve put more effort into convincing Luc that Mab was only using him. Or Luc might’ve listened to Arthur. He might have gone rogue, rather than enter the Ordeal with Mab as his guide.
Of course, if Luc had gone rogue, he might be dead now. Was death preferable to a life as Mab’s thrall? She didn’t know. She could only hope that if—no, not if, when—Arthur killed Mab, Luc would be set free.
And Arthur would kill Mab. Even though she was only a dormant, Cybele could sense the depth and breadth of his magic. The sheer magnitude of it took her breath away. He was an adept, with no ties to any guide, with the magic of Merlin within reach. All he had to do was claim it.
She’d never seen anything so beautiful, or so frightening, as his shift from human to demon form. Her own magic—and her body—couldn’t help but respond. Oh, how she wanted him. She wanted to open her palm on his chest and absorb the heat of those dark, shifting lights. To sink her fingers into the velvet luxury of his wings. She’d lick his skin, press her nose to his stomach and inhale his musk. His cock would harden against her breasts. She’d open her mouth on his stomach and taste the salt of his sweat. When her senses were filled with him, he’d place his hands on her head, his fingers curling into her hair. He’d urge her down to her knees. And she’d go, willingly.
Damn it all, just thinking about it made her horny as all get out. Abruptly, she stood and paced the garden path. Her entire body was ablaze. Oh, why couldn’t she be in bed with Arthur right now, screwing his brains out?
Her head snapped up. Something was screaming. Cries of pure terror floated toward her on the breeze, from the direction toward which Arthur had flown.
A human cry? It sure sounded like it. But maybe she was wrong. She wrapped her arms around her waist, suddenly very aware of the dawn chill.
FOUR
Honestly. Some creatures were just too stupid to live.
Maweth studied the round-cheeked cherub as he flitted back and forth, exploring the confines of the mirror.
“Wow!” The angel bobbed before him, wings whirring. “It’s so much bigger on the inside.”
“Not really.” Maweth lay on the floor, against the curved wall. “You shrunk when you dove in.”
The cherub flew down and landed in front of him. “What kind of place is this, anyway?”
“A mirror,” Maweth replied. After a brief pause, he added, “See this wall? It’s liquid but—” He rapped on it. “It’s solid, too. Quicksilver, mixed up with salt, flame, and blood. It’s made with magic. Alchemy, to be specific.”
“Oh.” The cherub nodded soberly and blinked.
Maweth was momentarily taken aback by the stunning blue sparkle. The little angel had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.
“I’m Fortunato,” the cherub said after another few seconds. He plopped down on the floor.
“You’re lucky?” Maweth snorted. “Probably not, if you’re in here.”
“No, I mean my name is Fortunato, silly.”
Maweth had never in his long, long existence—never ever, not even once—been called “silly.” It was a novel sensation. He sat up a bit straighter. “Well, then, Lucky—you don’t
mind if I call you Lucky, do you? Fortunato is such a mouthful.” At Lucky’s nod, he continued. “Why in the world are you here?”
“I flew in.” He laughed in delight, kicking his feet and unraveling his swaddling clothes. “You saw me.”
Maweth laughed with him, until he realized the comment hadn’t been a joke. Lucky really was a dim one.
The angel bounced up onto his dimpled feet. Gathering his wrappings, he tried to tie them more securely around his torso.
“I mean,” Maweth enunciated slowly, “why are you here at the Institute?”
Lucky looked up. “The Institute? What Institute?”
Oh, brother. Conversing with this angel was like swimming upstream. Through rapids. With weights tied to both legs.
“The building we’re in,” he explained. “It belongs to the Prague Institute for the Study of Man. What are you doing here?”
“I’m in Prague? Is that very far from Paris?”
“It’s not exactly in the neighborhood.”
“I got lost,” Lucky said. “Crashed into a goose or something and got all turned around.” He swiveled his head, peering over one shoulder at his wings. “I think I’ve lost a few feathers.”
And a few brain cells. “You shouldn’t have come in here, you know. The Institute’s no place for an angel.”
“But the front gate was so pretty. And it was open. I just flew in.”
“You just...flew...in,” Maweth repeated, shaking his head. Into the lair of the nastiest, most powerful Nephil on the planet. “Hell on wheels. You need a keeper, you know that?”
“Why, that’s just what Raphael always says. Do you know Raphael?”
Maweth blinked. “You mean the archangel?”
“Yes. That’s him.”
Maweth knew of Raphael. Every metaphysical creature knew about the Steward of Heaven. But... “Know him? No.” He hesitated. “I’m not exactly on speaking terms with angels.”
“That can’t be true.” Lucky waved a pudgy hand in front of Maweth’s face. “Yoo-hoo! I’m an angel, and you’re talking to me.”
“So you are.” Maweth said, bemused. “And so I am.”