Stranger

by Zoë Archer

  A ragged group, the Blades collected in the square. Each of them turned to watch the massive headquarters burn. It was a lurid sight, the stone walls charring as flames leapt along their surfaces, windows glowing like demonic eyes. Heirs escaped in fearful clumps, abandoning the structure that had, only hours before, symbolized the unbending, monolithic principles that united their numbers.

  Catullus felt numb as he observed the architectural embodiment of his enemies gutted by fire. The whole roof of the building caved in with a deafening roar. Had the Blades taken any more time getting out, none would have survived. Perhaps some Heirs were still inside. Perhaps not. Without his spectacles, he could not make out precise details, yet what he saw was enough.

  He turned away. There was still so much to do. The headquarters may be destroyed, the Heirs scattered, but only a fool would believe them to be defeated. Men such as them always found ways to survive. Catullus felt so goddamned tired.

  Gemma’s slim hand came up to stroke his face. He met her gaze.

  “This is what we do,” she said gently. “But not alone.”

  He’d thought himself worn down to bone and little else, numb. Yet life and feeling surged through him, a little subdued, to be sure, but there, nonetheless.

  Elaborate swearing in Greek heralded the approach of Athena Galanos and Nikos Kallas. The burly sailor scowled as he beheld the headquarters wreathed in flame.

  “We missed the good part,” he growled.

  “Do not worry, my darling,” Athena soothed, “I am sure there will be plenty of destruction and carnage for us another time.” She turned to Catullus. “Is it done? Has the Primal Source been freed?”

  “I’ve got it here.” Catullus took the red stone from his satchel. He felt the eyes of the Blades on him, many of whom had never before seen the most powerful Source.

  Athena stared at it, reverent and cautious. She murmured a prayer in Greek, and moved to touch it, before holding herself back. She clearly didn’t trust herself, or her own magic, coming in contact with the Primal Source.

  “It must be returned to where it came from,” she said.

  “I’ll take it back,” Astrid volunteered immediately.

  “We will take it back,” Lesperance corrected.

  “Of course, you’re coming with me,” said Astrid, as if the idea that she might travel without him was too ludicrous to consider.

  “And then there are all the other Sources we’ve liberated,” added Catullus. “Each of them must be returned, as well.”

  At once, Blades began stepping forward, each of them volunteering to make the arduous journeys necessary to restore the magic to its rightful place.

  In the midst of this tumult, Gemma whispered in Catullus’s ear. “Say good-bye to solitude, Mr. Graves. Wherever you go, I’m going, too.”

  “Solitude can go rot,” he whispered back. He started when the Primal Source began to glow, gleaming as if lit by an internal flame, yet it gave off no heat.

  “Astrid, what’s it doing?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know,” she answered.

  “The other Sources, too,” said Gemma, amazed. She held her bundle aloft, and the whole of the fabric shone from the light of a dozen Sources within.

  Every Blade gasped aloud as the Primal Source vanished from Catullus’s hand. A fast check of his satchel and Gemma’s makeshift bag revealed the same thing: Every Source was gone. Disappeared into nothingness.

  No! Catullus felt a surge of anger. “The Heirs?”

  “The Sources are home,” said a voice, an ancient voice of profound wisdom.

  Merlin materialized out of the smoky air, his robes swirling around him, his eyes dark with magic. Of all the places Catullus expected to see a somewhat deranged, phenomenally powerful sorcerer, standing in a smoke-filled square in Mayfair graded somewhere toward the bottom.

  Merlin chuckled when he beheld the Blades gaping at him, though his look became more thoughtful when he glanced at Athena. Recognizing her power, and somewhat beguiled by the beautiful witch. The sorcerer’s weakness. Unsurprisingly, Kallas wrapped a possessive arm around Athena’s waist, and she did not object.

  Kallas’s rather primitive but wholly understandable demonstration seemed to recall Merlin back to himself. He said, “All the Sources have found their ways to their homelands.”

  “Including the ones at the other Heir properties?” asked Gemma.

  “All of them,” confirmed the sorcerer. “Consider it a boon granted by grateful magic.”

  Catullus, Gemma, and the other Blades fell silent, each of them agape at the power of one man—who was not, Catullus suspected, a man, but a manifestation of magic itself.

  Thank you seemed too small a phrase, respecting the fact that Merlin had just saved the Blades countless battles and decades of travel. So Catullus only nodded, and this seemed to gratify Merlin.

  “To restore balance,” the sorcerer added, “that magic which had been artificially enhanced by the Primal Source must, too, be surrendered.”

  Merlin traced a pattern in the air. As he did so, an odd pulling sensation passed through Catullus. He stared down at himself, watching in fascination as a thread of silver light unspooled from within him. He saw the same happen to Gemma. The threads unwound and drifted through the air before spiraling around Merlin and finally vanishing. Many more seemed to come from farther away, though none from the other Blades—including Athena Galanos. Her magic belonged entirely to her.

  As one might test the soundness of a limb, Catullus tentatively reached for the magic that Gemma had given him. What he found was diminished, but still there. He breathed a small sigh of relief. Being able to transport oneself with the blink of an eye was indeed a most useful power, but he was more concerned that her gift, and what it represented, had not been taken away.

  “So much for saving money on trolleys,” Gemma said with a rueful smile. She turned to Merlin. “How did you get free?”

  Merlin nodded toward a large figure materializing behind him. How a giant such as Arthur could come and go like mist baffled Catullus, but myth had its own rules and force. Better to simply accept the fact that a titanic legend could simply appear at will.

  “I told you the task of liberating me was not yours to undertake,” tutted Merlin.

  “Come, my counselor.” Arthur glanced around, and in the king’s eyes, Catullus saw distance, a separation that could never truly be breached. “Time we moved on.”

  “Where will you go?” Catullus asked.

  “Back to the myth that created me,” came the melancholy answer. “A cold place, this other England. A place of enclosure and brittle walls. Myths wither like leaves, blow away. This world has no need for me, no need for magic.”

  “That’s not true,” Gemma said. She looked at the assembled Blades, all of them filthy and wounded. “As long as there are hearts and minds to dream, people need magic. They’ll need you.”

  A rare smile touched Arthur’s mouth as he contemplated this outspoken mortal woman. “The people need you, my lady. And your friends. For though your enemy has been vanquished, it is but temporary, and there are always men such as them who will want power for their own ambitions.”

  A lowering thought, yet not unexpected. The Heirs of Albion were the Blades’ most persistent enemy. Many others still existed, and would be created in the future. As long as humanity knew about the existence of magic, there would be those who abused its power.

  “We’ll be ready,” said Catullus.

  Arthur inclined his head, the closest to a bow a king would ever give. He raised his hand in farewell. Then he and Merlin vanished as noiselessly and entirely as they had appeared.

  Clanging bells pierced the air. Fire brigades would arrive soon, and the Blades did not want to be around when the authorities showed up. Too many questions would be asked, questions that could not be answered.

  “Everyone disperse,” Sam Reed ordered. “Reconnoiter in Southampton.”

  In groups, the Blade
s broke apart, disappearing into the city. Many carried the bodies of their fallen comrades, to be laid to rest with honor. Thalia and Gabriel Huntley ran to the north, Bennett and London headed west, while Athena, Kallas, and the Reeds went south.

  Leaving Gemma and Catullus with Astrid and Lesperance.

  “You have your revenge now,” Catullus said to Astrid. “You can let go of the past.”

  “Killing Gibbs was never about the past.” She wiped her sleeve across her face, smearing dirt and blood. For a moment, she stared at the grime she’d tracked on her sleeve, as if studying an ancient history. With a shake of her head, she broke that study, and looked at the man standing straight and fierce beside her. “It was about moving forward. Making myself anew.”

  Catullus understood that. A brave woman, Astrid. He was glad, in a strange way, that the Heirs had come for her in Canada, giving him a much-needed kick in the trousers to go get her, and restore the bonds of their friendship.

  Bells rang louder, closer.

  “In Southampton,” Lesperance said. He took hold of Catullus’s wrist, the old way of taking leave, and Catullus did the same.

  Then Astrid and Lesperance were gone.

  “Come on,” said Catullus. Hand in hand, he and Gemma ran from the square, passing the fire brigade. Into the known streets of Mayfair, where a strange peace had settled. Life had returned to normal. The usual traffic of omnibuses, carriages, genteel pedestrians, and the tradesmen who supported their lifestyle. All the pixies, sprites, goblins, and other magical creatures were nowhere to be found, though they left behind a goodly bit of damage. Catullus could only assume that the restoration of the Primal Source, and Arthur’s return, restored the balance of the mortal and magical worlds.

  All of this was academic, to be contemplated later. What concerned him now was getting Gemma to safety.

  They caught a few curious glances as they hurried down the street, but he did not slow until they reached Hyde Park. Oddly, people were out on their usual perambulations and there were carriages and riders on Rotten Row, almost as if the utter anarchy of a few hours earlier hadn’t happened. A blessed amnesia, one for which Catullus was grateful.

  He had no idea where he led Gemma until he realized they had reached the banks of the Serpentine. The fog had broken, and a cool, autumnal sunlight glittered over the water like a benevolent deity. The dignified arches of the Serpentine Bridge appeared to the west, and over it strolled nurses pushing prams, and children chased one another.

  Together, they stood on the banks and watched as life continued on around them.

  “I can’t decide if I am dreaming, or have just woken from a dream,” he murmured.

  “Little of both, I think,” she answered. She unsheathed her dagger and stared at it. Her hand trembled slightly with the remains of fear. “I’m more than the hand that holds the pen. When I pictured my life … when I thought about who I was, I always thought I could be more. But I never knew what or who I was capable of being. Until you, Catullus.” She traced a shaking thumb over the blade. “I’ve been afraid and run. I’ve stood and fought, and I’ve experienced incredible pleasure. I’m …” She looked up, her eyes restlessly scanning the tops of the trees as if answers and words perched upon the branches.

  Her gaze returned to the knife in her grasp. “I’m myself,” she said gently. “Everything that it means to be me.”

  He reached out and steadied her hand with his own. Beneath his touch, her trembling subsided. She looked up at him, profound joy in her brilliant eyes. “And you are … you.” She sheathed the dagger, never taking her gaze from him. “The whole universe that you contain.”

  Catullus didn’t care that it was broad daylight and in full sight of hundreds of people. He pulled Gemma into his arms and kissed her. The taste of her, the feel of her, roused him, awoke him, and in the aftermath of peril, he knew himself to be entirely alive and completely in love. His forty-second birthday was in less than a month, but it was only at that moment, with Gemma in his arms, kissing him, did he find himself in the fullness of his maturity, a man in every sense of the word.

  Neither Gemma nor Catullus paid any heed to the inquisitive, and shocked, looks they received.

  “It’s a knight and his lady,” a boy piped nearby, awed. “Not clean and jolly like in my picture books. Real.”

  “Scandalous,” the nurse gasped. “Come on, now, Gerald.” She ushered her charge away.

  Catullus barely heard this exchange. He knew only Gemma.

  “Never knew what I wanted,” he whispered against her lips, “or who I could truly be.” He traced his fingertips over her cheeks, along the bright points of her freckles. “Until you, Gemma.”

  “We still don’t know everything about ourselves,” she said softly. “Or each other.”

  “I’ll trade centuries of studying magic and exploring Otherworld,” he answered, “for a lifetime of discovering you.”

  She smiled, and they came together in a kiss. They stood upon the banks of the Serpentine, in the heart of London, learning a wonderful new astronomy. A solar system of two, each of them planets, each of them suns, warming, creating, sustaining. Perfectly balanced, and yet also wonderfully eccentric.

  Epilogue

  The Once and Future Blades

  Southampton, England, 1876

  Three letters lay before Catullus, neatly arranged on his workbench like gears awaiting installation. By some strange quirk of the postal service, all three letters arrived today, despite the fact that they each came from different far-distant pages in the atlas. He’d read them all once, but planned on reading them again. They contained simply too much information for him to fully ingest their meanings.

  “Catullus?” Gemma’s voice, at the top of the stair. His pulse gave a kick simply to hear her. Regardless that they had been married last March, every time he heard her, saw her, he never lost that jolt, that unfolding of incredulous pleasure. He simply could not get used to the fact that he was one fortunate son of a bitch.

  “Catullus,” Gemma said again, and he heard her steps coming down the stairs into the workshop. “You need a break. Cook has made Bakewell pudding and American biscuits for tea.”

  Turning from where he bent over his workable, Catullus’s mouth watered. Not at the offerings for tea—though it did sound tempting and he hadn’t eaten anything, he realized, since breakfast. What he was truly starved for was Gemma, smiling, walking toward him with her usual, brisk stride. Heated memories of the night before trailed in her wake. His insomnia hadn’t left him simply because he was a married man, but early in their union Gemma had proposed the most delicious means of passing the sleepless hours. Making love with her in the depths of night didn’t put him back to sleep, but when she drifted off with a sated sigh and he went down to toil in his workshop, he did so a thoroughly invigorated man.

  She walked to him now, and took his outstretched hands as he leaned back against his worktable. “I forgot to remind you to eat,” she said with a rueful purse of her lips. “I got caught up writing my article for the Times and lost track of my own meals.”

  “Both of us happily buried in our work.” He sighed. “Such is the price of genius.”

  Her laugh, low and husky, curled like incense. “Only one of us is a genius. The other is a hack for hire.”

  “Not a hack,” he scowled. In truth, editors from several newspapers and periodicals throughout England begged for her work. Articles by Gemma Graves about the imperiled cultures of the world were highly sought. She now had the rare privilege of picking and choosing assignments. “A peerless writer in great demand.”

  Catullus drew her closer. She went willingly, stepping between his legs. They fit together easily. “Do you want tea? I could get a tray and bring it down,” she offered.

  “It’s not tea I’m hungry for.” He nuzzled her neck, and she murmured her appreciation, growing warm and supple in his arms.

  More than a few times had he and Gemma made love atop and against this ver
y workbench. People within the Blades’ headquarters eventually learned that, before entering his workshop, they would have to knock often and loudly, then wait at least ten minutes before venturing inside. He and Gemma had scandalized a good many people, though Bennett, blast him, had simply applauded before Catullus threw a hammer at him. “Are those letters?”

  Stifling a sigh, Catullus recalled that Gemma had not lost her reporter’s keen eye, even when her husband was attempting, and being quite successful at, seduction. Reluctantly disentangling himself, he said, “From Thalia, Bennett, and Astrid. Arrived today.”

  “What do they say?”

  Catullus tapped the first letter. “Thalia says they’re in the midst of foaling season, and Gabriel’s been running around like a man leading a charge, making sure the herd delivers properly. She and Gabriel have been working on a comprehensive survey of Mongolia’s flora and fauna—when they aren’t on missions for the Blades.”

  Gemma nodded thoughtfully. Missions never ceased. The Heirs of Albion had disbanded after the destruction of their headquarters and loss of their Sources. But their members had found situations with other groups, other factions, both within England and abroad. Rumors of another band of men, as powerful, if not more so, than the Heirs had been surfacing over the past months.

  The Blades’ work was not over. Far from it.

  Catullus motioned to the second letter. “As usual, Bennett and London have hared off.”

  “Again? We got a letter from them only two weeks ago, when they wrote to us from Copenhagen.”

  “This letter was posted from Gibraltar, en route to Lebanon. Seems they both have an urge to see ruins, and London has heard rumors that a tiny village in the mountains still speaks an ancient dialect of Phoenician.”

  “Never met two people so crazy about traveling,” Gemma said, but there was no criticism in her voice, only fondness. “It makes me dizzy, trying to keep up with them.” “Nothing they like better than traveling somewhere new together,” Catullus said. On the rare occasions that Bennett and London were in Southampton, they kept everyone entertained late into the night with stories of their outlandish adventures. London collected new languages the way other travelers collected postcards. Bennett was simply happy to be wherever his wife alit, eager for any experience so long as she was beside him.