His first call had been to Dr. Abernathy, the man whose family had sworn to protect the bloodline for centuries. Abernathy said he’d arrive within the hour. Gerald pushed back his chair, preparing to return to the temple and check on Elizabeth’s progress, but the phone rang again.
He hesitated, but picked it up. “Yes?”
“Oh, thank God I got through to you.”
He recognized the voice of the family financial manager. “Sydney, I’m rather busy at the moment—”
“I’m sorry, sir, but this is an emergency.”
“I already have one of those at the moment. Can this wait until tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Le Clair” Sydney said. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how this happened, but it seems—”
“Spit it out, Sydney?”
“Sir, your money is gone.”
Gerald put the phone on speaker and brought up the DOW on the computer. “The markets are doing well.” He started to search bonds and commodities.
“Yes sir, but your trust has been drained.”
Gritting his teeth, he asked, “What do you mean by drained?”
“I mean,” came Sydney’s clipped words, “gone, as in empty.”
Gerald grabbed his head and pressed on his temples. He took a few breaths before he asked, “When did this happen?”
Someone knocked on his office door and without looking up, Gerald shouted for them to come in.
“Sometime this morning. The banks started calling, asking why we were moving our money. We got on it immediately, but whoever did this was fast. They emptied all the trust funds under our noses. The money just evaporated.”
“This is impossible. We have the most up-to-date security.”
“I thought so, too, Mr. Le Clair.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“Of course. The signal bounced through Bulgaria, Zimbabwe, Hong Kong, Chile, Cambodia, and finally the UK. We could only trace it back to a specific IP address with an unusual domain name.”
“And?”
“Well, sir, we don’t know what to make of it.”
“What was it, Sydney?”
“The name was HeShallNotReturn.’”
Gerald tried to speak, but only made a choking sound. His vision narrowed.
“Sir? Are you all right?” Sydney’s voice sounded thin and distant.
“Arnold,” came a shout.
An arm reached in front of him and picked up the receiver. “Mr. Le Clair will have to call you back,” Dr. Abernathy said and disconnected the call. He shouted for Arnold again.
Running footsteps grew louder and the big bodyguard burst into the room. Gerald fought for breath. Someone lifted him, carried him to a couch. Fingers felt for his pulse. Someone opened his shirt. A head pressed against his chest.
“Do you feel any pain?” Arnold asked.
Gerald’s vision began to return. “Can’t breathe.”
A brown bag appeared in front of him.
“Sit up.” Arnold supported his shoulder and pulled him to a sitting position. “Now lean forward and put this over your nose and mouth.”
Gerald tried to object.
“You’re having a panic attack. You need to breathe into this bag.” Arnold’s tone brooked no argument.
A panic attack? He’d never had a panic attack in his life. But he stuck the brown bag over his nose and mouth as directed.
Arnold crouched in front of him. The tightness in Gerald’s chest began to ease. Arnold’s expression slowly relaxed. Finally, Arnold nodded. “You can stop now.”
Abernathy sat forward in a chair near the couch. “What’s happening?”
Gerald caught them both up. His words tumbled out and soon he got short of breath. Arnold threatened him with the paper bag again. Dr. Abernathy went over to the sideboard and poured a finger of Teeling Single Malt Whiskey. Gerald drank it in a gulp. Warmth spread from his stomach to his chest. He took his first deep breath, sat back, and finished the story.
“To sum it up, Anne is in some sort of coma, Michael is in Egypt and can’t be reached, and now the trust is drained?” Abernathy ticked off the problems on his fingers as he spoke.
Abernathy’s steady voice warmed Gerald. Together they could figure this out.
“Who could possibly have done this?” Abernathy addressed himself to Arnold.
“We don’t know anything yet. But the message is the same as what Mordred said,” Gerald said.
“How in the hell could a medieval knight know anything about hacking?” Abernathy asked.
“He couldn’t, so this means someone in this world, in this time, is behind this. We can deal with that,” Arnold said.
“How?”
“We need to hire our own hacker,” Arnold said.
“Surely someone from the corporation’s cybersecurity team could come over,” Gerald said.
Arnold frowned. “We need to hire the best, sir.”
“Don’t we have the best?”
Arnold shrugged.
“Who’s the best, then?” Gerald asked. “An old friend from military intelligence? Maybe a CIA contact?”
Arnold’s face turned beet red.
“What?”
“Sir, the best hacker I know goes by the handle Night Wing.”
Two blank faces met Arnold’s statement. “I know how it sounds, but these guys like to remain anonymous. They go by code names.”
Abernathy frowned. “Surely a man of your abilities knows the hacker’s real name.”
“I do.”
“So, what is it?” Gerald was losing patience.
“Preston Royce Westwood III.”
“What’s the name of his company?”
“He doesn’t actually own a company or have a job, per se.”
“Good. Then he’ll be available.”
“That’s not exactly what I mean, sir.” Arnold wouldn’t meet Gerald’s eyes.
“Spit it out, man.”
“He’s not old enough to have a job. He’s still in high school.”
This stopped Gerald dead in his tracks. “Excuse me?”
“Yes, sir, but he freelances.”
“This high school student is the best you can come up with?” Abernathy asked, incredulous.
“My granddaughter’s life hangs in the balance, someone has stolen our family fortune, which I might remind you is hundreds of years old, and you want to hire a high school student?” Gerald’s chest tightened again.
Arnold held up the brown paper bag. “He’s the best anybody can come up with, sir.”
“Where does he live?”
Arnold shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter in this day and age.”
Gerald sat for a moment, certain the world had moved beyond his grasp. He gave himself a shake. “Get in touch with him, then. I’d prefer he come here. I think I’ll call Dana Goddard in. She’s head of cyber security at Maris.”
“I know who she is,” Arnold said, “although I think Preston prefers to work alone.”
“Just get Preston here.”
“It’s already done.”
Arnold’s new phrase was beginning to grate on Gerald’s nerves.
Chapter 5
“The rains will come, brother. Be patient.” Osiris stood up and walked toward Set, placing a calming hand on his shoulder, but Set shook him off.
“So you say, but where are they?” He turned to his true audience, the leaders of the forty-two nomes of Egypt, gathered for their annual meeting. “Aren’t you the life-giver, the one who brings the green to the land after the inundation?”
“We have done the ceremonies. The priests assure me the rains will come.” Osiris looked around at the gathered rulers, spreading his hands.
“Is Isis not the hand of Ma’at for Khemit? As her consort, do you not bring cosmic order to the land?” Set spoke to the gathering, not his brother.
“Of course—”
“So where is your heir?” Set gestured to Isis.
Anne st
arted, realizing he was pointing at her. Wait, how had she gotten here? She sat on a high throne. The arm rests were the spread wings of a goddess, inlaid in ivory, carnelian, and lapis. The front legs ended in the golden heads of lions. Her feet rested on a golden stool covered in vivid scenes depicting a feast. Anne shifted uneasily, then another consciousness brushed her to the back of their shared mind.
You are here to observe, Isis told her.
“You cannot even bring fertility to the woman of the High House, the one who chose you to rule.”
“Patience, brother,” Isis said. “Are you always in such a rush?”
The rustle of laughter spread through the room.
“This might explain the restlessness of your consort, who remains childless herself.” Isis smiled to the men surrounding the raised dais.
Set’s face flushed a dusky red. His smile was more a grimace. “I believe Nephthys is with child.”
Isis turned to her sister, seated to her right. “What happy news.” Her smile was genuine.
“The Hathor priestess confirmed it just two days ago,” Nephthys replied.
Isis stood to embrace her sister, but the dark glitter in Nephthys’ eye disturbed her. There was something hidden here.
“If we are to judge who is to be king by who produces an heir first—” Set puffed out his chest and turned to the leaders of the nomes “—then perhaps the Neters have chosen me.”
Osiris lounged at his ease, his smile indulgent of a younger brother, if younger by only a few minutes. He waved his hand to the women seated to his left. “Is it not our custom to allow the High House to decide who is to lead?”
Set bristled as he turned to study Isis and Nephthys.
Nephthys glanced down at her leather sandals, avoiding her husband’s eyes.
Something is not right, Isis thought.
“We are satisfied with our choice, brother Set,” Isis said, enunciating clearly so the entire court could hear. “Your service is important to us. Please continue in your current position.”
Set’s nod to her authority was barely perceptible, but it was there. Set took his seat to the right of Osiris and the leaders of the regions began to speak, bringing up the real business of the day. Isis allowed her attention to wander. Her sister watched Osiris with an uncomfortable intensity. Isis would have to find out what was happening.
Michael found himself standing in the dark. The wind buffeted him and he reached out for Igraine, for the solidity of the bed he’d just left, but found only empty air. He stumbled, disoriented from the sudden change, then caught his balance. Where was he? He squinted his eyes against the tempest, but couldn’t spot the room he’d been sleeping so warmly in just a moment ago. He must be outside Gorlois’ castle in the dark, but as his eyes adjusted to the night, he saw with a start not the fortress, but the ancient Tor rising before him. The Isle of Apples. How had he gotten all the way to Glastonbury?
Michael studied the slope of the hill, but Anne’s house wasn’t there. In fact, no houses at all stood beneath the ancient trees. Nor was there a tower rising from the top.
“She will see you now.”
Michael snorted in surprise. He had thought himself alone. “Who?”
A priestess stood before him, her white robe covered in a dark blue woolen cloak. She studied him a moment, her face giving away her thought perhaps Uther was getting too old, but she caught herself and soothed her expression to neutrality again. “The Lady of Avalon, my lord.”
“Ah, yes,” Michael murmured.
“Please follow me.” The priestess moved with quiet steps around an oak, her fingers trailing along the trunk in a casual caress. The ground rose gradually and soon they walked beside a sprawling clear stream, lush ferns giving way to wild irises. They reached a grove of yew trees and Michael’s escort motioned for him to go forward without her.
After a few steps, he saw a dark-haired woman sitting next to the wellhead, her blue robes pooling around her. Her head lifted and she frowned, but gestured for him to join her.
“My Lord Uther,” she said, making no move to get to her feet or acknowledge him as king.
“My Lady.” Uther gave a curt nod.
She studied him a moment, taking his measure. Uther shifted uneasily. Her gaze saw a bit too much, as usual.
She finally broke the silence. “So Lord Gorlois is dead.”
“Indeed he is. Killed in battle against my own forces.”
“And you have married Igraine.”
Uther concealed his surprise. “I have. News travels fast.”
“Morgan has joined us.”
“Her daughter? She has nothing to fear from me. She is welcome at court.”
She looked up at him and squinted against a ray of sunlight that had made its way through the canopy overhead. “You will not send for her. The future of the kingdom lies in the balance.”
“Over a girl?” Uther brushed leaves and yew needles off a nearby stone and sat down.
The Lady of Avalon’s spine straightened, reminding him of a bristling cat. “You may have claimed the right to name the heir, Uther, but power still follows the way of the old lands.”
Uther sneered. “And what way is that?”
“Power flows through the female line. The health of the land, the abundance and fertility of all, depend on a proper mating.”
“Are you telling me I have violated this law?” His tone was challenging.
A slight smile softened her face. “It surprised me to find that you have not.”
“How did you find this?”
Her face closed. “The ways of the Sisters of Avalon are hidden. Suffice it to say, the boy will be important.”
“Boy? So it’s a boy?” Uther could not contain his glee at the news.
“The future king,” the Lady said.
“Thank you for this news, my Lady. Will his reign be long?”
Her eyes sparkled. “It will be of great import and well remembered.”
“Excellent.” Uther started to stand, but she stretched out a hand to stop him.
“We must hide the child away. His life will be in danger if he stays with you.”
“What? Who would threaten him? I can protect my own son.”
The Lady toyed with a crystal pendant that hung from a silver chain around her neck. It drew his eye. Something in the back of his mind seemed to recognize it, was pleased to see it.
She tucked it away. “We could not see who wishes to kill him, but it is vital he be protected. I have Seen it.”
“If you say so,” Uther said begrudgingly.
“No one shall know his true parentage.”
Uther stood. “This is unacceptable. If he is to be my heir, he must be known. He must learn about the lands and the lords he will lead. They must see his character. He must prove himself.”
“Sir Ector will school him in statecraft.”
“Sir Ector? You mean me to send him north?”
“And Merlin will teach him magic.”
“What? This is unheard of.” Uther’s hand went to his sword before he realized it.
The Lady stood up and stepped beside him, laying a placating hand on his shoulder. “We only wish to protect the child. He must be a master of this world and the other.”
This intrigued him. He’d always watched Merlin’s magic with wonder and a certain curiosity. His own son would know the mysteries. Ector was a good man. Loyal. Wise in the ways of court. Honorable.
The Lady interrupted his thoughts. “Send Igraine to us before her pregnancy shows. She will give birth here. Merlin will take the child to the Forest Sauvage.”
“Am I not even to see him?”
“We will send word when the birth occurs. He may stay here with his mother for a few months.” Her voice softened. “You are always welcome to visit, my king.”
This assuaged his pride, a concession from the powerful Lady of Avalon. Her words eased the burning in his chest. But a son. He would have a son whose reign would be—what ha
d the Lady said? Of great import. And history would remember him, which meant his own legacy would be honored for a long time. Uther knew his name would be remembered along with his son’s. His heart soared like an eagle.
He cared little for mewing infants or young children. He would visit Sir Ector often. The child would know him as a friend of the family and the High King. What should he name him? He turned to ask the Lady for her advice, but decided against it. She had enough control of the child’s life as it was.
“Tonight, I expect you at the Beltane fire. You and your men may stay in the lodge beneath the springs.” The Lady was already turning away. He was dismissed.
This reminded him he was not the one in power here, but the mild discourtesy did not disturb him overmuch. He was to have a son. A son who would be well known.
Nina sipped her India Pale Ale and waited to see if the group of neophyte magicians around the table in the White Hart Pub would answer her question. After seeing to her hacker, she’d flown to London to find an artifact she now suspected had last been in Cagliostro’s possession.
“I say he’s dead.” Angus set his Irish stout down decisively. “No one has seen Cagliostro in nine months, maybe more.”
Callum wiped suds from his beard. The beer at the White Hart Pub in North London was almost as legendary as the magician they were discussing. “Last we heard he was in the Caribbean diving. Rumor had it he’d found a crystal from Atlantis.”
Jessamy chuckled. “And you believe that? He used to spin stories to keep everyone in awe of him.”
A surprised silence followed this statement. When Alexander Cagliostro had been among them, nobody dared question his ascendancy. Now his critics seemed emboldened.
Everybody in the magical world knew or at least had heard of Alexander Cagliostro. He’d been around a long time, and his silver hair showed it, but his face was smooth and wrinkle free. He kept himself fit. A scoundrel—or worse—his exploits were often the subject of gossip at many a gathering.
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