Estelle rubbed her hands against her white apron. “I know just what to give her to tempt her to eat,” she said with a smile.
“Keep it light. She’s still got a lot of psychic work to do.”
“Leave it to me. Now, what about you, sir? When did you eat last?”
“Breakfast?” he asked.
“No, sir. You haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. I’ll serve you in the family dining room.”
“Has Arnold eaten?”
She shook her head.
“Would it be an imposition to prepare a buffet for everyone?”
“Imposition? To do my job, sir? I’m only too glad to do something for my little poppet.” She wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron.
Gerald smiled at Estelle’s childhood name for Anne. “She’s going to be all right. Both Anne and the baby. Don’t you worry.”
Estelle choked back her tears, then squared her shoulders. “I’ll send in a tray for the nurse as well. You’ll have a spread in the formal dining room in half an hour. It’s big enough for all of you.” She put her hands on her ample hips. “But you can tell that Preston that I will not order takeout pizza for him.”
“Quite right.” Gerald laughed for the first time since they’d found Anne unconscious.
He went up to his rooms for a quick shower and change of clothes, then called the entire group together in the formal living room near the front of the house. After they’d filled their plates from the offerings of cold cuts and cheese, bread, salads, and potato leek soup, he asked Arnold if he’d detected any more problems.
Just as he was about to answer, Preston ran into the room and surveyed the trays. “Where’s the pizza?”
“You will eat what we feed you, young man,” Abernathy snapped. “We called this meeting fifteen minutes ago. Where were you?”
“Talk, talk, talk. I’ve been working.” He grabbed a plate and slathered two pieces of bread with Dijon mustard and mayonnaise, then piled on roast beef, ham, three types of cheese, lettuce and tomatoes. He carried his Dagwood sandwich to a seat at the table and took a bite.
Gerald timed his question perfectly. “Have you found our money yet?”
Preston’s eyes bugged. He chewed frantically. Finally, he spoke around the wad of food in his mouth. “Yeah, man. I already told you where it is. I found a back door into that Knight guy’s computer.”
“Let’s go then,” Gerald said.
“Dude, can I eat first?”
Gerald had watched him devour an omelet, a heaping pile of hash browns, three pieces of toast for breakfast and two bowls of Estelle’s famous soup mid-morning, but the kid still looked like he was sculpted from a handful of shadows.
“Five minutes,” Gerald said. “Abernathy, Arnold, would you join us?”
Once the group had reassembled around the computer monitors in Gerald’s study, Preston took them through his discovery. “Here are the transactions. Three disguised as stock trades, two as commodities, another to a real estate firm allegedly buying a manor house in the south of France. They’re all dressed up to look legitimate. But,” he held up his finger dramatically, “they all go to this bank in the Caymans.”
Gerald leaned forward to study the list of withdrawals. If they hadn’t taken place at practically the same time and drained his funds, they would have seemed legitimate.
“What ties them to Knight?” Abernathy asked.
Susan asserted herself. “If you look at the next monitor, sir, you’ll see the stream of orders that seems to come from three of your offices. But several layers in, they all trace back to the same IP address.”
Gerald stared at a long string of letters. “How do you know this is Knight?”
“We did a reverse DNS lookup on Google on that IP Address,” Dana explained. “It usually gives the name of the company it’s tied to. This is a small IP service provider and its only point of presence is in Northern Maryland just outside D.C.”
“Here is Mr. Knight’s property from Google Maps,” Susan said.
An aerial view of the Maryland countryside swam into view. Susan clicked in closer and a stone mansion complete with turrets, gables and mullioned windows filled the screen.
“That’s it, all right,” Abernathy said.
“I still can’t believe he’s the source,” Gerald said. “I mean, we’re talking about Valentin Knight here.”
“I know,” Abernathy said. “I wonder what’s happened to him.”
“Or maybe he was a crook all along,” Preston pronounced.
Both of the older men looked at him with distaste.
After a pause, Gerald said, “You suggested that you could get our money back.”
“Just say the word.” Preston’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.
“Please proceed,” Gerald said.
Preston’s fingers flew and a string of code ran across one of the monitors. Gerald studied the map and the list of withdrawals, but nothing changed there.
Suddenly, all the monitors went blank.
“Son of a—” Preston pounded the enter key several times, but nothing changed.
Then a black screen appeared with huge letters that read,
Hello, Mr. Le Clair:
Your computer has been encrypted.
The hard disks of your computer have been encrypted with a military grade encryption algorithm. It is impossible to recover your data without a special key.
Hand over the child and you’ll get your money back, minus a small service charge.
You have:
3 days, 15 hours, 59 minutes
“Fucking hell,” Arnold snarled.
“Trace this.” Gerald spit out. “Find out where this came from.”
“Dude,” Preston muttered, his face white, “there’s like no way to break this encryption. We’re dead in the water.”
The clock clicked to 58 minutes.
“What do we do?” Arnold asked.
Preston folded his hands. “We wait for further instructions.”
Chapter 14
Nina luxuriated in a hot bath scented with Egyptian rose oil, preparing herself. Steam filled the air, and she settled in deeper, relaxing her shoulders and neck. Tonight, she’d go into her private mediation chamber and activate the next level of her spell, pulling the line between her and Valentin taunt. She heard a faint chime from her computer in her office down the hall. That particular sound alarm meant Zebulon’s trap had been activated. A warm rush filled her torso, both sexual and predatory at the same time. Her plans were proceeding as she’d hoped.
She got out of her bath and dried off. Wrapped a silk robe around herself and walked to the office, enjoying the lush carpet she’d recently had installed in anticipation of wealth beyond her childhood dreams.
She nudged the mouse next to the laptop and the screen sprang to life, displaying the warning. The encryption program came from Knight’s computer, but Zebulon had arranged for her to sign on to Knight’s computer remotely. He’d assured her the spyware would be invisible.
She settled into her chair and smiled. Now she owned the Le Clairs—lock, stock, and barrel, as the saying went. The message Zebulon had sent led them to believe if they handed over the baby, they’d get their money back. They would never comply, of course, but the promise would burrow into their hearts like the worm Zebulon had uploaded to burrow into their computers. It would send them into an emotional tailspin, make it hard for them to focus, undermine their ability to undo the spells, to defeat Mordred.
That part had surprised her. Mordred was real enough. In the middle of her daily meditation regime, he had appeared, brushing through her wards like they were flimsy spider webs, when she knew for a fact they were strong. She’d learned from the best.
He’d announced himself as the Wronged King. It had taken a minute to figure out who he was. “We had almost won, both you and me. You had your wizard all to yourself for eternity, trapped in crystal. I had struck a blow to my father, the Pretender.”
&nb
sp; “Are you talking about Arthur?”
“Of course.”
“But he killed you.”
Mordred waved a ghostly hand, dismissing this as inconsequential. “I dealt him a death blow in turn.”
“But the Sisters of Avalon took him away on their barge.”
“Yes, their Death Barge.” He laid emphasis on the words.
“That’s not how the story goes,” she said with a shrug. “It is said that Arthur will return. Nothing is said about you.”
“Now is our chance to set the record straight,” he said. “Word has reached me that a great one in this lineage is about to be born to remake history. If he is allowed entry into this,” he gestured around to her meditation room, “physical realm, our chance will be lost.”
“Who is about to be born?”
Mordred’s lip curled, but he didn’t answer.
“Then tell me who the parents are.”
“Anne Le Clair and Michael Levy—the two who betrayed my father to begin with and set all this in motion.”
This answer puzzled Nina, but she pressed on. “Tell me more about this word that reached you.”
Mordred drew closer and placed his index finger on her third eye. She allowed the contact, closed her physical eyes, and waited. A light formed beneath Mordred’s finger and turned the color of smoky quartz. Inside the murky light, a scene unfolded.
She found herself in a large chamber. Nine Sentinel Stones stood around the perimeter glowing faintly. The ceiling of the cave glinted in response, mica picking up the light and bouncing it back. A rounded ceiling dotted with crystals reflected light, stars within the earth.
This is where I found the Orion crystal, she thought.
Nina watched as people arrived. First Anne, surrounded by a pack of white hounds with spots of red. Two women dressed as priestesses of Avalon, one older in a white gown. Then Michael accompanied by an older sturdy fellow. And finally Cagliostro dragging with him a man, his shoulders roped with muscle, his hair braided with shells and beads that sang as he moved.
They all stopped before the most glorious being she’d ever seen—tall and blond, his skin translucent ivory, eyes the color of crushed violets. She recognized him instinctively—Gwyn ap Nudd, Lord of the Fae. She fought the urge to kneel.
The scene grew misty for a while as people spoke. The older man who’d come in with Michael ran to a beautiful woman who reached her arms out to him. Then Cagliostro seemed to change and a woman even more radiant than Gwyn appeared, her skin alabaster, her lips mulberries, and her hair red curls the color of flame. Cagliostro walked into faery with her.
Then the scene cleared, the voices audible. Michael and Anne held their crystal keys out to the Lord of Faery and he blessed them.
Then he said, “There is one more thing.” Gwyn smiled at them, his expression playful. “On Samhain, we hunt the souls of the dead. But on this night, the eve of Beltane, souls wishing to be born come through our realm.” He placed his hand over Anne’s womb. “A great being is coming to you.”
“Oh,” Anne murmured.
“You mean?” Michael began.
“Guard this one well,” Gwyn said.
The scene faded and Mordred’s face swam into focus. “Gwyn ap Nudd himself spoke it. But we still have a chance to alter the outcome. He said to guard the child. That means he is vulnerable.”
Nina hesitated. “Are you certain this child is Arthur?”
“I have seen it,” Mordred said.
Still, Nina thought, did she dare go up against this great Lord of Fae who wielded such consummate powers?
A memory surfaced.
“He is the greatest mage in many generations, Nimué.” The woman who spoke picked up an earthen mug and took a sip. Her sleeve fell down her forearm, revealing an intricate Pictish tattoo. “Count yourself lucky to have studied with him and let that be enough.”
“Still . . .” Nimué let the request hang in the smoky air between them.
“You remember the concoction,” the woman said. “There is nothing I can do to stop you using it.”
“They defeated us, Mother.”
“And yet, here we are,” the older woman replied.
The two drank their ale in silence for a while.
“Combine this with what he has taught you. Perhaps you can best him.” She grabbed Nimué’s hand and squeezed.
Nimué winced.
“But if you fail, it will be your death.”
Nina smiled. She had succeeded then. For a long time, she had held him locked in crystal until something had awakened him and he’d found a way out of her prison. Now she would best him again. But one thing at a time.
She convinced the spirit of Mordred that once the Le Clairs handed over the child, she would bind the soul just as she had bound Merlin all those centuries ago, leaving the coast clear for the “true king,” as he called himself, to enter the newborn infant. She would have the most powerful magician captive and she would use that power to make herself rich beyond her dreams. Then she would explore the hidden realms, forbidden knowledge.
Mordred’s blind ambition surprised her. He had been the Sun Child, born of the Beltane ritual. Yes, the son of Arthur one could argue, but not necessarily in the line of inheritance. Even if Guinevere had birthed a son, it didn’t mean he would become king. Most of the time, the tribes in those times had chosen the successor not by birth, but deeds. Still, Mordred’s obsession had come at an opportune moment. It added a whole layer to her previous plans, making it much more likely she would succeed.
Nina settled into a trance-like state and sent a probe to Mordred. After a few minutes, she felt him stir.
It is done, she sent. They have received our demand.
She felt a surge of savage joy in the connection before she broke it. Let the Le Clairs stew. Now it was time to reel in her big fish.
Preparations for Arthur’s tour took four days, and Guinevere spent most of her time supervising the stores that would go with them. Not that she knew much of campaigning, but she knew what they’d need to see them through until harvest. Before the warriors left, they must attend the ceremony to prepare the fields for planting, so Arthur stayed the next day for the breaking of the ground. The young men tied their draught horses to their ploughs and competed to see who would make the deepest, straightest furrow. There was much bawdy joking about ploughing fields and bedding maids. Everyone’s blood was up with the rise of spring.
That night, many a couple sported in those furrows, blessing the land, bringing fertility to the animals and people as well. Leigh, the old wise woman who tended the sick and delivered babies, mixed up a special herbal concoction for Guinevere to drink in hopes she would catch a child. She held her nose and chugged it down, trying not to make a face, but Leigh laughed. “Aye, girl, it is a nasty mix, but it has done the trick many a time.”
Guinevere wiped her mouth. “Thank you.”
Later that night Arthur led her to a special bower that had been made for them in the center of the field and laying her down in the soft earth, made love to her as if he were just returning from months on campaign rather than preparing to leave for one. But amidst the thrusts and the heat, Guinevere’s thoughts strayed to Lancelot. She wondered who he was with this night.
The next morning, Guinevere had the honor of blessing the corn, and the women, filling their aprons with the golden grain heads, went out and slung the seed across the fields, singing as they went. With the fields prepared for summer, Arthur rode out the next day with a great clanging of swords, braying of hounds, and churning of hooves. But early that morning as the birds began their song to the sun that would soon crest the hill, he’d tumbled her again in their bed, then dressed to leave. “May I return to growing grains and a widening belly, my lady.”
She smiled and kissed him goodbye. Below, he spoke to Lancelot with Guinevere listening at the window. “I head for the spring of Sulis, then into Wales to visit our kin and the lords to the west. I should be back bef
ore mid-summer, so we can ride east.”
“Yes, my lord. My men and I will guard your homeland.”
Arthur turned to the old soldier who had marched with his father. “Ronan, your honor is beyond reproach and your arm is strong, but you must still recover from the injury you received last season.”
Ronan hung his head. “I would march with you, my lord.”
“But who would counsel Sir Lancelot in taking care of my lands and guarding the queen? There is none other I trust as much as you.”
Ronan nodded, his eyes reddening. The old man had loved a campaign, but age had caught up with him. He was too proud to snore in the sun like his hound did now on the side of the wall, although he deserved it more.
“Keep her safe,” Arthur said in a quiet voice that still reached Guinevere’s ears.
“Yes, my lord.”
Arthur slapped Lancelot on the back, then mounted his white stallion and rode out, the knights following, making a fine sight with their burnished armor and banners. Arthur’s mastiff rushed ahead, his red tongue hanging out, eager for the road.
With the fields planted, the folk handed off the responsibility for the crops to Mother Nature and life slowed. They turned to making repairs, keeping the vegetable gardens weed free, and the young girls made garlands for their hair with the early flowers, hoping to catch the eye of a favored boy.
The furrows greened with the lengthening days, at first reminding Guinevere of the first fuzz on a young man’s chin, but soon the stalks took on definition. She had hoped to be growing herself, but two weeks after Arthur rode out, her blood came. Hiding tears, she took to the woods pretending to hunt for herbs, but allowing the growing leaves and trickling stream to soothe her heart.
Why could she not conceive? She had asked the healers for herbal potions, drunk the most vile concoctions, laid with poultices on her abdomen. She’d asked the priestesses for rituals. Even mentioned to Merlin when he visited that she would be grateful for magical help, although he said such was the business of the priestesses and wise women. But nothing availed.
Return of the Grail King Page 13