He's A Magic Man (The Children of Merlin)

by Susan Squires

  She couldn’t fix Kemble’s situation. Maybe she was learning something too. So she just answered, “I knew when I saw him on TV, for God’s sake. And the power followed right after. I had a vision that same night. I wasn’t sure about the power at first. But I was sure about him, at least until I saw him in the flesh. That put me into denial.”

  “I heard he was … uh … an alcoholic. You sure you want to get involved with that?”

  “He kicked it.”

  “Just like that?”

  Uh-oh. Well, Kemble wouldn’t be surprised. He’d known her all her life. “Uh, actually, I tied him to the bed for a couple of days.”

  Kemble barked a laugh. “I don’t doubt it.”

  “But once the worst was over, he did it on his own,” she hastened to add.

  “Bet he loved you for that.”

  Kemble meant it to be light, sarcastic. But it hurt nevertheless. See above, so screwed. Drew tried not to let her face crumple. “He said Alice wanted him to give up the booze. I think he had a dream or something. Anyway, he did it for her. ”

  “Sorry, kid.” The sympathy in Kemble’s eyes was hard to take. “Must be a bitch.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Was it ever … good?”

  She couldn’t help the smile. “Yeah. Like finding the other half of your soul you didn’t know was missing.” She took a breath. Her family blamed Michael for the whole situation— leaving her, joining Rhiannon to find the sword. She didn’t. It was just his destiny. “He’s a good man, Kemble. I know you and Tris and Father will never believe that. He was trying to drink himself into the grave after Alice died. He loves her that much. The chance to get her back? Not something he could refuse.”

  After a moment, Kemble said, “Have you thought about what happens when we find him? Them, I mean?”

  “I just pray you and Tris and Father don’t get hurt.” She took a breath. “But I don’t want Michael hurt either.”

  “Then I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Drew reached for the last of the sandwiches that hung in a net next to the little cooktop. Her knee touched one of the guns that stuck out of a drawer that wouldn’t quite latch. The cold of the metal seemed to burn her.

  “We’ll find them,” Kemble said.

  Drew believed him. She just wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  They stood on the hill, under the big tree he’d chosen for Alice. Moonlight made the grave markers gleam white. They were embedded in grass that would be green in daylight. Now it was black, like the cold night. Drew was there beside him. That was all right. He wanted to share the happiness of seeing Alice alive again with her. Rhiannon was there, and the ridiculous Brandon St. Claire. And his father, whose expression was the one he’d gotten when Michael had told him he’d enlisted all those years ago. A shadowy figure dressed a lot like Dickens’ Ghost of Christmas Future stood at the head of the gaping grave. He didn’t remember anyone digging it up. It was just open. The shadowy figure must be that Morgan person. She started doing some incantations or something, and waving her hands. It was really pretty funny. Is that how you raised the dead?

  He looked at Drew and she shrugged. He almost missed the lid of the coffin creaking open. Drew pointed, and Alice, whole and young, pushed out of her eternal resting place. She was dressed in a diaphanous gown. Which was strange, because that’s not what she’d been buried in. She looked around. She might be confused. He could take care of that. He’d take her in his arms, and say ... what would he say? “Welcome back, darling?” or just “I love you?” He held out his hand.

  She didn’t take it.

  “Michael.” She smiled. “Why have you bothered me?”

  Bothered her?

  And then the smile turned into a grimace, and Alice’s lovely lips drew back over her teeth, and her skin shrank back.

  Michael sucked in air. Gaping sores appeared in her face, as if the flesh had rotted away. He heard Drew scream. He couldn’t move. “Alice,” he cried. But the creature in front of him wasn’t Alice anymore. It had claw-like hands, showing bone through rotting flesh. They reached for his throat while its shriek cycled up the scale and reverberated through the graveyard.

  The figure of Christmas Future began to laugh, sounding like the witch in Snow White.

  Michael couldn’t move. “Alice,” he pleaded as the claws drew closer, trembling with the need to rip out his throat.

  “Alice, don’t.” It was Drew. She stepped in front of Michael. “He loves you.”

  The claws touched Drew’s throat, and Michael wanted to scream that the zombie Alice shouldn’t hurt Drew. But at that moment the figure of Alice started to collapse in on itself until, in mere seconds, it was just a pile of dust at Drew’s feet.

  “Alice,” he screamed, finding his voice. Then the graveyard receded and the Ghost of Christmas Future and Rhiannon and St. Claire all seemed to just vanish, and there was only Drew standing by him in the face of his collapsing dreams. Her eyes were luminous with tears.

  “Drew,” he breathed.

  And everything changed.

  *****

  Michael woke, sweating and trembling. His ears roared. He rolled off his bed and staggered to his feet, weaving. Where was he? The roar settled into the sound of The Purgatory’s engines. His bed was the padded aft bench on The Purgatory’s lower deck. He staggered because the deck was rolling as the ship crested the swells. He half-expected to see graves, feel the wet of the black grass. But there was only deck and night sky and a sea silvered by a channel of moonlight from the starboard side now. He must have been asleep for hours.

  “Hey, man, what’s up?” a thug with close-cropped hair asked, his voice thick with suspicion and sleep.

  “Had a bad dream. Go back to sleep,” Michael muttered. Understatement. The guy groaned and rolled onto his back on the port bench.

  St. Claire was still forward at the wheel. The deck was strewn with forms sleeping on benches or propped against the pile of life jackets. The Purgatory was just as he’d left it.

  Yet nothing was the same.

  He sat back down on the bench and let the thrum of the engines roll through him. Had Rhiannon ever said that Alice would be just the same when she came back from the dead? He racked his brain. He could only remember her saying that cancer wouldn’t matter to someone back from the dead.

  That might be true for a variety of reasons.

  Rhiannon’s omission took on ominous overtones. They were trying to trick him into doing something he’d regret. A double betrayal of Alice. He didn’t doubt they could bring her back. But back as what?

  And Alice herself didn’t want to come back. He’d sensed that in his trance or whatever it was at the wheel when she’d appeared to him. He thought back to the first time he’d seen her, when he’d been fighting the alcohol. She’d seemed relaxed, happy even. Concerned for him, yes, but it wasn’t as if she’d said she missed him.

  That hurt.

  Instead, she’d told him that sooner or later he’d let go of her, that her memory wouldn’t hurt so much. She had seemed to want that, even. At the time he hadn’t.

  Shit. Piss. Fuck.

  His excitement at the possibility of raising Alice from the dead turned to ashes. Regret rose like bile in his throat. He couldn’t chance letting this Morgan woman bring Alice back just because he wanted her so much. That was selfish, and he’d live to regret it, or maybe Alice would. What if she wasn’t the same Alice he loved? What if once she came back from the dead she could never die, no matter what shape she was in? What if he condemned Alice to living with the pain of her cancer forever? The horrible possibilities cascaded endlessly through his mind, until he wanted to pound his head against something, anything, to shut them off.

  But they wouldn’t go off. They just careened into another track.

  In his dream, Drew had saved him from Alice. Or from what Alice had become. But dreams were just a representation of the subconscious, weren’t
they? He had conjured up a dream where Drew saved him from Alice. That was a betrayal of Alice on so many levels he couldn’t even grasp it. Because in the end of that dream, he had realized he loved Drew. The warm Caribbean wind on his face made him realize his cheeks were wet.

  He took a breath. Get a grip, Dowser. It’s just a dream.

  Dowser. A finder of things. For the last two years, that was all he’d been. Reduced to a single trait in everyone’s mind. Well, two traits. Finding things and drinking. That’s all anyone saw. All but Drew. She was the one who had made him say his name was Michael. She had made him tell her who he was, and what he’d experienced. She saw him as a whole man.

  If anyone was raised from the dead, it was Michael. And Drew had done that. Maybe with a little help from Alice.

  And what had he given Drew in return? He’d screamed at her when he had wanted a drink so bad he would have killed for it. He’d mocked her when she had tried to take care of him. He’d called her a silly coed in front of this crew of miscreants and criminals. He knew how that hurt her, and even though it had been to save her from being dragged along and probably injured or killed, she’d only see it as a betrayal.

  The image of her hurt face was replaced by the memory of holding her in the tiny bathroom after she had been so upset about having a vision. That’s what he’d like to do now. And tell her how sorry he was, and why he’d said those cruel things.

  He’d probably never get the chance.

  He wiped his cheeks. He wasn’t ready to deal with all this. But for the first time, he could foresee a time when he might be. The only thing he knew for sure was that he wasn’t letting Morgan raise Alice from the dead. He was pretty sure they were playing some awful trick by even offering. And if that was true, he wasn’t sure these people should get hold of this sword they wanted so badly.

  He looked around, checked the odds. Not great. But not impossible.

  But rebellion wasn’t in the cards in the middle of the ocean. Let’s see what’s at the end of the rainbow. That might give him a few more options.

  *****

  It was morning when Drew began to feel it. She bolted upright where she sat sleeping with her head against the tiny cupboard next to the table. Tris was slumped across from her.

  Michael.

  She could feel Michael. Very faintly. But he was there.

  “Daddy,” she yelled as she stuck her head up the hatch. “We’re getting close.”

  “How do you know?” Kemble finished winding the winch that pulled the mainsail around and stood as the yacht tipped to the other side. Water raced along the sides.

  Drew grinned. “I can feel Michael.”

  Her father looked tired, but he grinned in return. “Well, honey, if I ever doubted he was the One for you, that seals the deal. Let’s go find him.”

  “And the sword,” Tris grumbled, pushing past Drew as he climbed the ladder. “Don’t forget the damned sword.”

  “And the sword,” her father agreed. He turned his face back into the wind.

  *****

  Michael swallowed hard and kept his eyes straight ahead, his knuckles white where he gripped the wheel. There, on the horizon, was a tiny lump of land, barely visible. Good thing. It still might be touch and go to get back to civilization on the fuel they had left, even though they’d packed on extra tanks in Les Cayes. But that was secondary right now. He turned to look behind him for the fifth time in the last quarter hour. Nothing. But he knew damn well Drew was somewhere behind them. He’d been feeling her for the last two hours.

  How she’d found him, he didn’t know. How she’d caught up with The Purgatory, he couldn’t fathom. But she was there. And she was getting closer.

  What did that mean? If she didn’t know he was trying to save her from these crazies, she must just feel humiliated. Even if she did know he was trying to spare her, in her mind he was doing this primarily for Alice. She wouldn’t come after him either way. His chest was tight with conflicting emotions. Did she care enough about him to try and stop him from getting involved with the bad guys? Or had she just wanted his ability to find things, so she had organized a search party? Maybe Rhiannon and company weren’t the only ones who had a use for his talents. Or maybe Drew and whoever was on that boat with her just wanted this sword thing that was supposed to have power.

  The possibilities had bounced around about a thousand times in his mind over the last hours. He didn’t care if she only wanted his ability or the fruits of his labor. Maybe she wanted him at the same time. That’s what he had to hope, anyway. He wanted Drew to want him so much that it was the emotional equivalent of the physical pull he’d started to experience again.

  Rhiannon came up on deck and stood at his shoulder. She now wore a long dress that revealed heavy breasts pocketed in a halter top. It was an eye-popping shade of magenta. “How we doing?” she asked sharply, scanning the horizon. “Shouldn’t we be...?” Then she saw it. “Look!” She pointed. “An island. It must be uncharted. Brandon!” she called. “Get up here.”

  Beefy Brandon St. Claire poked his head up out of the cabin. “What?”

  “We’ve found it.” There was palpable excitement in her voice.

  “The sword?” He must still be half-asleep.

  “No, idiot. An island.” She turned to the guys on the back deck. “No diving necessary,” she announced. “All you’ll need are those shovels.”

  “Hey, real buried treasure?” one thug asked with fake wonder. That provoked a shoving contest and some laughing.

  “We’re rich!” another exclaimed.

  Under cover of the melee, Michael chanced a look behind him. He took a sharp breath. Was that the speck of a white sail? He flipped his gaze forward.

  But Rhiannon had seen him. She jerked her eyes up toward the east horizon.

  “Well, well,” she said, her too-full lips a grim line. “We have company.” St. Claire perked up his ears and followed her gaze. “And after all the work I put in just to make sure the weather wouldn’t allow anyone to follow us.”

  “It’s a sail,” St. Claire said, unnecessarily.

  Rhiannon chuffed a bitter laugh. “Somebody used my wind to catch us.” She rounded on Michael. “Were you going to tell us anytime soon?”

  “Just now saw it myself.” True, as far as it went.

  “They’re making good time,” St. Claire observed. “Somebody on board is a real sailor.”

  Rhiannon looked at Michael with narrowed eyes. “Can’t this thing go any faster? Get us to that island and locate the sword. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Been pushing this engine for twenty-four hours,” he said. “In addition to which, we can’t spare the gas. We don’t want to die at sea with your precious sword.”

  “I don’t care. Floor it, or whatever you say in boat lingo.”

  Michael sighed and eased the throttle up as high as it would go.

  “How long until we reach the island?” Rhiannon snapped.

  “Forty-five minutes, maybe an hour.”

  “Make it less.”

  *****

  Drew scanned ahead with the telescope. She couldn’t see him yet. The sun beat down. The hurricane had been left behind. The wind was still brisk enough to power the sails, but they weren’t making the time they had earlier. Her father called directions to Tris, trying to pry out every ounce of speed possible.

  “Anything?” Tris called as he stepped behind her to add more sail.

  “Not yet.” As the telescope crossed the horizon again, she saw it. Tiny. Low. Because there was no sail it was hard to see. “Got them,” she yelled. “Straight ahead. Good going, Daddy.”

  “Sometimes it’s okay to have a father who’s good at everything.” Tris smiled.

  “Nice sailing,” Kemble said quietly.

  Their father grinned at the wheel. “Crewing for the America’s Cup in ’87 with Denny Conner was the best investment of time I ever made.”

  “You were gone a lot,” Kemble said. There was
no rancor in his tone, though.

  “A summer in San Diego during training and a trip to see the kangaroos for the actual race in Australia? What six-year-old wouldn’t love that?”

  “Got to admit I liked it, and I was four,” Tris said as he scrambled to a winch before his father could point out that the jib was about to luff. “Race was boring as hell though.”

  Kemble laughed. “Triangles tip to the right. The crowd goes wild. Triangles tip to the left. The crowd gasps.”

  “Kemble, Drew, get me any scrap of canvas you can find.”

  They dashed to the sail locker. After that there wasn’t time to think. He kept all of them busy coaxing every last knot out of The Hail Mary. The island got closer. Though the wind had dropped, it was certain they’d get to the island themselves before Rhiannon and Michael could find the sword and be away.

  Michael would hate her for spoiling his chance to get Alice back. That was the best outcome. The worst? She didn’t want to think.

  The boys grew quiet as they too realized the chase was ending, for better or worse. They’d need the guns down in the cabin. Of course her father was a crack shot. But that didn’t mean people wouldn’t get hurt. People she cared about. On both boats.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “So who’s on the yacht?” Rhiannon asked. She was staring out at the island, now looming in front of them. Her voice was hard.

  “I don’t know,” Michael said.

  Rhiannon turned her head, studying him. She was beautiful in a coarse sort of way, but she wasn’t a kid. This close he could see little lines around her eyes. Bet she worked on looking young though. Woman like her would want every kind of power she could get.

  “Only one person knew about the sword,” she mused. “She’s either on that yacht or she set them on our trail.”

  Michael ignored her. Like that would make her go away.

  “The real question is how she did that.” Rhiannon tapped a long nail to her lips.