by E. G. Foley
“Uncle Boris, what’s wrong with you?” Welton asked, scrunching up his big, pointy nose.
Alarmed, Badgerton took another drink of water and forced out a cough. He wanted to answer them, but again, nothing came out.
He could only mouth, I seem to have lost my voice.
All three children looked puzzled and astonished, and then they burst out laughing, not realizing the seriousness of the situation.
“Uncle Boris, stop teasing us!” Welton said.
“I dunno.” Charlie scrutinized Badgerton. “He looks a little…funny.”
“You’re thick,” Prue retorted. “Uncle Boris just doesn’t want to admit he knows I’m the best because he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
But, in truth, Uncle Boris was starting to panic.
He gulped down the rest of his water, cleared his throat a few more times to no avail, and then, heart pounding, throat itching madly, he excused himself from the table by crude sign language.
The triplets whined at his abrupt departure, but he had to get back to his own rooms. This was no allergic reaction. He was only a shapeshifter, but he knew magic when it was inflicted on him.
Who could do such a thing to an Elder? Who would dare?
Could Wyvern be behind this?
The thought filled Badgerton with dread.
True, the tunnel he’d promised the Nephilim lord was not yet finished, but why would that madman resort to this sort of low, dirty trick? Just to get his attention?
Unfortunately, when Badgerton fled back to his private suite, he got an answer that he desperately despised.
Upon opening the door to his apartments, the first thing he saw was a sealed letter lying on the floor, just beyond the threshold. Someone must have pushed it under the door.
Stepping in, he quickly shut the door behind him, then bent and picked up the note.
Perhaps this would contain some sort of explanation for his intolerable predicament.
His throat itching away, he quickly tore the letter open, and there, lo and behold, was an official communique from none other than Sir Peter Quince.
MEMORANDUM
FROM THE DESK OF THE CHANCELLOR
To: All Elders and Department Heads
Dear Ladies and Gentlemen:
In the coming days, all Elders and department heads are hereby requested to make themselves available for an interview with our panel of empaths. A security concern has arisen, and we wish to remove all possibility of suspicion from your names. We regret to inform you that while, rest assured, these interviews are only a formality, they are mandatory. All staff members will submit to questioning.
We thank you in advance for your cooperation. Should you wish to bring legal representation, you may do so at your own expense.
Please notify Jillian with your availability so we can add you to the schedule. The interviews will require less than an hour of your time.
Full transparency is advised.
Cordially yours,
Sir Peter Quince
Badgerton clutched his chest and felt himself turn white as soon as he finished reading. He skimmed the letter again all the way through twice, then flung it away from him with a silent shriek.
His mind raced. They know! They clearly know now there’s an informant. They’ve done a silencing spell and now they want to question us.
As soon as they see I’ve lost my voice, they’ll know it’s me!
A cold sweat sprang out on his brow as he realized he was as good as caught already.
Locking the door behind him, he walked on shaky legs over to the cabinet where he had hidden the black calling candle Wyvern had given him. Lord, Badgerton wished he’d never laid eyes on that dreadful Nephilim, but it was too late to find his conscience now.
Badgerton tried three times to light the candle, but his hands were shaking too badly. Then he realized he did not even have a voice with which to tell Wyvern the situation.
He gave up on the candle for the moment and yanked out a piece of paper and a pencil, then wrote out a simple message in big block letters:
HELP! SILENCING SPELL!
I’M ABOUT TO GET CAUGHT!
He pressed so hard in his fright that he snapped the pencil tip, but the message was clear enough. Short, to the point. I like it.
Now the candle.
Again, he burned through several matches, striking one after another in his effort to light the blasted thing, his throat itching madly all the while. If he were in possession of his voice, he’d be cursing up a storm at that moment.
Finally, he managed to get the stupid thing lit after a few more tries.
To his relief, the wick caught; the flame gleamed in the dim of a chilly October evening. As the smoke curled in a gray cloud above the calling candle the warlock had given him, Badgerton waited anxiously for his co-conspirator to appear. He rubbed his hands together, frigid with fear as he sat down across from his desk where the sinister candle sent out its message through the ethers.
It seemed to take forever, but finally, Wyvern’s face appeared in the smoke.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, squinting out of the smoke. “Oh. It’s you.”
Badgerton threw up his hands in frustration.
“Well? What do you want?” Wyvern demanded.
Badgerton held up the message he’d written for Wyvern to see.
The warlock didn’t look. “Why aren’t you talking? Don’t be annoying, Badgerton. I’m busy. Tell me what’s the matter.”
Badgerton gestured frantically at his mouth and pointed to his throat, made a few choking sounds to demonstrate, then held up the note insistently again.
“What’s this?” Wyvern’s smoky head leaned closer as he peered at the note, looking irritated.
Badgerton moved the paper closer so he could see, nearly catching it on fire.
“Oh bloody— A silencing spell? When did this happen?”
Badgerton tried to gesture that it had just occurred, but Wyvern quickly grew frustrated by this vexing game of charades.
“Hold on. Let me get my wand. I’ll fix you.” Wyvern shook his smoky head at him, then withdrew.
Badgerton sat very still and waited, wide-eyed with anxiety. A moment later, Wyvern reappeared with his wand. He closed his eyes for a long moment, inhaled through his Roman nose, then spoke an incantation in low, garbled syllables, as though he were speaking backward.
It was dreadful to listen to, that warlock language. But the itching in Badgerton’s throat eased, and all of a sudden, he could talk again.
“Ack!” he said. He coughed a few times and cleared his throat. “Oh, thank goodness!”
Wyvern stared dully at him. “Explain. Now.”
“Ahem! They must’ve realized there’s a spy in the palace, my lord,” Badgerton whispered as loudly as he dared. “I was at dinner with the children when my voice disappeared for no reason!”
Wyvern gave a sage nod. “A silencing spell. Probably what I would do to a spy. For starters.”
“Then I came back to my rooms and there was a letter under the door. They’re assembling a panel of empaths to interrogate all of the staff members. They want everyone to schedule with them. Including me!”
“Calm down. At least now you can talk,” Wyvern said. He thought for a moment. “I daresay we ought to turn their suspicions onto someone else, don’t you think?”
Badgerton’s eyes widened. “Oh yes, good idea, my lord!”
“Who do you think cast this spell on you? The Bradford witch?”
He frowned. “Hmm, no, I doubt it. She’s reluctant to use magic except in emergencies. It had to be Sir Peter. He’s the one who sent out this letter.”
“Quince,” Wyvern said with a sneer. A snaky gleam came into his eyes. “Wants you to schedule with his wife, you say?”
Badgerton nodded anxiously.
“Dear Sir Peter’s quite smitten with the little lady. Isn’t he?” Wyvern hissed, his pupils flickering longwise.
&n
bsp; “Y-yes, my lord. Revoltingly so—even though she’s nothing but a common mortal.”
“Perfect,” Wyvern murmured. “Leave this to me. As for you, Boris, you need you get out there and finish the blasted tunnel. Tonight.”
“Tonight? You can’t be serious—”
“You said it’s almost done.”
“Yes, b-but— Don’t you understand? They know there’s a mole! You’ve got to get me out of here before I’m caught!”
“Boris. Calm down and listen carefully.” Wyvern’s smoky head grew larger and stared imposingly at Badgerton. “That memorandum from Peter Quince proves the time has come to act. They already know they have a mole. I don’t intend to give the Elders any more time to prepare for my attack.
“We are coming. Tonight. And, by Shemrazul’s horns, if that tunnel is not finished when I get there, well, you remember my owl.”
Badgerton gulped. Oh, he remembered.
“You would never dream of reneging on our agreement, I’m sure?” Wyvern said.
“N-n-no, o-of course not, my lord. I-I just thought it might be prudent to postpone until things calm down around here—”
“No. My hour is at hand. You go finish the tunnel while I cast suspicion elsewhere to distract and confuse them. How long do you need until you can break through to the other side?”
Badgerton thought about it. “Four hours.”
“Perfect,” Wyvern growled. He glanced downward, probably at his fob watch. “It’s seven now. We’ll be there by midnight. And my lord shapeshifter?”
“Yes, sir?” Badgerton asked, cringing.
“Do not forget the deal we made. The Proteus power awaits you, along with a seat on my Council. But if you fail me: my owl eats your precious skunkies alive.”
With this dire warning, Wyvern’s head vanished from the candle smoke.
Badgerton slumped in his chair, his heart still pounding. For a long moment, he pondered the enormity of what he had got himself tangled up in. What he stood to lose…
And what he still could gain.
A member of the Dark Druid Council! Why, in that position, imbued with the Proteus power, he would rule over all dark-leaning shapeshifters in the world!
He could even lose this homely, pudgy shape forever and transform himself into a chap as good-looking as, say, that insufferable vampire.
The possibilities were endless…
Steeling his resolve, Badgerton took the memo from Sir Peter, held it over the calling candle, and took cold pleasure in watching it burn.
Those nosy empaths could go to Hades before they would ever interrogate him.
To blazes with them all. He was sick of everybody here, so many who thought they were better than him and his kind. They’d soon learn who was really their superior.
Ha. He could hardly wait to see the looks on the other Elders’ faces when Wyvern showed up at Merlin Hall with his army of Noxu.
Then Badgerton rose from the chair, blew out the candle, and changed himself into his animal form.
Scampering out of the palace for the last time, he bade a scoffing farewell to Merlin Hall. Then he scurried off into the night to uphold his end of the deal he had made with the devil’s son.
* * *
Turning from the black candle, Wyvern continued to balance the glowing ball of magic he had extracted from Badgerton on the tip of his wand.
He wasn’t finished with it yet. Time to redirect it.
The contained and isolated silencing spell shone in the gloom of his chamber, a pale blue sphere. Wyvern grimaced, for he could taste the magical signature, as it were, of the wizard who had cast it.
Bloody Peter Quince.
Ugh. Wyvern couldn’t stand him. He saw no reason why any man should be so annoyingly happy. Suffice to say, they had tangled before. All too well he remembered the impressive Thunderfist that Quince had created to pound on the doors of the Black Fortress in that battle back in June.
Ah well. The trick that Wyvern was about to pay Quince back with was subtler but much more amusing.
It was an easy solution, too, considering that Wyvern’s own spells could not penetrate the countless layers of enchantment that, for centuries, had formed a protective magical dome over Merlin Hall.
The blasted dome was the reason he had needed Badgerton’s help in the first place.
If the Dark Druids could not shatter the dome from the air or pound their way through it from ground level (they’d tried numerous times over the centuries), then Wyvern would simply tunnel under it and come up inside, thanks to the badger man’s particular skills as a burrowing expert.
Wyvern was fortunate that Badgerton was such a malcontent; it hadn’t been very difficult persuading him.
Then Wyvern took a deep breath and let it out, clearing his mind for the task at hand.
Still containing and controlling Quince’s silencing spell on the tip of his wand, he closed his eyes and concentrated.
Long-distance spells took a great deal of power, but at least Sir Peter’s spell would have no trouble sailing right back in through the dome.
With a few pointed incantations and a sudden burst of power, Wyvern recast the silencing spell onto its new target.
The silvery-blue orb of magic sped away from his wand at lightning speed.
It zoomed out of his chamber, right through the wall, exiting the Black Fortress to speed out into the night.
Wyvern kept his mind fixed carefully on his intended target as he waited for the orb to travel from here to there.
In his mind’s eye, he saw it fly over the North Sea like a shooting star. Then the green isle of his homeland zoomed into sight: England.
He would be there soon. In the blink of an eye, the spell careened across several counties heading for Wiltshire.
Wyvern saw the white outline of Aelfric the Long Man in the dark, the towering guardian of Merlin Hall, his silhouette scored into the chalk hill behind which the palace was hidden.
They’d have to be prepared to deal with Aelfric tonight, too…
Wyvern smiled as he sensed the orb pierce the dome without the slightest friction, given that it was Sir Peter’s working; then it plunged down through the roof of Merlin Hall and began rushing through the palace, seeking its target.
It careened down hallways, past opulent chambers, whizzing by countless Order idiots who barely noticed it.
The bright little ball of magic whooshed out the far end of the palace and zoomed up a path, heading toward the stately manor that stood apart from the palace. The Chancellor’s House.
Sir Peter’s home, where he lived in such sickening domestic bliss.
The shiny orb penetrated the front door and raced through the cushy chambers, seeking the person Wyvern had chosen.
His lips curled and his eyes flicked open with pleasure as he felt the spell hit its intended mark.
He could see her bustling about the kitchen, a slim lady in a frilly apron with her blond hair pinned up. Quite pretty.
He watched her pull the oven door open and peek in at some biscuits, then pick up a wooden spoon and stir a hearty stew simmering atop the stove. Why, he could almost smell the hint of nutmeg and bay leaf in the stew, almost feel the warmth of the wife’s cozy domain.
Jillian Quince had not yet realized she’d been stricken.
Since she was alone, she hadn’t tried speaking yet; there was no one to talk to. But soon she’d realize her voice had gone missing.
And so would her mate.
Though it would have been delightful to watch the coming drama in the Quince household unfold, Wyvern had work to do.
He rose, slid his wand back into its holster, then strode out of his chamber to go ready the troops for battle. He would check in with Shemrazul to confirm his plan, of course, but he knew in his bones that the hour of his destiny had come.
At last, he would show the rest of the Council what a real Dark Master could do.
Tonight he was taking Merlin Hall.
CHAPTER
54
The Night Watch
There was far too much sun in this place, but Isabelle’s light knock on his little wooden bat-coffin each evening of their journey woke Janos with the signal that it was safe to come out now: night had fallen.
As per their habit, she unlocked the box with the key he had entrusted to her; she’d been wearing it on a fine silver chain around her neck for safekeeping. She would then retreat from his room to leave him his privacy as he readied himself for his overnight shift on sentry duty.
On that particular evening, it was about seven o’clock when she gave him the signal.
“Morning!” she called cheerfully, and if a bat could smile, Janos smiled.
Then he listened to her leaving, heard every soft footfall with his intense hearing as she climbed up the hatch and returned abovedeck.
Only then did he emerge from the box, for young ladies didn’t like icky creatures like bats. Everybody knew that.
Returning to his human form, Janos stretched a bit, yawned and washed up, then dressed for the night, taking care to arm himself well. Vampire or not, he was on Guardian duty here, after all. It rather shocked him to realize how good it felt to have a sense of purpose again.
He buckled his weapons belt around his waist, checked his darkling blade, then tossed back a glass of his usual stag’s blood breakfast. It was not fresh, but it was sufficient to keep him alive.
At last, he climbed up the hatch onto the moonlit deck of the fine yacht, where a beautiful sight greeted him.
On all sides, the silvered waves rippled out gently while the tide whispered in the moonlight. Even a ruined Guardian could appreciate the smell of the sea salt in the silky night air, the sparkling stars clustered overhead against a black sky.
The pearly sails hugged the yardarms, still furled while The Wind Dancer drifted at anchor.
It was such a beautiful night that he was tempted to change himself back into a bat for a few minutes just so he could fly around and see it all from above. But he had an important duty here. He was the night watch, and if anyone came near this vessel, he’d tear them limb from limb.