by Joy Nash
Cybele’s eyes flew to his. “Does that mean you know where it is?”
“Yes,” Arthur said. “It does.”
***
Maweth eased away from the attic window. His wings shook badly. He didn’t quite trust them to carry him. Crunchy poop on a cracker! He was lucky Arthur had lingered in the garden long enough to find the spell. Double lucky the Nephil had been too distraught to see it for what it was.
He shivered. If Arthur had any sort of reasonable control over his magic, Maweth would be screaming in agony right now. He’d had a narrow escape. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. Scrambling up to the peak of the roof, he grabbed onto a chimney and waited for his limbs to stop twitching.
The twenty-four hours since Lucky’s impetuous leap to Maweth’s defense had been hell. Upon realizing he actually had an angel in his power, Dusek promptly took off for Wales, of all places. He’d visited a chilly cave—a place no Nephil, unescorted by celestial magic, could have entered. Fat lot of good it’d done him. He hadn’t been able to get what he wanted from the place.
But Dusek wasn’t one to let a little setback derail his cause. It was straight on to Plan B, a plan involving Arthur Camulus. Maweth thoroughly disapproved. The young Nephil was extremely unstable. Any scheme involving his magic was sure to backfire. He’d told Dusek as much. Had the stubborn Nephil listened? No, oh no. He had not.
Maweth gazed longingly to the south. He wanted to fly that way, rather than north to Dusek in Wales. An instant later, he was consumed with shame for even thinking such a thing. He couldn’t, just couldn’t, abandon Lucky.
Stupid angel.
TEN
“Tell me what your Ordeal was like,” Cybele asked.
Arthur, startled, cut her a glance. Her green eyes gazed steadily back at him. Damn it, she was serious. “I hardly think a train station is the best place to discuss it,” he said.
“I don’t agree. We’re stuck here in freaking Bristol for the next two hours. We have to talk about something. Or...” She gave him a pointed look. “We could just fly to Carmarthen.”
She had a point, Arthur conceded. It was barmy to take public transport when they could fly. That, however, would require shifting to demon form and carrying her.
It was a risk he wouldn’t take. Lust and unstable magic was a dangerous combination. Cybele already had the bruises to prove it. Even sitting on a hard plastic bench, shoulder to shoulder with her, was chancy. He was the driest of tinder, she the spark that could ignite him into a roaring inferno.
And now she wanted to talk about his Ordeal?
“You know why we can’t fly,” he said irritably. “Could you kindly quit nagging me about it?”
“Let’s talk, then. What was it like, being that close to death? How long was it from when you took the overdose to when you entered the Ordeal?”
He kept his eyes trained on the travelers scurrying past the waiting area. “I don’t wish to talk about it.”
“Please. Can’t we get past that?”
He shifted. Bloody uncomfortable chairs in this station. Knowing Cybele would needle and prod until she got at least some satisfaction, he conceded defeat. “All right. I’ll tell you this much. The Ordeal defies description.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not helpful, Arthur.”
He shrugged. “It’s all I’ve got.”
She tipped her head back, as if patience lurked on the station ceiling. “Were you afraid?”
A sparrow flitted across the floor, pecking at crumbs. It must’ve flown in an open door. He hoped it managed to get out again. “I was scared shitless,” he said. “A thousand times over. Only an idiot would be anything less.”
“Oh.” She looked at him, and then down into her lap.
He followed her gaze. She was twisting her fingers together so violently, he almost winced. He reached over and grabbed her hand. “Stop that.”
Her next words came so softly, he had to duck his head to hear them. “I might not survive my Ordeal,” she said. “Not all dormants do. Remember Colby?”
He remembered what the poor bastard’s body had looked like when Mab had brought it out of the cellar and dumped it in the swamp. Arthur had been fifteen, Cybele sixteen. They’d both had nightmares for weeks.
His fingers tightened on hers. “You’ll survive. I’ll be there, guiding you. Every moment, until it’s done.”
“How did you endure it on your own?”
His mind shied away from the memory. “I’m not sure.”
“Maybe...” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should just do it now. Before Mab catches up with us. Then we could fight her together.”
He stared at her. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m not. Even Mab can’t stop an Ordeal. It would buy us time.” She nudged her backpack with her toe. “I brought a couple eightballs with me.”
“You have cocaine?” Her audacity astounded him. Though why it should, he didn’t know. It was just the kind of thing she’d do.
“Yeah. I thought it would be good to have, just in case. What do you think?”
“Cybele.” He struggled to find his patience. “Have you not been paying attention? My magic is so unpredictable, I can’t even trust myself to pick you up and fly a hundred miles. I couldn’t possibly guide you through your Ordeal. Not until I have more control.”
She touched his arm. “Maybe guiding me would help. It might improve your focus.”
“That,” he said flatly, “is the single stupidest thing I have ever heard in my life.”
“No, it’s not. It’s—”
He stood abruptly, throwing off her hand. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. I won’t discuss it. Not now, not later. Drop it.”
“But—”
He spun on her. “The Ordeal doesn’t improve focus. It destroys it. Obliterates it. It shreds every iota of control you ever had over your body and mind. It turns your brain inside out, stretches your bones until you think you’ll snap apart. It’s a howling maelstrom of violation, humiliation, and agony. You’ll want to die. Every moment you continue living, you’ll long for death that much more. You’ll try to kill yourself. The Ordeal won’t let you. And after you fail? That’s when the torment gets worse.”
He paused, chest heaving, sick dread spreading through him. “The way I am now, I couldn’t guide you through a tenth of what you’d have to endure. And Cybele, if you died, if your brain fried, all because I’m a worthless shit who can’t control the most basic magic...”
He was aware, through the haze of his agitation, of Cybele staring up at him, stricken. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Good. Now don’t fucking ask me about it again.”
She recoiled as if struck.
Shame flooded him. He was aware of several people nearby, watching their altercation with wary eyes. He dropped to his knees and buried his face in her lap. “Damn it, Cybele, I’m sorry. So sorry. Just—please. I can’t...I can’t talk about it. Please don’t ask me to.”
He felt her fingers comb through his hair. “Okay.” The single word trembled.
He lifted his head. “No, it’s not okay. I—”
A screech of pneumatic breaks sounded on the tracks. “Come on,” she said. “Get up. Our train’s finally here. And after all this drama—” She gave him a tremulous smile. “I refuse to miss it.”
***
“For the love of Heaven, Raphael. Make up your blessed mind.” Michael was none too pleased. The last place he wanted was to be called back to the clouds. Not when things were so much more interesting on Earth. “I thought you needed someone to watch Arthur.”
Raphael waved a hand. “Gabriel will do it.”
Gabriel? Michael clamped down on an unholy spurt of annoyance. “Why the sudden change in plans?”
“I need you elsewhere. There’s a...situation.”
“What is it?”
“Remember the missing cherub? Fortunato?”
&nbs
p; “He hasn’t turned up yet?”
“No. But I’ve received some further information. It seems Cherub Marius was the last celestial being to see Fortunato. They were playing a game on Earth and became separated. He’s been searching for him ever since.”
Michael frowned. “On his own? All this time?”
“I know. He should have informed me directly. But Fortunato’s sense of direction is, shall we say, as deficient as his intelligence. Marius didn’t want to get his friend in trouble. He thought he’d turn up.”
“Where did he see him last?”
“In Paris. They were playing some human amusement called hide and seek. Fortunato hid, Marius sought. He looked all over the city and couldn’t find him. He decided Fortunato must have wandered outside the boundary of the game, so he widened his search. A few kilometers outside the city, he found this.”
From a fold in his robes, Raphael produced a feather.
Michael eyed the wispy bit of incandescence. “Fortunato’s, I assume?” Among angels, the color and design of wings was as individual as a human fingerprint.
“Yes.”
“Well. Good thing Marius found it, before it fell into the wrong hands.” There was no telling what mischief that could cause. “Where was it, exactly?”
“Reims.” Raphael slipped a hand into his robe. More feathers emerged, one by one. “Luxembourg. Frankfurt. At the German-Czech border.”
Michael’s brows rose. “Blessed be. How many feathers did Fortunato shed?”
“Five, that we’ve found. This last one was recovered in Prague.”
Michael let out a low whistle. “From Paris to Prague? That’s taking getting lost to a ridiculous extreme.”
“Believe me,” Raphael said sourly, “Fortunato is nothing if not ridiculous. He hasn’t the sense God gave a flea. But that’s not the worst of it.”
“What is?”
“The last feather was found on the doorstep of the Prague Institute for the Study of Man.”
Michael was sure that name sounded familiar, and not in a good way. “Isn’t that place run by a Nephil?”
“Yes,” Raphael said. “Professor Vaclav Dusek. Alpha of the Alchemist clan.” He began pacing, golden robes swirling at his ankles.
Michael let out a low whistle. “Azazel’s progeny.” Azazel had been the most devious of the Watcher angels, the one who’d convinced his brother angels to rebel against Heaven.
“Yes. Azazel. The no-good troublemaker who taught mankind the art of war.” A mottled red flush invaded Raphael’s golden complexion. His voice rose. “The depraved scoundrel who taught womankind the art of harlotry.” His fingers closed on the hilt of his Righteous Sword of Vengeance. “The disgusting degenerate whom I battled during the Flood.”
Sklink! The blade scraped from its scabbard, and erupted in flames. “THE ACCURSED SINNER WHO—” Right arm outstretched, Raphael lunged.
“Whoawhoawhoa!” Michael jumped, barely escaping the righteous sweep of his brother’s sword. “All right, all right, I get the picture. No need to start slicing up the clouds. Or me, for that matter.”
Raphael froze, eyeing the sword in his hand as if wondering who’d put it there. With a sheepish expression, he straightened and sheathed his weapon. “Um...sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re obviously carrying a bit of emotional baggage where Azazel is concerned.”
“Yes, well, even Hell was too good for him. I sealed him into the foulest corner of Dudael instead. As for the Nephilim...the Flood was supposed to wipe out every last one of them. But somehow, it didn’t.”
“The Almighty’s loopholes,” Michael said. “Very frustrating they are at times. But that’s neither here nor there at the moment. Tell me more about this Institute for the Study of Man. Is it simply a front for Nephil crimes?”
“No. Much as it pains me to admit, the Institute is a bona fide international center of learning and research. Ancient archeology, anthropology, that sort of thing. But I don’t trust it. There’s always been too much of an air of normalcy about the place.”
“You do realize that makes no sense, right?”
“It makes perfect sense for a place founded and administered by a Nephil.”
Michael supposed his brother had a point.
“And now this,” Raphael continued. “An innocent cherub, vanishing into thin air, right on the Institute’s doorstep. A Nephil getting his hands on an angel feather is bad enough. For him to kidnap the entire angel—”
“Aren’t you jumping the gun a little? A single feather in the vicinity doesn’t prove anything. Fortunato might’ve been merely passing overhead when he lost it. The whole thing could be a coincidence.”
“Coincidence? There is no such thing,” Raphael declared. “Marius searched high and low for more feathers. He found nothing. “I have a very bad feeling about this, Michael. I need you to investigate.”
“You might’ve sent Gabriel and left me in Devon.”
“I might have.” Raphael’s golden gaze narrowed. “If I didn’t think you were enjoying your duties in England far too much. If you catch my meaning.”
“Holy sh—” Heat flamed into Michael’s face. “Are you saying you’ve been watching me?”
Raphael smiled thinly. “What I’m saying, little brother, is that you’d better watch yourself.”
ELEVEN
They switched trains again in Cardiff. Two hours later, they arrived in Carmarthen. Or Caerfyrddin, as the Welsh called it. The small town was said to be the birthplace of Merlin. It was also one of the many places that claimed to be the location of his death. Arthur had told Cybele he’d been here as a boy, with his father, searching for his ancestor’s grave. Had they been so close, after all?
The journey from Bristol had been awkward. After Arthur’s outburst and subsequent apology at the Bristol station, Cybele had decided to give him some space. Unfortunately, space wasn’t something she was exactly used to giving. She tried, though. She swore to herself that she’d let him be the first to start talking again. As a result, they hadn’t spoken at all. Arthur sat by the window, jaw rigid, watching the landscape.
He wasn’t angry with her, she knew. He was teetering on the edge of panic. She spent a good portion of the train ride berating herself. She shouldn’t have brought up his Ordeal. He clearly hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Would she never learn when to back off?
As they exited the train, Cybele drew a breath. Time to end this silent, moody bullshit. She eyed a sign bearing the town’s Welsh name. Caerfyrddin.
“How do you pronounce it?” she asked.
Arthur glanced up at the sign. “Ki-air-ver-din,” he said. “It means ‘Merlin’s Fort.’ It refers to a fort the Romans built on a rise of land outside the village. Merlin’s cave is said to be under the hill. We might as well start looking there.”
Well. He was a regular Chatty Cathy now. “How far out of town is it?”
“A couple miles, maybe. As far as I recall. Here,” he said, reaching for her backpack. “Give me that.”
She relinquished it and he hitched the strap over one shoulder. She fell into step beside him. He might be talking now, but he was still wound tight as a spring. They left the town center, passing by a cluster of newer buildings before reaching a country road. The fields on either side were dotted with sheep.
“There’s a sign,” Cybele said as they approached a crossroads. “Bryn Myrddin.”
“Merlin’s Hill.”
The hill, surrounded by open fields and the occasional copse of trees, came into view soon after. A historical marker indicated a Roman fort had once occupied the site, its stones now completely gone. Though it was getting on to late afternoon, they hiked a wide arc around the base of the hill, looking for any depression or rock formation that might be the entrance Arthur had seen in Merlin’s memory.
By the time they gave up the effort, it was dark. “It’s been over a thousand years,” Arthur said, surveying the landscape. “Probably a lot has chan
ged.”
“Damn, I’m a mess.” Cybele shoved a limp strand of hair out of her eyes. Her jeans were muddy, her boots soaked from wading through a stream. “We must’ve turned over every rock, circled every tree, and peered into every fox den in a three-mile radius.”
Arthur looked almost as bad as she did, but the dirt and damp didn’t seem to bother him at all. “There are a few places we haven’t looked at yet.”
“No way am I looking at them tonight,” Cybele said. “I want a bath, a meal, and a bed. Immediately, and in that order.” He shot her a look of annoyance, but she held firm. “Look at those clouds. It’ll be pitch black out here soon. You might have adept night vision, but I don’t.”
He sighed. “All right. That farm we passed a while back had a bed and breakfast sign. We’ll get a room.”
At the B&B, their knock was followed by a protracted wait. Finally, a woman with wispy yellow-gray hair opened the door a scant three inches. She took in their grubbiness with a sour expression. “And what might you two vagrants be wanting?”
“A room,” Cybele said. She caught a whiff of something meaty and savory. Her stomach rumbled. Arthur had her backpack slung over his shoulder. She pulled a handful of British pounds from the front pocket. “How much?”
“One room?”
“Yes.”
“Fifty pounds,” the woman sniffed. “Breakfast included.”
“And dinner tonight?”
“Twenty more.”
Highway robbery, but Cybele handed it over without comment. The woman shoved the notes deep in her apron pocket before pulling the door fully open. “I’m Mrs. Spencer.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Cybele said, with a hint of sarcasm.
Mrs. Spencer snorted. “American?”
Cybele nodded. “I am,” she said. She nodded toward Arthur. “He’s British, though.”
Mrs. Spencer remained unimpressed. She eyed the backpack. “And traveling light, I see. Well, come on with you then. This way.”