by Joy Nash
“How long do you think this’ll last?” Cybele asked.
“Hell if I know,” Luc said.
“I wish Arthur would wake up.” Cybele’s eyes strayed toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “What if he doesn’t? What’ll we do? We can’t hide in this apartment forever. But we can’t leave, not without Arthur. He’s the only one who can stand up to Mab.”
“Every adept in Demon’s Hollow is Mab’s thrall,” Luc conceded. “Except Evander, of course, but we both know our father is a coward. But...do you remember the challenge after Arthur’s father was killed?”
“Of course I remember. The British Druids arrived in Texas barely a day after Mab arrived with Arthur.” Cybele had caught only a glimpse of the frightened boy before Mab had thrown him into the cellar.
“You remember any of them?” Luc pressed.
“I remember the one who dueled with Mab,” Cybele said. “The Scot. Magnus. The rest of them surrendered their touchstones and flew the hell back to England as quick as lightning after she killed him.”
Mab had never called the British Druids back to Texas again. She’d told them Arthur was dead. She hadn’t wanted them to discover the truth.
“There were at least ten,” Luc said, “including dormants.”
“None of the kids were older than us,” she said. “They wouldn’t be adepts yet. What does it matter?”
“I just wonder where they all are now.”
“Who cares? Mab took their touchstones and forced them to accept her rubies. They all pledged fealty to her.”
“Fealty isn’t like being enthralled,” Luc said. “It’s not a lifetime vow. The promise can be broken.”
“If any of them were strong enough to beat Mab, they would’ve done it seven years ago. I doubt any of them are going to step up to the plate now. If they tried to kill her and lost, they’d end up in Oblivion. Or wearing a thrall collar.”
“No one’s going to be dueling Mab,” a voice behind her said. “Except me.”
Cybele spun around. “Arthur!”
TWENTY-THREE
Arthur braced one arm against the wall. He felt like death warmed over and knew he looked worse. He’d hardly recognized himself in the bedroom mirror. A tap on the shoulder would likely send him crashing to the floor.
If a crushing sense of relief didn’t send him there first. Cybele was alive. Alive and...his eyes narrowed. Alive and here with Luc? What the fuck?
She gave a cry and rushed him. He held up a hand before she could knock into him. She halted, uncertainly, a few steps away.
His chin jerked. “What’s he doing here? Where’s his mistress?”
“Arthur.” Cybele put a hand on his arm. “It’s okay. Mab doesn’t know where we are.”
He eyed Luc’s thrall collar. “Unless the bitch is dead, she’s searching. When he casts magic, she’ll know which direction to look.”
Luc’s expression went hard, but he made no reply.
“He hasn’t cast any magic. And besides, she can’t see into—” Cybele tugged Arthur toward a sagging blue sofa. “Sit down and I’ll explain.”
He let her guide him, because, bugger it all, his legs were shaky. He made it to the couch and sat down heavily. Bracing his elbows on his thighs, he bowed his head and willed the room to stop spinning.
Cybele sank down beside him. An old telly, on a stand in the corner, was on.
“—speaking with Helena Grant-Barclay, professor of geology at the University of Cambridge. Dr. Grant-Barclay, what do you make of this catastrophic situation?”
“Brooke, the eruption in Wales has shocked the scientific community. The notion that an active volcanic system exists in the UK is not something research has heretofore uncovered.”
Arthur looked up. “Volcano?”
“But there have been several earthquakes in the UK in recent years,” the reporter protested. “Including, I’m told, a tremor in Wales. Weren’t those events red flags?”
“Not necessarily,” the geologist replied. “Most tremors aren’t caused by volcanic activity. Movement is common at major tectonic boundaries, such as those between continents. Minor fault lines exist throughout Scotland, Kent, and the Home Counties. UK monitoring stations record hundreds of tremors each year. Out of these, only ten or so are strong enough to be felt by the public.”
“I see. But tremors can be also caused by volcanic activity, can they not?”
“That is very true,” Dr. Grant-Barclay allowed. “There are more than sixty active volcanoes in Europe. The Icelandic volcanoes—most notably Eyjafjallajökull and Bárðarbunga—are extremely active on the boundary of the Eurasian and North American plates. A large volcanic system also exists beneath the Cheb Basin on the German-Czech border, which has, in recent years, seen clusters of quakes and evidence of magma moving toward the surface.”
“No hint of such activity was detected in Wales?”
Dr. Grant-Barclay gave a terse shake of her head. “No. It was not. The Carmarthen eruption has, in a word, astounded the scientific world.”
“The eruption has been going on for more than two days,” the reporter continued. “Can you—”
“What?” Arthur jerked his head toward Cybele. “Two days? Is that true?”
“—an idea as to how long it will last?”
“Unfortunately, no,” the geologist said. “These events are difficult to predict. It may be days, weeks, or perhaps even months before the eruption subsides.”
The reporter received this prognosis with a grave expression. “Thank you, Dr. Grant-Barclay, for your insight. We go now to Glangwili General Hospital in Carmarthen, for a report on casualties. We’ve received word that the hospital, which lies just two miles from the eruption, is in the process of evacuating all its patients to Swansea—”
“Enough babble.” Luc pointed the remote at the TV. The sound cut off, though the picture played on.
“Two days.” Arthur eyed the silent screen where a new reporter was attempting an interview with a harried doctor amid a panicked stream of gurneys and wheelchairs. “Two fucking days.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’ve really been out that long?”
“More like a two and a half days,” Cybele said.
From the dark circles under Cybele’s eyes, he guessed she’d been awake much of that time. “No wonder I’m so goddamned thirsty,” he muttered.
Luc disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with water. Arthur drained the glass and set it down on the coffee table. He hoped his stomach wouldn’t heave it out again.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Do you want more?” Cybele asked.
“Not right now.” He rose, swaying dangerously. Cybele jumped up to help him. He waved her off and made his way to the window. He peered skyward through the glass.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He turned and sagged against the wall. “There must be millions of those things up there. Because of me.” He closed his eyes briefly. “Where the hell are we, anyway?”
“London,” Cybele said.
“How?”
Cybele and Luc exchanged glances. Neither looked particularly anxious to answer. Arthur’s attention sharpened. “What’s going on?”
“Go ahead,” Luc told his sister, “tell him. See if he can make any more sense of it than I can.”
Cybele sighed and did as her brother asked. When she’d finished, Arthur regarded her with frank incredulity. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “While I was fighting Raphael, the Archangel Michael saved you from Dusek? And then threw me and Luc into the bargain just because you asked him to?”
“That’s what I said,” Cybele said irritably. “Because that’s what happened.”
“I don’t doubt that. You could hardly make up something so ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” Cybele’s tone took on a sharp edge. “What’s so ridiculous about you not being dead?” She crossed her arms. “You know, he said you wouldn’t be grateful.”
“He was r
ight,” Arthur said. “This whole business is dodgy. No archangel doles out free favors to Nephilim. Michael must have some kind of agenda.”
“That’s just what I told her,” Luc said.
“I have no idea why he did it,” Cybele said, her eyes sliding momentarily away. She fiddled with the end of her braid, and then flipped the long rope over her shoulder. “I was too busy worrying about both your asses to ask him.”
“The archangel didn’t stop with saving our lives,” Luc said. “He left us Merlin’s staff.”
Arthur went still. “The staff? It’s here?”
“Yes. Luc left it in the kitchen.” Cybele unfolded her legs and rose from the couch. A moment later she returned, carrying the two halves of Merlin’s staff.
Arthur stood as she approached. “It’s broken?”
“Michael said Raphael cracked it in half with his sword.” Cybele handed him the pieces. “Don’t you remember?”
“No. Not really.”
“Michael also said you might be able to mend it.”
“Fucking Michael again,” Arthur muttered, ignoring Cybele’s scowl as he examined the broken staff. He ran his hand along the twisted wood but felt nothing. The crystal, which he’d last seen brilliant with Merlin’s magic, was dark.
“Luc’s right. Why would Michael give this to me? His brother nearly killed me over it.”
“He thinks that if you can make it whole, you may be able to drive the hellfiends back into Hell. Like Merlin did.”
“And die like Merlin did? I’m sure he’d be happy about that.” He passed his palm over the upper arc of the crystal, in its setting of oak, rowan, and yew. A spark, like static electricity on a cold day, jolted his thumb. He couldn’t be sure, though, if it was magic.
“Do you feel anything?” Cybele asked.
“I don’t know.” Balancing the lower half of the staff on the floor, he fitted the upper piece to it. The break was jagged, but no wood seemed to have been lost—the pieces matched perfectly. He wrapped both hands around the joining. Drawing focus from his mother’s touchstone, he called his magic.
“It’s got to be dead,” Luc muttered under his breath. “Michael never would have left it here otherwise.”
Arthur closed his eyes, concentrating. A current of electricity, faint but unmistakable, ran through his body. His arms went rigid. The moonstone, in contact with his chest, warmed.
“Wait,” Cybele whispered. “Luc, look.”
Arthur opened his eyes. Tendrils of flame, unfurling from his hands, licked up and down the staff. Magic caressed the ancient woods, weaving a pattern of light.
He tightened his grip. His breath became shallow, barely deep enough to keep him from passing out. Was this magic his own doing? He wasn’t quite sure. It almost seemed the staff was the initiator, calling Arthur’s magic into itself. But that was absurd.
A glow, emanating from deep within the wood, turned the staff translucent. First, in the vicinity of Arthur’s hands. Then spreading up and down along the staff’s length. The wood took on the appearance of clear glass. The light touched the crystal touchstone.
Sparks formed in the heart of the orb. Tiny pinpoints of white brilliance wafted to the crystal’s surface. Breaking through, they manifested in the air.
The sparks spun wildly, engulfing the touchstone in a sphere of evanescence. Arthur kept his gaze trained on it. His awareness of anything else—of Cybele, of Luc, of the dingy flat—faded to nothingness.
The vibration was slight at first—so slight he didn’t understand what it portended. He felt it in his hands, in his arms, in his chest. The moonstone heated and burned. The oscillations mounted. Still, he didn’t comprehend what was happening. Not until the disturbance invaded his skull and shook the very substance of his brain.
Memories—dark and light, violent and peaceful, vengeful and tender—exploded into Arthur’s awareness. All that his ancestors had been, all that was left of their brief existence, flashed to life inside their heir. From Alwen to Merlin and farther back still to the first step of his ancestors on Britannia’s shore. Years—centuries—flew past. Arthur remembered his ancestors’ first northern migration. Before that flight, their home had been in the ancient deserts. They had been cursed—tossed on the churning waters of the Flood—by Raphael’s vengeful sword.
It was too much. He couldn’t hold it all. Not within his finite flesh. Life, death, joy, and grief. Guilt and shame. Hopelessness. Experience, emotion, magic. The power of Arthur’s line and its eternal curse. No one person—even a Nephil—could hope to contain such a legacy.
“Luc! Watch out!”
Arthur was only dimly aware of Cybele’s shout. It was lost amid the ringing in his ears and the brilliance filling his vision. Power—power he hadn’t called and couldn’t hope to control—kindled in his core. It raced down his arms. It streamed into the staff.
Light exploded. A brilliant bolt of magic shot from the crystal. Luc cried out. Something crashed. Another surge of power wracked Arthur’s body. It entered the staff, raced upward to the crystal, and sprayed in every direction. A loud cracking sound. Bits of gritty debris, raining down on his head.
More curses. More shouting.
“What the hell is he doing?”
“I don’t know, but we gotta—”
“Cybele! Get down!”
A flash of green hellfire erupted. It wasn’t Arthur’s magic. Whose? Where the hell had it come from?
“Arthur!” Cybele’s desperate scream came to him as if from the other side of the globe. “Arthur, stop! Stop it now! You’ll kill us all!”
Stop. The word spun in his brain. Could he stop? Or would his magic destroy all? Would he come out of this to find Cybele dead on the floor?
The thought triggered a shock of panic. His magic deserted him. The suddenness of the loss sent Arthur staggering backward.
His hip impacted the floor. Pain shot through his body. He rolled, carrying the staff with him. He ended up with his face in the carpet, his mouth filled with plaster dust, his body curled protectively around Merlin’s crystal orb.
For several long moments, silence—complete and utter silence—reigned.
Then Luc’s low mutter intruded. “Son of a bitch. What the fuck just happened?”
Arthur turned his head toward the sound and opened his eyes. Luc and Cybele crouched under the dining table, their bodies shielded behind two overturned chairs. One had a round, burnt hole in the center of the seat.
Cybele started to push the chairs away. Luc caught her wrist. “Wait,” he said, his voice rough. “Might not be safe yet.”
“I don’t care. I—”
Arthur pushed up on all fours, head bowed. The staff lay on the carpet under him, amid a crumbling mosaic of plaster and dust. The transparency was gone. The twisted woods no longer looked like glass. But the shaft was whole again, the top melded to the bottom. He looked for a seam where he’d joined the broken pieces. There was none. It was as if it had never been damaged.
He raised his head and dropped back onto his haunches. The air was cloudy. Chunks of ceiling covered the carpet. Cybele shoved a chair aside and crawled out from under the table. Luc followed her more slowly. They looked ghostly, their faces and clothes covered with plaster dust.
“Are you all right?” Arthur asked quietly. He might have killed them.
“Yes,” Cybele said quickly.
“No thanks to you.” Luc glared at him. “What the hell was that?”
Arthur lurched to his feet. Too quickly—the room went spinning. He pitched forward, avoiding Cybele’s outstretched arms and grabbing the edge of the table instead. Cybele shoved a chair under him. He lowered himself into it.
She eyed him uncertainly. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he muttered.
“What happened?” Luc asked.
“Memories.” Arthur rubbed the spot between his eyes. “Too many memories.”
Cybele eyed him. “Merlin’s?”
“Yes. Merli
n’s. And so many others. They were like...like tornados inside my skull.” He slumped against the chair back. “Is that...do I smell coffee?”
“I’ll get you some.” Luc glanced from Arthur to Cybele, then disappeared into the kitchen.
Cybele, kneeling, retrieved Merlin’s staff from the floor. “You did it,” she said, looking at him wonderingly. “You fixed it.”
“And almost killed you and Luc in the process.”
“Luc’s hellfire blocked the worse of it.” She bent her head over the staff and ran her fingers over the wood. “You fixed it, Arthur. You can’t even see where it was broken.”
A dull thump sounded overhead. They both looked up at the ceiling.
A second thump. And another.
“What the hell?” Luc, coming from the kitchen, set a steaming coffee mug on the plaster-covered table.
Cybele shrugged. “I guess our upstairs neighbor isn’t happy with all the noise we’re making down here.”
Luc frowned. “There is no upstairs neighbor. This is the top floor.”
A rapid volley shook the ceiling, the impacts coming too quickly to count.
“Something’s hitting the roof.” Cybele ran to the window. “Shit! It’s the hellfiends. They’re falling out of the sky.”
Luc made a beeline toward the door, Arthur close behind. Cybele, after a moment’s hesitation, grabbed the staff and followed them. The stairwell at the end of the corridor led up to the roof as well as down to the lower floors. They raced to the upper landing. Luc kicked open the door.
A hailstorm of hellfiends rained down on the roof. Each creature exploded in a burst of ash and flame as it hit. The unholy shower was already abating, perhaps because the demons were learning to avoid the airspace directly above the building. The fiends flew right and left around it, as though aware of some invisible threat.
Fewer and fewer demons fell, until at last the barrage stopped. Arthur strode onto the roof from shelter of the stairwell. Cybele and Luc followed him. He tipped his head back. Dark, roiling clouds of hellfiends covered the rest of the city, but directly overhead, the sky was brilliant blue.