Something dark and thick as tar spread from the blade down her spine and into her womb. The squirming child went stone still. Anne struggled to push the energy out, but it turned and rose up her torso, into her throat, closing her mouth, her eyes. The flame of her awareness snuffed out and she sank into darkness.
Elizabeth Le Clair, grand matriarch of the family and High Priestess of the Lodge of Isis, sat at her oak desk, the golden sheen of the wood mellowed from two centuries of use, answering correspondence. She had to decide if they should go to the president’s grand gala. Would their presence be read as an endorsement of the administration? She did need to fly to Washington for the Smithsonian Board meeting. How close together were they? She flipped the pages in her appointment book. No computer for her. She still enjoyed her Visconti Medina Rose Gold fountain pen. An extravagance, but considering how much time she spent at her desk, she’d indulged herself.
Without warning, a deep cold stabbed her. She let out a sharp gasp and pressed her wrinkled hand against her abdomen. Despair—dark, suffocating despair—took her heart. She bit off the cry of anguish rising in her throat. Had there been an accident? Had someone in the family died? A close friend? She’d felt a similar darkness when Thomas’ plane had gone down over the Indian ocean, but this was worse. More powerful.
She probed out with her mind, questing for the source, and came up against a dark wall sealed with the bitter scent of hate, like burnt rubber. Elizabeth jumped from her chair, still bent over from the phantom pain, and walked toward the sensation, stretching her senses to follow its trail. She sent out a psychic alarm to Gerald, who was somewhere around. Arnold. Was he here? But this was no physical threat. Not that she knew.
She moved into the hallway and raised her palm out, feeling for the right direction. It seemed close. Perhaps even in the house although how such a thing could be possible was beyond her. The Oaks was expertly shielded. She reinforced the wards herself every new moon. Sometimes more often depending on what was happening in world power circles.
Elizabeth moved down the hall of the west wing of the house and took a shortcut through a small courtyard, skirting herb beds, into the kitchen. The aromas of leek soup and baking bread wafted toward her.
“Lunch in half an hour, madam,” Estelle said, a wooden spoon poised before her mouth.
“Have you seen Gerald?”
“He came to make coffee a couple of hours ago. I think he headed to his study.” Estelle’s voice grew shaky as she sensed something was wrong.
“And Anne?”
“She went up for a nap.”
“I don’t think so,” Elizabeth said and hurried through the door to the dining rooms.
“Is anything wrong, ma’am?” Estelle called after her.
Elizabeth didn’t spare the time to answer. The darkness thickened as she headed toward the front foyer and seemed to push back at her as she made her way across the living room. When she tried to open the door to the ballroom, it stuck. It took several hard shoves before it suddenly gave way. She almost fell through it.
She paused to catch her breath, then refocused. Dark tendrils of fog rippled in the air, almost obscuring the open panel in the left wall. Someone had gotten into the temple. The fog reached for her, wrapped around her ankles. She ran toward the opening, almost tripping on the astral murk. An invisible membrane blocked the opening, thick and malicious, murmuring some menacing chant just below normal hearing.
The dark was so thick that Elizabeth couldn’t see the room. She drew herself up, sank deep into her consciousness, and from her heart brought out a surge of light and wrapped it around a word of power she spoke. The fog disappeared instantly.
Instead of the family’s Atlantean crystal, a black granite statue stood in the middle of the room at the center of the pentagram. Stretched on the floor at its feet was her granddaughter, Anne.
Elizabeth ran to her. Checked for a pulse. Strong and steady.
“Thank God.”
She looked up again at the statue, but found the crystal ball on its metal stand, the same magical symbols running around the edge. Elizabeth closed her eyes and tuned into her inner sight. Hovering over the ball stood a dark shadow, a cloak around his shoulders, a gleaming sword in his hands.
She recognized him at once. Mordred. How had this traitor invaded her sacred temple?
Elizabeth opened her eyes again and checked Anne. Her coloring seemed normal. Her breath came easily. Elizabeth gently shook Anne’s shoulder and called her name.
No response.
She stroked her cheek. “Anne, darling. Wake up.” She shook her harder, but Anne didn’t stir. She put her hand along Anne’s head and probed deeper. She found fear, confusion. A strange desire to obey. Resistance.
Elizabeth straightened out Anne’s arms, grabbed a pillow from the side of the room and placed it under her head. Then she ran for help.
“Gerald,” she screamed as soon as she reached the living room. “Arnold. Estelle. I need your help.” She ran to the foot of the staircase and shouted for Gerald again.
He appeared at the top of the stairs, his blue shirt rumpled, his reading glasses on top of his head. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Anne. She’s unconscious. Something’s invaded the house.”
“What?”
Elizabeth shook her head, impatient, and shouted, “I need your help.”
Estelle blundered in, her large bosom heaving from the uproar. “What is it?”
“Find Arnold. Something’s wrong with Anne.”
“Oh, my God. And the baby?” Estelle clutched the dish towel she carried closer.
“The baby is fine. Find Susan. She knows where everything is.”
“You gave her the day off.”
Elizabeth shook her head in exasperation. Just when she needed her secretary. “Call her. This is an emergency. Tell her to get Winston Stuart out here ASAP.”
“Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?”
Elizabeth turned on her and Estelle blanched. “Right away, ma’am.”
Gerald and Elizabeth moved with a speed surprising for people in their eighties. From the door to the ritual room, tendrils of fog swirled, reaching out long arms as if seeking for something. Elizabeth pointed at it and blasted it with a stream of energy. It dissipated again.
Gerald stopped. “What was that?”
Elizabeth grabbed his arm and pulled him into the temple. He ran to Anne as soon as he saw her.
“Her pulse is steady. She’s breathing fine,” Elizabeth said.
“What happened?”
Elizabeth told him about the sudden pain and finding Anne.
Gerald eyeballed the center of the room. “I see the crystal ball. What do you see?”
Elizabeth squinted. “I see a double image. The ball is here in the physical, but Mordred is superimposed over it. Like a dark shadow.”
“Mordred? As in King Arthur’s nephew?”
“Or son,” Elizabeth said.
Arnold ran into the room, gun drawn.
Elizabeth gasped out a laugh. A wave of relief washed over her, even though the threat wasn’t physical, even though she was more suited to handle this threat than he was. “Arnold, thank God you’re here.”
Arnold pivoted in a circle, his gun aimed in front of him.
“There’s nobody here,” Elizabeth said, “Not on the physical plane.”
Arnold holstered his weapon and knelt beside Anne. He checked her pulse, using his watch to count. Rolled her eyelids back. Shook his head. “She seems to be asleep.”
Elizabeth trusted Arnold’s battle-trained first aid knowledge. “The baby?” she asked.
He shook his head. “There’s no way to tell without a stethoscope.” He reached for her rotund belly, but paused, looking to Elizabeth for permission.
“Please,” she said.
Arnold prodded around the child, put his ear to her stomach and listened. He sat up and shrugged. “It’s hard to be sure, but they both seem all right.
Should we take her to the hospital?”
Elizabeth made a sudden decision. “Yes.”
Arnold gathered Anne in his arms and headed for the door. Halfway across the temple, her body stiffened. Her fingers and toes splayed, and she convulsed.
Arnold swore, set her down, and tilted her head so she didn’t swallow her tongue.
Half a second later, the convulsion stopped, but her breath was ragged.
He picked her up again and took two steps before she convulsed again.
“Carry her back here where she fell,” Elizabeth said.
Arnold settled Anne back in her original spot. Her breath immediately smoothed out and her color returned to normal.
“Seems like we can’t move her yet,” Gerald said.
“Winston is coming,” Elizabeth said. Winston Stuart was not only a physician. He was a member of their lodge, a skilled adept, able to deal with a psychic as well as a medical threat.
“What should I do, ma’am?” Arnold shifted his weight from one foot to the other, restless with no target.
“Double security.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He started for the door.
“Then check the black lodges, their corporations, anyone involved with them even peripherally,” she called after him. “See if there’s any unusual activity.”
“Right away.”
Chapter 3
Small puffs of dust rose from Michael’s footsteps as he followed the Great Opener across the even paving stones into the darkness. Anubis kept up a steady but gentle pull through the ankh in Michael’s grasp. A sharp cold wind blew on his face, smelling of the sea. A light drizzle fell. Michael reached out to steady himself and found a rough-hewn stone wall.
“Stand still.”
“What?” Michael looked around and found a tall figure standing just to his left. He wore a dark woolen cloak. A white robe peeked out from under it matched by a long beard as white as cotton. The figure’s hair hung long, grizzled gray.
“I said hold still, Uther.”
“Who?”
“Focus! Do you want to have this night with Igraine or not?”
The man pulled Michael so he stood straight in front of him. Sharp blue eyes pierced his fog. “Merlin?”
“Who else, you numb—” Merlin started, then leaned forward, studying his face more closely. “What is this? You are both here?” He smiled, then whispered to himself. “So it will work.”
He chanted, a low, crooning incantation, eerie in tune. To Michael’s ear, there was something vaguely medieval about it. Then the sound got louder and buzzed in his head. Michael’s body grew lighter, as if he would float. His breath slowed and deepened.
Michael watched, fascinated by the flourishes of Merlin’s hands, the touches of his wand. The mage pulled a dagger with a bejeweled handle from its sheath, grasped Michael’s hand, and drew a pentagram in his palm.
With the last flash of the blade, Michael winced and drew back, but Merlin held his hand steady. Blood beaded up from the last stroke that had closed the symbol, deeper than the rest, cutting flesh just enough to draw blood. The mage wet the blade of his dagger, then brought it, crimson and glistening, to Michael’s forehead. Michael struggled to pull back.
Merlin made a scolding sound as if Michael were a child resisting having his ears washed. “Hold still.”
The dagger touched his third eye. Dizziness took Michael. Merlin’s face blurred and he heard a swooshing sound.
“Uther.” It was more a command than a question.
“Is it done?”
Merlin pulled out a small mirror from his voluminous pockets.
Uther sometimes wondered if he kept his whole chest of magical tools in them. It reminded him of someone else, but he couldn’t place him.
“Look,” Merlin commanded.
Uther bent close to the mirror and squinted in the dim light. The face of King Gorlois looked back at him. That other watcher fell back into the recesses of his mind. Uther gave a grunt of satisfaction, a grunt full of lust and anticipation.
“You remember the castle layout?”
“Yes.” He shook his head impatiently and stepped out from the wall shielding them. “How long?”
“You must be away before dawn.”
Uther strode up to the gate of the castle. The two guards, young and inexperienced, not men to send to the war that was raging, scrambled to their feet. “My Lord. We thought—”
“I have business here and it is none of yours,” Uther growled out.
“Yes, my Lord.” The guard on the left of the gate fumbled with the bolt, then pulled it up. They both bowed their heads as Uther passed through.
He walked across the outer court to the entrance to the castle. Two more guards snapped to attention, eyes wide with surprise. With only a nod of acknowledgment, Uther hurried across the great hall, his boots a dull thud against the stone floor. As he passed, the tapestry displaying the family crest stirred in an imperceptible breeze as if to object to the intrusion. He slowed at the back of the hall, then turned into the hallway leading to the family chambers. Letting instinct lead, he passed two ancient oak doors, then paused before a third. Gathering himself up, he pushed the door open.
A fire burned low in the hearth, but one log still sported a flame that lit the room with a soft glow. Two settles stood before the fire on a bearskin rug, a low table between them. A large oak bed filled the opposite wall. The bed curtains were drawn on each side, but open at the end to allow heat from the fire. Uther moved to the foot of the bed.
Igraine lay there, a tumble of ivory limbs. She slept on her side, her golden hair sprawled on the pillow beside her. He drank in the sight of her, not wanting to disturb the moment. One shell pink foot protruded from the covers. A hand curled beside her face. Her skin was cream, her lips a blush rose. Her breath slow.
Quiet as a thief, he pulled off his cloak and draped it over the back of one of the settles. Unbuckled his belt and let it slide to the floor. He paused and listened. Her breath still came even and deep. Moving quietly, he unfastened the broach on his left shoulder and placed it on the table, then pulled off his tunic.
Igraine stirred.
Uther felt a sudden stab of fear, wondering if the disguise would work. What about his voice? Had Merlin thought of that?
She sat up. “Gorlois, is that you?”
Uther moved closer to the bed, his heart racing.
“My Lord.” Igraine sat up straighter, grasping the cover close about her. “But I thought—“
“The war goes well, my love. We had a break in the battle. Leigh has command and I missed you.”
She sputtered a laugh. “Surely not. . .” Her beautiful face lit by the soft glow of the fire was a study in confusion.
“And business. I have business that needs attending to.”
“Should I call for a manservant?”
“No need.” Uther toed off his boots and left them where they fell, then shed his tunic and leggings. He lost his balance in his hurry and fell part way across the bed.
Igraine jumped from the bed, her nightgown falling over shapely alabaster legs that Uther just glimpsed. “Let me help you.”
Uther allowed her to pull off his leggings, reached out and touched her golden hair as she bent before him. “My love,” he whispered.
She stood up and Uther rose also, taking her in his arms, pushing her hair off her face. “You are so beautiful.”
“Gorlois?” She started to say more, but he covered her mouth with his. She pulled back slightly, but then her mouth yielded to him. Uther groaned and struggled to slow down. They had all night. But his passion welled up and he pulled her tighter to him, tugging at her soft wool nightgown.
“A moment,” she whispered, and stepping back, pulled the blue shift over her head.
Uther caught his breath. The fire lit her curves, painting a golden tinge on the soft ivory of her skin, deepening her pastel nipples to rose. He bent his head and took one in his mouth, sucking gently at fi
rst, then deposited kisses between her breasts and up her neck.
A soft sigh broke from her parted lips and she nestled closer to him.
Uther’s control broke. He must have her. Now. He pushed her back on the bed, moving his knees between her legs, spreading them. He gloried in the sight. Then taking himself in hand, he nudged against her, holding his urgency like a roused stallion, waiting for her to soften, to open. She soon did, and he lunged forward, sinking himself in the glorious warm wet.
Anne floated in a sea of dark. She stretched out in her sleep, reaching for the covers, but finding none, stirred. Her eyes fluttered. The warm dark turned to milky gray, like muffled fog near the English coast. She opened her eyes and the gray began to lighten, as if the sun were burning off the morning mist. Someone was speaking, just sound at first. She sat up and found herself in front of a mirror, a shadow behind the eyes of someone, a watcher.
“I’m tired of him,” the woman said. “He treats me as an afterthought. No consideration. And I want to have a baby.”
Anne looked down at the body she inhabited. She wore a simple sheath dress, a strap on either side coming over the shoulders, just covering her breasts. She shone like sunlit amber. Maybe her skin was oiled. Anne ran a finger down her arm, but it came up clean.
The mirror she was holding was gold in the shape of a woman’s body, the mirror itself almost in the shape of an ankh. Egypt. She seemed to be in Egypt.
She looked into the mirror and her reflection came into focus. Kohl, yes, she’d been making up her eyes. She picked up the pencil and drew another line.
“Is this how Isis does her eyes?”
“Yes, mistress,” the servant behind her murmured. The woman picked up a peacock blue shawl and draped it over Anne—no Nephthys, her name was Nephthys. The servant draped the shawl over Nephthys’ shapely bare arms. Nephthys stood, pulled it off, and threw it down into a tangle of scarves—scarlet, cobalt blue, and grass-green silk, rich and luxurious.
She pointed to a servant who knelt in the corner. “Did you get what I asked for?”
“Yes, my Lady.” The servant moved on silent feet over to a chest and opened the top. The inside of the lid gave a glimpse of Nut, gold stars in a dark blue sky above her burnished, bending body. The girl pulled out a long piece of lapis velvet. At least it looked like velvet to Anne.
Return of the Grail King Page 3