by Joy Nash
Arthur took the indicated chair. Cybele eyed him uncertainly. Mrs. Spencer was holding open the kitchen door but Cybele couldn’t shake the feeling that she shouldn’t leave Arthur. Which was ridiculous. He hardly needed a babysitter. He was tense, yes, but nothing in this room was likely to set him off. Except her. He’d probably be better off with her out of sight.
“Please, everyone,” she said. “Feel free to start eating without me.”
Mrs. Spencer sniffed at that. “I should say not. They’ll wait, if they know what’s good for ’em.”
There was nothing to do but follow her hostess into the kitchen. Once there, Cybele unwound her makeshift bandage and dropped it in the trash bin. “Why, it’s not even deep,” Mrs. Spencer groused. “I can’t imagine why you wrapped it up ten times over.”
“Um...I hate the sight of blood.”
“Hmph.” The woman retrieved a tube of ointment from a cupboard and smeared a bit on Cybele’s palm. She followed up with an adhesive bandage. They returned to the dining room to find the men sitting in silence. Mr. Spencer contemplated his empty bowl. His grandson fiddled with his cutlery, a grimace on his face. Arthur’s eyes roamed restlessly around the room.
All three looked up as the women entered. Cybele hastily sat in the empty chair at Arthur’s right. “The meal smells delicious,” she said with what she hoped looked like a sincere smile.
“First, the prayer,” Mrs. Spencer declared as she settled in her chair at the foot of table.
Oh, damn. A prayer? Beside her, Arthur muttered a curse under his breath. Cybele hastened to cover it with a comment.
“How...nice.” In reality, it was anything but. A religious ritual, even a small one like a prayer before meals, was not a comfortable thing for a Nephil adept. “Do you pray before every meal?”
“Before supper, certainly.” Mrs. Spencer gaze narrowed. “Don’t you? Or are you non-believers?” Her voice held more than a hint of challenge.
“No,” Cybele said. “We’re...um...rather fervent believers, actually.”
That was absolutely true. In fact, she and Arthur were more than mere believers. They knew beyond a doubt that Heaven and Hell—and all their associated denizens—were real.
For the first time since they’d arrived, the edges of Mrs. Spencer’s lips rose. She gave a nod of approval. “Gratified I am to hear it. So many young people go astray these days. Is that not true, George?”
“Aye, my dear. You have the right of it. As usual.”
They were the first words the man had uttered. And they seemed to be, Cybele thought with dark amusement, a little sarcastic. If Mrs. Spencer sensed her husband’s surreptitious mocking, she gave no indication of it. Her attention had returned to her grandson, who was scratching at the tablecloth.
“Jack,” she said sharply. “Stop your fidgeting. We have guests.”
Jack’s chin jerked up. His gaze slid to Arthur. He froze, except for his hand, Cybele noted, which was suddenly shaking. Realizing it, he made a fist and slumped back in his chair. When his grandmother’s frown deepened, he closed his eyes.
“Don’t know what’s gotten into the lad these last few days,” she said. “He’s been acting mighty odd.” She cast a glance at her husband. “Well, then. Go on.”
Mr. Spencer bowed his head over his folded hands. Mrs. Spencer and Jack did the same. Halfheartedly, Cybele mimicked them. Arthur didn’t even try. She hoped their hosts wouldn’t notice.
“Dear Lord, we thank you for this food...”
Mr. Spencer’s prayer was a quickly mumbled affair. Thank the ancestors for that. Cybele didn’t want to know what effect a more heartfelt offering would have had on Arthur. As it was, he was gripping the edge of the table so tightly, his knuckles had turned as white as the cloth. A few sparks erupted. Quietly, she laid a hand atop his. When the prayer concluded and Arthur’s clenched muscles relaxed, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Mrs. Spencer uncovered the pot, revealing a hearty lamb and barley soup. While the others ate, she bustled back and forth to the kitchen, ferrying sliced beef, potatoes and buttered beans to the table.
Cybele was famished. She ate a bit of everything. Arthur, she noted, ate nothing but meat. No doubt he would’ve preferred it bloody and raw. He had to settle for rubbery and overcooked. Still, when Mrs. Spencer offered a second helping, he didn’t turn it down. Jack, by contrast, ate little. He kept darting glances at Arthur.
Cybele frowned at the boy. A faint but unmistakable glow clung to his head and shoulders. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light. Or a migraine coming on. She rubbed the space between her eyes. Her head was beginning to throb. They should have walked back to the village for dinner.
“Come looking for Merlin, have you?” Mr. Spencer asked.
Cybele’s chin jerked up. “What?”
Mr. Spencer laid his knife and fork on his plate. “Merlin. The sorcerer. He’s the only reason tourists visit this part of Wales. I suspect that’s why you’re here.”
“Yes,” Cybele said, a bit shakily. “That’s true.” Faced with her host’s expectant expression, she added, “I understand he was born nearby?”
“Aye.” The farmer pushed his empty plate toward the middle of the table. “The sorcerer’s birth is the subject of any number of tales.” Leaning back in his chair, he folded his hands over an ample belly. “Merlin’s mother, it’s said, was the daughter of a local clergyman. The girl was a troublesome lass, shunning the church and her Bible. Some even called her a witch. They claimed she fled into the hills in the night, to practice the dark arts under the stars. Perhaps that was true, because when she fell pregnant, she told her Da she’d been ravished by a demon.”
Mrs. Spencer snorted. “Diddling a local boy in a hayloft, rather, and didn’t want to confess to the sin.”
“That’s as may be,” her husband allowed. “Her father, however, chose to believe her. Or perhaps he simply wished to err on the side of caution. Merlin was baptized a bare three minutes after his birth, even before the cord was cut. ’Tis said the babe screamed like the devil hisself when the holy water splashed. Didn’t quiet down until he was wiped dry. The child was raised a pious Christian, but blood will tell in the end. At any rate, it did with Merlin.”
Arthur cleared his throat. He picked up his knife and turned it over in his hand, contemplating the blade. Cybele kicked him under the table. He glanced over at her and put the utensil down.
Would this meal never end? “What happened then?”
“Merlin came of age and studied for the priesthood. One night, as he walked from church to rectory, a sudden storm rose. He was struck by lightning.”
“Was he injured?”
“Most assuredly. He lay near death for two days and nights. On the third day, he suddenly sat up in his bed, as alive as could be. His burns, which just the night before had been festering, were healed. Might’a been considered a miracle, if not for what happened a few months later.”
“George,” his wife interrupted. “I don’t think—”
To Cybele’s surprise, Mr. Spencer tucked his chin and glared at his wife. “Quiet, Gladys. I’m speaking.”
Mrs. Spencer flushed. She rose and began clearing the table with jerky movements, muttering under her breath about sin and damnation as she collected plates and bowls. Jack paled. He slid down even further in his chair and hunched his shoulders.
Mr. Spencer leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Weel, then. This is what happened. Young Merlin, returned as he was from near-death, rose from his bed three months later. Stark naked. Without pausing to don a stitch, he left the rectory, passed in front of the church, and disappeared into the countryside. He came to this very hill.”
He swept an arm toward the window, though with night fully descended, all that was visible was the room’s reflection in the glass. “For three nights, terrible screams rang out. For three mornings, cattle and sheep were found mutilated in the fields and barns, heads torn from their bodies, flesh chewed cle
an through. Three persons—two men and a woman disappeared. They were never seen again. And in the sky—”
He paused. Jack began to hum under his breath.
Cybele knew well enough where the tale was going. She sighed and played along. “What was in the sky?”
Jack clapped his hands over his ears and hummed louder.
His grandfather sent him a frown, and then turned back to his audience. “Many swore to seeing a fearsome creature flying overhead. A winged demon. They said Merlin had sold his soul to his father’s kind. In return, he gained dark powers such as mere humanfolk cannot comprehend.”
“Merlin used his power for the good of mankind,” Cybele felt compelled to point out. “Not for evil.”
“Perhaps that was the result,” Mr. Spencer allowed. “But Merlin’s magic was far from benevolent.” He frowned. “Jack. What’s wrong with you, lad? Stop that blasted noise.”
Jack’s humming dimmed.
“Merlin’s dark magic allowed Uther Pendragon to seduce another man’s wife,” their host continued. “A right dodgy affair that was.”
“But without that illusion, there wouldn’t have been a King Arthur,” Cybele said.
“True enough,” Mr. Spencer conceded. “Still, Merlin couldn’t outrun the devil forever. Ruin caught up with him. He ended up ensorcelled by his own magic, trapped under the Earth by a scheming lover, in the same cave where he’d once sold his soul.”
His wife, exiting the kitchen with a pie in her hands, snorted. “That’s the way of it, innit? A man never sees a woman’s cleverness until it’s too late.”
“Now, you must admit, dear, I’ve never doubted your cleverness. Would’ve been the death of me,” he added under his breath.
His wife cut a generous piece of pie and slid it in front of him. Cybele accepted her slice with murmur of thanks. Arthur declined with a swift shake of his head. When Mrs. Spencer exhaled an offended huff, Cybele gave an apologetic shrug. “Arthur’s not one for desserts.”
“Arthur, eh?” Mr. Spencer leaned over and elbowed Arthur in the ribs. “Just like the king.”
“Not quite,” Arthur mumbled.
Jack opened his mouth as if about to speak. At the last moment he seemed to change his mind. He set down his fork, covered his ears, and began humming. Loudly.
“Jack,” his grandmother said. “Whatever has gotten into you?” She turned on her husband. “Finish your pudding, husband. ’Tis late. Jack wants his rest.”
Cybele very much doubted that he did. The boy looked far too agitated for sleep.
“Gladys. Let the lad be.” Mr. Spencer scraped his last bite of pie onto his fork and pointed it at Cybele. “Some say Merlin didna die at all. They say he’s sleeping, waiting for his faithless lover to return. They say that if you go up onto Merlin’s Hill at midnight, you’ll hear him moaning.”
“Have you heard him?” Arthur asked.
Cybele looked at him sharply. Was he serious?
“Me?” Mr. Spencer snorted. “Midnight finds me in my bed with my eyes shut and my ears closed. A farmer’s up before the sun, you know.”
“There’s nothing to hear.” Mrs. Spencer took Cybele’s plate and stacked it atop her own. “’Tis just a heathen tale. There’s no moaning in the hills.” She rose. She was about to gather another plate when Jack’s fist slammed the table. Chinaware jumped. Cutlery clattered. A water glass overturned.
“Jack!” Mrs. Spencer exclaimed. “That was uncalled for. And you—” She glared at her husband. “Let the lad be, indeed. He must be sickening from something.”
Jack certainly didn’t look well. His spine went ramrod straight. His mouth fell open. Words emerged at a higher pitch and softer than Cybele might have expected.
“I hear the moans. I see the light.” He gestured to the window. “Out there. On the hill.”
His grandparents stared at him, mouths agape. Mr. Spencer recovered first. “Those are more words than the lad’s uttered in a year,” he muttered. “All told.”
“Moaning. In the cave.”
“Cave?” Arthur said sharply. “Where?”
“Oh, no,” Jack said. “Oh, no, oh, no, oh, n—”
“Jack.” His grandmother scowled. “Stop that. You didn’t hear moaning on the hill. You had a dream.”
“No. No dream.” He shoved back his chair. “Moaning. Light. Magic. Out there.” He jumped up and, before anyone could react, ran out of the room. The outer door opened and banged shut. A moment later, Jack ran past the window, heading across the graveled yard.
Cybele looked from Mrs. Spencer to her husband. Neither had moved. “Shouldn’t someone go after him?”
Mr. Spencer sighed and shook his head. “He’s likely gone to check on the kittens. There’s a litter in the barn loft. Jack likes to look in on them before he turns in.”
“He’s a good lad,” his wife said. “Always has been. Never a lick of trouble.”
“Never two words strung together neither,” put in Jack’s grandfather. “Before now.”
Mrs. Spencer looked down at the plates she was stacking. “Lad’s been acting mighty odd these past two days. Ever since that German gent stopped here.” She looked at her husband. “Maybe he’s caught some foreign disease. I’ll have the doctor in tomorrow.”
Mr. Spencer’s expression remained troubled. “Wouldn’t hurt, I reckon.”
***
Maweth was lonely.
He slumped against the curving quicksilver wall, too depressed to even lift his head. He’d wanted to leave the mirror with Lucky and help him out with the assignment Dusek had given him. The angel had no experience with the kind of underhanded task the master had ordered him to perform.
He was sure to feel guilty about it. But would Lucky do the smart thing and turn tail and fly off? Oh, no. Dusek had vowed to take out his anger on Maweth if the angel left. The cherub had solemnly sworn not to.
Stupid angel.
He sure hoped the little guy was okay.
***
Maybe, Michael reflected, it was a good thing Raphael had called him back from Devon. Things had been getting a bit out of hand. Trouble was, the scene he’d witnessed through the window at Tŷ’r Cythraul was burned permanently into his brain. Getting things back in hand wasn’t going to be easy.
He was currently in Prague, carrying out Raphael’s latest orders. His heart, however, yearned for England. His heart—and another part of his anatomy, which, even though it didn’t function properly, insisted on making its needs known.
He couldn’t stop thinking of Cybele. Scenarios and dialogues played like video in his brain. In some scenes, he was himself. In others, he was human. In one incredibly disturbing daydream—one that shamed him to remember—he’d cast himself as a Nephil.
Each time, in every scenario, Cybele turned her back on Arthur and took Michael’s hand. His hand, and his...
No. He had to stop this. Lustful rumination wasn’t healthy. It was, in fact, a sin.
What was she doing this very moment? Bathing? Eating? Copulating? His brain stuttered over that last one. Maybe Gabriel was watching her doing unspeakable things with Arthur right now. The very thought made Michael want to punch something.
His mood was grim as he flew over the old quarter of the city. With effort, he wrenched his mind from Cybele and tried to concentrate on the streetscape below. The medieval city center boasted a veritable forest of church spires. On another day, in another mood, he would have found it beautiful.
He landed on the sidewalk across the street from the Prague Institute for the Study of Man. Michael folded his wings into his back and changed from spirit to flesh form. A bicyclist nearly ran him down.
He leaped out of the way just in time. Get a grip, he told himself sternly, turning his attention to the building before him. As schools of higher learning went, the Institute’s campus was modest. Its facilities consisted of a single, largish seventeenth century mansion, fronting on four lanes of twenty-first century traffic. He peered up at the
baroque façade but could discern nothing that might be happening beyond its windows.
The Institute’s main entrance didn’t front on the public street. It lay beyond a pair of iron gates, tucked inside a central courtyard. A cobblestone carriageway connected the road to the interior yard via a short, barrel-vaulted tunnel.
He crossed the street, ignoring horns and shouts. The intricate scrollwork on the gates had caught his attention. The pattern on the right formed the figure of an angel. Raphael himself, if Michael wasn’t very much mistaken. The flowing robes and gilded wings were unmistakable. True, the proportions of the Sword of Righteous Vengeance were a bit off. But in general, it was an excellent likeness.
The figure on the left was a dark-winged Nephil. The creature rose from a fissure in the earth. It gripped a jagged bolt of hellfire in its left hand, the tip aimed straight at Raphael’s heart. Michael snorted and shook his head. As if his brother could ever be bested by a Nephil.
The gates were closed and locked. Michael pondered his options. He could open the lock, or reassume spirit form and simply pass right through the iron bars. He opted for the former. Interacting with the Institute’s denizens in the flesh might prove more helpful than just drifting through and observing them unseen. With a touch of his fingertip, he sprang the lock’s mechanism and opened the angel side of the gate a couple feet. He walked in and shut the gate behind him.
The courtyard was surprisingly green, planted with trees and flowerbeds within a circular drive. A fountain, topped by a variety of marble statues, occupied the center of the garden. The subject of the artwork was, again, angels and demons, this time locked in hand-to-hand combat. The day was warm for the spring season, with a touch of sun. A handful of students, heads bent over laptops or phones, were scattered about at tables and benches. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Michael scanned the ground. If Fortunato had flown this way, he’d left no trace.
He rounded the fountain and approached the main entrance. Twin mahogany doors, ten feet tall and burnished to a dark, glassy sheen, stood at the top of a marble stair. The stone medallion over the door bore the school’s coat of arms. He was annoyed, yet unsurprised, to note yet another angel/demon motif on the escutcheon. Really, this theme was getting old.