by Joy Nash
***
The ground shook. Golden light filled the cave.
Cybele rolled, hissing with the pain of it. She fought to push her body upright. Dusek’s dirty gold hellfire wrapped her wrists and ankles. Halfway up, she fell over again. Light—brilliant, terrible light—blotted out everything. What the hell was happening?
“Stop. In the name of the Heaven, I adjure you!”
Somehow she managed to jackknife into a sitting position. That voice. It vibrated with splendor. She blinked against the glare, trying to see the speaker amid all the glory. The light was shifting, gathering at a single point, thinning everywhere else. Cybele stared as the mass resolved into a shimmering male form.
Golden sandals encased his feet. Long robes, alight from within, whipped about his legs. Glorious wings with gilt-edged feathers rose above his blond head. His face was almost unbearably beautiful, from his amber eyes to the solid jut of his chin. A bejeweled sword, held aloft in his right hand, blazed like the sun.
Holy shit.
Cybele knew a few things about angels, though she’d never actually seen one. Lesser angels—cherubim and seraphim—were nothing to worry about. Cherubim were childlike creatures, eternally at play. Seraphim didn’t do much besides play harps and sing.
The being standing before her was no cherub or seraph. Wave after wave of celestial magic poured from his body. Righteous fury flared from his blade. This, she thought dazedly, was the third type of angel. The deadly type.
Archangel.
The word caused her body to go cold. Human children grew up hearing stories about bogeymen and monsters under their beds. Nephil young were weaned on tales of Heaven’s avengers. There were three. Arthur’s silver messenger, Gabriel. This golden one was Raphael, the warrior who once waged a war of genocide against the Nephilim. His righteous sword had sent countless Nephilim to Oblivion.
It looked as though Raphael sorely wanted to add Arthur to the body count. Arthur, who currently lay sprawled on his ass beside Merlin’s staff. Dusek stood nearby. The eyes of both adepts glowed a furious red.
“Arthur Camulus.” Golden flame leapt from Raphael’s sword, tangling with the sparks of Merlin’s crystal orb. “Do not move. Not one muscle.”
Arthur jumped to his feet.
The angel went white with fury. “Michael,” he barked. Almost instantly, a second figure appeared, heralded by a clap of thunder. Cybele blinked hard. Michael? Could this newcomer truly be the third archangel?
If so, he certainly didn’t look the part. For one thing, he wasn’t fair, but olive-skinned. Dark stubble covered his firm jaw. His eyes were the color of bittersweet chocolate, his body whipcord lean. Oddly, he wore human clothing rather than celestial robes. Cybele’s gaze took in black combat boots...black jeans...black shirt topped by a black vintage military jacket. The jacket’s silver frog fasteners, hanging undone, were the only light thing about him.
His wings—dark bronze and beautiful—rose above him. With smooth movement, he slid a switchblade from his right sleeve into his open palm. His fingers closed around the hilt. The blade snapped open. It was no righteous sword, but Cybele had no trouble believing that, in Michael’s hand, the blade was every bit as lethal as his golden brother’s fiery weapon.
She couldn’t take her eyes from him. As if he’d felt her scrutiny, his head whipped around. Their eyes locked. He didn’t look away. A wave of heat swept over her, starting at her feet, flowing up her legs, her torso, her breasts and shoulders. Her face flamed. Some vital emotion—she wasn’t exactly sure what—flared in his eyes.
The hellfire lashes on her wrists and ankles vanished.
What the—? She scrambled to her feet, rubbing her wrists. She had no time to wonder about her unexpected release, however. Her eyes darted toward Arthur, then back to the archangels. Raw fear sliced through her as Raphael leveled the point of his flaming sword at Arthur’s heart.
“Step away from that accursed implement of destruction, demon spawn.”
“Bollocks to that.” Arthur grabbed for the staff. A golden bolt shot from the sword, striking his wrist. He jerked back, spitting curses. His foot collided with something on the ground. A skull. It skittered across rock, splashed into the water, and sank out of view.
“Leave this place, Nephil. Never to return.”
“Merlin’s staff is my birthright,” Arthur shouted back. “No goddamned archangel is going to stop me from claiming it.”
“Make a move toward that staff and your next step will be into Oblivion.”
Arthur’s wings lifted. “Why wait? Kill me now.”
“He cannot.” The answer, surprisingly, came from Dusek. “Heaven’s punishment comes after sin. Not before.” The Alchemist turned mocking eyes on the archangel. “You can’t stop Arthur from claiming Merlin’s staff. You also know that once it is in his hands, it will be too late to prevent the consequence you fear.”
What consequence was that? Judging from Raphael’s reaction, it would be bad, at least as far as Heaven was concerned. The archangel’s expression went dark as a thundercloud. Was that a hint of panic in his golden eyes? Cybele’s gaze darted to Michael. Her head went back sharply when she found him looking not at Arthur, but at her. She blinked and his gaze shifted.
Raphael spoke. “Merlin, for all his nefarious doings, embedded his staff in that stone in protection of humanity. Remove it, Arthur, and you betray him.”
“He lies,” Dusek hissed. “He fears Merlin’s magic. He will do anything to prevent its reawakening. The staff is yours, Arthur. Take it. Claim it. Now.”
Arthur looked to the staff, then back at Raphael. His resolve seemed to waver. Cybele inched closer to the water’s edge—as if moving closer was going to help Arthur decide. How could it? She had no idea what he should do.
The moment drew out in silence, measured by the pounding beat of her heart.
Arthur stepped back.
Raphael lowered his sword.
Dusek spat a curse. His powerful dark wings, already raised, swept downward. Almost before Cybele understood that she was his destination, he was on her.
“Arthur!” She tried to fight. Dusek spun her around like a rag doll. He jerked her up against his chest. His forearm pressed her windpipe. His mouth opened on her left temple, his breath moist against her skin.
Nausea and panic churned. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. The pressure on her throat increased. Dark spots blotted the edge of her vision.
She clawed at his arm. Dusek swiped his tongue wetly across her cheek. “Do not struggle. You are mine now.”
EIGHTEEN
Arthur didn’t trust the archangel. Not one bit. But he had no wish to be skewered on the point of Raphael’s flaming sword. At least with the archangels present, Dusek wouldn’t get his hands on Merlin’s staff, either. That was something.
He stepped away. One tense moment later, Raphael’s shoulders relaxed. He lowered his sword.
“Arthur!”
His head whipped around. Dusek hauled Cybele up against his body, his arm across her throat. She fought like a wild thing. They were near the edge of the cave. A couple more steps and they’d disappear into the maze of tunnels. If Dusek told the truth and whatever angel had been inhabiting Jack’s body was now secure in the Alchemist’s mirror, the Nephil could carry Cybele through the celestial seal and disappear before Arthur could stop him.
Unless...
Arthur lunged for Merlin’s staff. This time, both hands closed on gnarled wood. Bracing his legs wide, he pulled with all his strength. With no resistance at all, the twisted branch slipped free. Arthur fell backward, clutching the staff to his chest.
“Fool.” Raphael, sword ablaze, leapt across the water. Arthur, still sprawled on his arse, swept the head of the staff before him. Hissing steam, shooting from the hole where the staff had been, momentarily obscured his view across the water. By the time his line of sight cleared, Cybele and Dusek were gone.
He jumped to his feet, wings aloft,
intent on launching himself after them. His flight was blocked by Raphael. The archangel landed before him, brandishing his flaming sword and shrieking with fury.
“Cursed Nephil. What have you done?”
“Out of my way.” Arthur feinted left and dove right. The archangel wasn’t fooled. Half-obscured by the hissing steam, his sword raised above his head, Raphael blocked Arthur’s escape.
Arthur raised the staff, holding it crosswise in both hands like a fighting stick. The crystal orb flashed. The angel’s sword came down. Golden blade bit twisted wood. Shock reverberated through Arthur’s body. Magic raced up his arms and across his shoulders.
It exploded in his brain.
And with the magic came memory.
***
“You are so beautiful,” said Merlin.
Nimue’s lashes swept downward, as if to deny her lover’s fervent praise. How could she be shy after what they’d just shared? But she was young, Merlin told himself. Young and uncertain. Whereas he was old and filled with regrets.
She made him feel new.
Perhaps that was why he’d brought her to the place where he’d met his Ordeal. Here, on the island in the center of the pool. He’d nearly died here, nearly gone mad. But in the end, he’d triumphed. Magic greater than any he should have been able to possess had come to him.
The underworld was very close to the surface in this cave. To his attuned senses, it pulsed like a heartbeat. Had his demon powers been worth the price? In the past he had not doubted it. Now, he was less sure. Of a certainty, there had been victories. Important work done on behalf of his human brothers and sisters. In the end, though, betrayal had found the High King—in the guises of his lover, his best friend, and even, most tragically, his son. Fragile alliances had shattered. War and corruption had followed. Merlin had poured his heart and magic into salvaging the wreckage. To no avail. In the end, humanity had ended up no better off than when he had started.
“What are you thinking, my lord?”
He shoved the past into a dark corner of his mind and turned his attention to the light of the woman before him. “Nothing important, my dear. Only of how foolish I have been.”
She smiled. “Never foolish. You are a wonder to me. So wise. So strong.”
Merlin knew he was neither, but his vanity soaked up her adulation nonetheless. “And you are perfect,” he told her.
She sat up, her naked breasts swaying softly. He found it incredible that she was able to give herself so completely. When he’d found her, she’d been close to ending her own life. She’d been ravished, she told him, by a Saxon. She’d left her violator’s child at the door of a monastery and entered the forest. She had intended to do herself the ultimate harm.
He’d taken her into his care. After all his failures, it had felt good to bring peace and healing to one woman. A witch, he sensed. He would nurture her magic, he decided, teach her to defend herself from future attack.
He hadn’t thought to make her his lover. But somehow, Nimue had burrowed her way into his heart and from there, into his bed. He’d been honored that she had chosen him after all she’d endured.
The sable furs he’d spread upon the stone for her comfort provided sumptuous dark contrast to her fair skin. She crawled across the fur to him on lithe slender limbs. His gaze clung to her rounded bottom. His erection, so recently spent, thickened anew.
She reached him and pressed a kiss to his chest. “Will you show me?” She arched her back and peered up at him through her lashes. “Will you teach me?”
“Magic?” He frowned down at her.
She licked a line up his neck and nibbled at his jaw. “Yes.”
Though it was the last thing he wished to do, he set his hands on her shoulders and eased her away. Kneeling before him, her bottom on her heels, she gave him a questioning look. “Well?”
“You are not a Nephil,” he said.
She lifted her arms and stretched like a cat, her back arching. Her breasts filled his vision. He reached for her and they filled his hands as well.
She draped her arms over his shoulders, smiling and squirming as his fingers plucked at her nipples. “I have...some small talent.”
“Small talent is not enough,” he told her gently.
“But...may I at least try?” Her teeth nipped at his earlobe, her tongue teased his ear. Her hands drifted down his chest, his stomach, his...
Ahhhhh. “You make me feel young again,” he murmured.
She looked down and smiled. “You are not old.”
Not true—he’d lived more than a century. His natural life span was nearing its end. Soon enough, he would enter Oblivion. But just now, as Nimue’s clever mouth joined her clever hands, he didn’t feel his age. He lay back, enjoying his passivity. Pleasure rushed upon him, blanking past and future from his mind. A welcome relief.
When it was over, she lay curled at his side. She ran her fingers over his chest, tangling into crisp dark hairs that had only recently begun to harbor a sprinkle of white.
“Will you show me how to call magic, my love?” Playfully, she tweaked his nipple. “I promise not to be disappointed when I fail.”
He smiled down at her. What could it hurt? “All right.”
They rose and pulled on their robes. Merlin was sorry to see Nimue’s body covered. But her pale skin and long limbs would be bare again, he promised himself, as soon as this demonstration was over. He retrieved his staff, which he’d laid on the ground nearby. He stood it upright between them and bid her close her hands around it, in the space between his own.
“Can you feel it? Can you feel the magic within?”
Twin lines of concentration appeared between her eyebrows. “Y-yes. Perhaps.”
Her fingers tightened. Merlin covered her hands with his. Closing his eyes, he sent his power coursing through her into the wood.
The orb—his crystal touchstone—flared to life. Nimue flinched, as if struck by subtle lightning.
“Too strong?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered. “Not too strong. Teach me. Please.”
“The magic must flow freely,” he said. “Druid magic is fluid. Emotional, yet anchored in solid stone and wood. At its simplest level, it is mere illusion, but when skillfully wrought, it is more, much more. A powerful Druid may cause illusion to become reality. Truth, created at will. Do you understand?”
“I...I think so. But how may such a great magic be wrought?”
“Imagine. Then put your will behind the imagining.”
Her eyes found his. “That sounds so easy. Is it truly so?”
“It is simple,” he said. “Not easy.”
“Show me.”
He ignored a flutter of unease. “Perhaps something small,” he said. “Let us think of...a flower. A red rose in half bloom. Let us send the image into the orb.”
“All right.”
A picture of a half-blown rose sprang into his mind. He imagined the rose flowing down his arms into his hands, his fingers, into the wood of the staff. From there the image lifted, traveling through the twisted branch. The touchstone flared white as it received the intention. A shower of sparks rained down. Moments passed, intervals of time blending one to the other. Merlin poured his magic into his mental image of the rose. It came to life, first in illusion then in form, shape, and substance. Roots, stem, leaves, petals. When it was done, he let out a breath and released his creation into the world.
A thorny bush, bearing a single, red, half-blown rose, stood before them, rooted in the rock of the cave.
Nimue gasped in wonder. “It is not an illusion?”
“No,” he said. “It is real.”
She approached the rose reverently and bent to touch its petals. “It is true.” She turned to him, her eyes shining. “You are...like a god.”
He felt unequal to her praise. “It’s a useless god,” he murmured, “who cannot order the world to his purpose.”
But the girl was not listening. She eased the staff from his han
ds. “Let me try,” she pleaded. “Alone.”
“Alone,” he said, “you cannot succeed. You are not Nephil.”
“Then I will fail,” she said, “ever grateful for whatever pale taste of your vast power I may touch.” Her eyes pleaded. “I beg you, Merlin, let me try.”
He gave the staff into her keeping and backed away. The attempt could do no harm. Nimue gave him a brilliant smile before turning to face the rose. With both hands gripping the staff, she let her head fall back. Merlin watched the cascade of her glorious dark hair. The ends brushed the curves of her bottom, visible through the drape of her robe.
It was, perhaps, because Merlin’s attention was on Nimue’s buttocks and not her magic, that he did not realize what was happening until it was too late.
His touchstone turned dark. It released a burst of silver-black sparks. Merlin was aghast—his magic was white, pure white. He had no time to ponder the anomaly. The ground beneath his feet rolled and split, opening a fissure between himself and Nimue. The portion of the island upon which he stood heaved sharply upward. He lost his balance. He stumbled backward and landed on his arse in the water.
Hissing steam shot from the fissure. Through the veil of white, he could see that Nimue had not moved. She stood like a statue, her head thrown back, both hands gripping the staff. A dark nimbus enveloped her body. Silver sparks traveled down her arms and whirled like a tornado around the staff.
The steam began to wail. The air exploded with the rotten scent of sulfur. Merlin lurched to his feet only to be knocked down again by the ground’s next shuddering tremor. The water was heating rapidly. He crawled on hands and knees onto the stone.
A small figure emerged from the deep. Merlin regarded it in horror. Its body, lumpy and potato-like, was so darkly red as to be almost black. Its head was mostly round, with a pointed chin and ears, blunt horns, and blazing red eyes. Thin, awkward limbs unfolded, aided in balance by a curved rat tail. When the thing at last gained its feet, a pair of bat wings snapped up from its back.
It rose into the air. As it did so, another like it popped out of the fissure. Then another and another until there were too many to count.