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

by Susan Squires

  A dead body.

  It was about six feet away, and already bloated. Sand flies crawled at the staring eyes. Crabs had picked at the soft tissue. His lips and earlobes were shredded, though not actively bleeding, since he was dead. It was the guy with the pierced face. Michael realized he’d never known the guy’s name. Either he hadn’t made it or the others killed him. A crab entered his field of vision, stepping delicately sideways, its claw extended to feel out its next meal.

  He pushed himself up as fast as he could, though not without a groan of effort. His body shot pain through his thigh and his hip. Oh, yeah. He’d been shot. He was naked and shot. Probably had one hell of a sunburn on his butt. How long had he been lying out here? “Shoo,” he croaked at the crab. It scuttled away, disconcerted. Michael rolled over and sat with his head between his knees until things stopped spinning. Oh, yeah. Sunburned butt.

  The makeshift bandage pad and the vines that had held it to his thigh were long gone. Sand everywhere. He tried to brush some out of his wound. He hissed in a breath but kept at it. Not effective, and he just started it bleeding again.

  As a matter of fact, the only reason he was probably still alive was the fact that salt water acted as a coagulant. He crawled toward the waves, head hanging, to wash his wounds in the waves. This would hurt like a sonofabitch, but that was a small matter.

  What was bigger was the fact that he had screwed all chances of giving Alice new life. And he was stuck on this island while Drew was being taken who knew where to see the future for some bitch named Morgan. He couldn’t feel her anymore. She was far away by now, where he couldn’t help her. He’d failed two women in his life. “Good going, Dowser,” he muttered. Loser with a capital L. As soon as he washed his wounds, he’d better find the little stream. That was the only fresh water he’d seen on the island. It should be off to the left, just before that low bluff. He managed to pull his head up and survey his situation.

  Several more bodies. He’d come ashore just where the fight had taken place. But now there were four bodies. And no gunnysack. As he watched, one body sat up with a groan. And a guy came limping around the little bluff. Great. Michael was out here in the open, a few feet from the edge of the surf, naked, with no weapon. He’d lost his knife somewhere. The only thing he could do was stand and fight, or try to talk them into working together to survive until someone came for them, even if it was Rhiannon.

  He pushed himself up, hands on his knees to keep from falling over. Not exactly impressive. He stood upright, weaving only a little. He alternated his attention between the one sitting up in the sand, now shaking his head, and the guy silhouetted in the morning sun coming around the bluff.

  Wait. The guy in the sand wasn’t one of Rhiannon’s hired hands. He was older. Maybe 50s? That dusting of gray in his black hair wasn’t all sand. Something was familiar about him.

  “Senior,” the other guy yelled, breaking into a limping trot. “You okay?”

  Michael snapped his attention to the other intruder. Now that he was in the shade of the bluff, Michael could see that he wasn’t Rhiannon’s man either. Big. Well over six feet. Had a pair of shoulders on him, now just covered with a torn denim shirt. He had black hair and fair skin too. And he too looked familiar.

  “Think so,” the older man called, his voice a croak like Michael’s.

  As the younger man got closer, he registered Michael and slowed. Michael got down into a defensive crouch. “Don’t want any trouble,” he called, so they could both hear.

  Then it clicked. Father and son. Looked familiar. Like Drew.

  Great. One of Drew’s brothers and her father. They’d followed her from LA, no doubt to save her from him. And they’d come after him, or more likely the sword, with Drew. Now Drew was lost and it was his fault. He’d told Rhiannon about her. He might just be in for the beating of his life. Or death. He deserved it. That pain was familiar. It was the feeling he’d been trying to drown in alcohol for two years now.

  He saw the young guy’s brows draw together and his jaw clench, followed directly afterward by his fists. Oh, yeah. Here it comes.

  “You’re Redmond,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Michael raised his hands, palms out. Might as well admit it. “Yeah.”

  The young guy started toward him. Michael braced for a fight. He wasn’t in great shape, but Drew’s brother had something wrong with his left leg. Exploitable. He was willing to bet this guy wouldn’t fight smart. It was hard to fight smart when you were that angry.

  “Tristram,” Drew’s father called, getting up a little painfully from the sand. “Stop.” Croak or not, the man’s voice had authority in it.

  Tristram paused, chest heaving, fists clenching and unclenching. “This creep seduced Drew,” he growled. “And got her away from our protection, and now look what’s happened. Clan has got her, and we’re stuck here.”

  Pretty fair summation, Michael had to admit, though he hadn’t really seduced her. He had never meant for Drew to come looking for him. If anything, she had seduced him.

  “I’m half-tempted to help you,” Drew’s father said, coming closer. “He also found the sword for Morgan.”

  They were right about that too. He’d joined the bad guys. They had him between them with his back to the water. Not great. He’d have to take the brother out first. He remembered from his night at poker with Drew that the brother she called Tris was the bad boy. From the scars on his face, he was a fighter. Taking him out might not be a cakewalk.

  “But you know Drew wouldn’t want him hurt,” her father continued. His eyes were bright blue, with a penetrating gaze. He managed to look like he owned the joint, even in wrinkled khakis, boat shoes, and a torn, short-sleeved linen shirt. He made Michael acutely conscious of his nakedness. The older man was staring at the scars on Michael’s body.

  “Well, Drew isn’t here, is she?” Tristram growled. “And whose fault is that?”

  “We’re going to need all hands on deck to get out of this, even him.” Drew’s father walked up to Michael and held out his hand. “I’m Brian Tremaine and this is my son Tristram.”

  Michael glanced to Tristram. He was looking disgusted. Okay. He was going to follow Pop’s lead, at least for now. Michael straightened. He took the older man’s hand. How did he introduce himself these days? He swallowed. These men were Drew’s family. Should he lie if he wanted her in his life? Then his shoulders sagged. He was an alcoholic loser. Drew would never want him in her life when he’d joined the wrong side and betrayed her to Rhiannon. She and these men were scions of an important family. They had more in common with his father than with Michael. He could almost hear his father telling him he’d never measure up.

  “People call me Dowser.”

  Brian Tremaine raised his brows, as though that surprised him. The man’s handshake was predictably firm. Men like him were always sure of themselves. “Because you can find things.” He nodded, considering. “Well, we need your help to find Drew.”

  “If we can get off of this island,” Michael reminded him.

  “Of course,” Brian Tremaine said, as though that were inevitable. “Where is Kemble?”

  Michael watched Tristram’s face go worried. “No sign of him.”

  Kemble was at the bottom of the ocean, unless the tide had already washed him in.

  “We’ll conduct a search,” Brian announced. “Is your ankle broken?”

  “Sprained. Twisted my knee.” Tristram looked embarrassed. “But I’m fine. You?”

  “Concussion maybe....” The older man gingerly touched a bruised bump on his temple that had a trickle of blood snaking down his cheek. “Otherwise fine.” He looked at Michael. “Our naked friend here looks the worse for wear. You weren’t in the explosion, were you?”

  Michael felt himself flushing. “One of Rhiannon’s guys had a knife.”

  “And a gun, I see.”

  “Yeah,” Michael said shortly.

  “You’d better rinse off those wounds.”
Brian had already taken charge.

  But Michael agreed. He turned into the waves and bent to cup some water. God damn that hurt! He hissed in a breath, trying not to let the Tremaines see his weakness. When he turned back, the elder Tremaine was crouched in the sand alternately examining their surroundings and drawing with a finger in the sand. “That bluff was off our port when she hit us. Tide was coming in. Currents were strong.... Did you see any wreckage on the shore beyond the bluff?” he asked Tristram.

  “Some rigging, and some wood that looked like it’d been through a blender.”

  Brian Tremaine looked worried. He should. They were lucky to be alive after what Rhiannon had done to that yacht. The odds of another brother making it through looked dim to Michael. Brian took a deep breath. “Well, then that’s where we start. Dowser?”

  “Yeah?” Michael sloshed out of the waves. His thigh was bleeding again. But he’d gotten most of the sand out of it. His hip he wasn’t so sure about. It was hard to rinse out a bullet hole.

  “Are there any more of these lovely gentlemen lurking about?” Brian gestured toward the bodies on the beach. Michael limped up from the waves. Tristram leaned over and began stripping the nearest thug, the pierced guy the crabs had been at.

  “Uh, she did leave two behind alive.” He looked around the beach. He counted bodies. Three. Yeah, he’d dispatched those. But there were two more way down the beach. There was a full gunnysack between them. They weren’t moving. “Looks like they had a hard time dividing the loot,” he said, gesturing with his chin.

  “That’s always hell,” Tristram snorted.

  “Well, then we don’t have to worry about them,” Brian said shortly.

  Tristram pulled the cargo pants off the pierced guy and tossed them to Michael. “Might want these. Unless you like showing your junk....”

  “Thanks.” Michael took the pants. Hope Pierced didn’t have the little kind of crabs too.

  He must have looked hesitant, because Tristram continued to prod. “Plus, I’m tired of looking at your sunburned butt.”

  Michael glared at Tristram as he pulled on the pants. “I’m tired of you looking at it too.”

  Suspicious crinkles appeared at the corners of Tristram’s eyes. “Let’s find Kemble.”

  “Wait. There might be a faster way.” Brian turned to Michael. “You’re a Finder.”

  Michael swallowed. Yeah. He was. “Maybe. But I have to know what the object looks like. I don’t know Kemble.” It sounded like a lame excuse.

  “Sure you do,” Tristram said. “Looks just like Senior, here, only younger. Maybe his eyes aren’t quite as blue.”

  Brian fumbled in the back pocket of his khakis and pulled out a sodden wallet. He flipped through pictures of smiling kids, a beautiful older woman, and combinations of same. Michael saw him pause at a picture of Drew and then continue. He handed the wallet over. Sure enough, there was a younger version of Brian Tremaine, in a tux, naturally.

  “It might not be good news.” What if Kemble was sixty fathoms down?

  “Better than no news.”

  “Okay.” He studied the picture carefully as he ran his thumbs over it. Then he raised his head and closed his eyes. He slowed his breathing, thought about a peaceful place—the garden in Dubai where he and Alice had gone on one of their first dates. Gardens were a sign of wealth in a desert country. The sheik who had funded Alice’s charity had given her free run of it. The green was cool and reminded him of home. He opened himself and did the thing that was most difficult for him. He opened himself to the power. It didn’t come from within, as people always thought things like that should. No, it knocked on the door of his mind and his body, and he had to let it in, knowing it would hurt.

  And the grid of his mind opened up and he saw the slope of the beach and the translucence of the water over the deepening incline of the seafloor. And there, on top of the water, was something. A solid curve arching above the translucence.

  Kemble was on the backside of that curve.

  He opened his eyes. The two men, not quite mirror images, were staring intently at him. “He’s floating on some kind of curved thing. A hull maybe. About a half a mile out.”

  “Alive?” Tristram asked. Apparently his father couldn’t.

  “Don’t know.”

  Brian swallowed once. “Then let’s get out there. It won’t float for long. Dowser, grab a shirt and something we can tear up to bandage your leg.” He headed for the bluff.

  Tristram hobbled after him. Michael obeyed and scavenged some clothes. Mr. Captain of Industry was used to giving orders. Not a trait he appreciated. Too much like his father.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The three men stood on the beach on the far side of the bluff as waves sloshed tiny pieces of yacht in and out: a Styrofoam coffee cup, unbroken for some reason, a boat shoe. Michael could barely see the speck of white out there. Could a man be clinging to that? And what shape would he be in? No 911 out here.

  Brian started stripping off his shirt. “No time to build a raft if we want to get out there before the wreckage sinks.”

  “No way you’re going,” Tristram growled. He seemed to do that a lot.

  “I’m the best swimmer.”

  Tristram looked disgusted but somehow resigned. “Of course you are. But you’ve got a concussion. You could black out any time, drown, and then who’d go after Drew? I’m going.”

  “And you’ve got a twisted knee and a sprained ankle,” Michael said. “No good for kicking. You’ll sink like a stone inside a hundred yards.”

  “Well, you look like you’ve lost about eight quarts of blood,” Tristram retorted. “Plus that thing is infected.” He pointed to Michael’s thigh. The wound had in fact been swollen and red at the edges when Michael had bound it up.

  Brian Tremaine looked like he was about to try to pull rank, which would piss his son off to no end. Tristram resembled a pit bull getting ready to defend his territory, though his teeth weren’t yet bared in a snarl. No wonder Drew was tough. “Hey, hey, none of us are in great shape,” Michael said. “So get over it. It may take two of us to haul Kemble in. How about Tristram and I swim for it together? Brian, you’re reserve. If we don’t make it, you give it a go.”

  Tristram looked ready to agree, reluctantly, probably only because he knew Michael was right about what it would take to haul Kemble back to shore. The problem was going to be Dad. Brian wiped a hand across his mouth. The hand wasn’t steady. That surprised him. He held it out and watched it tremble, his brows drawing together.

  The two younger men stayed wisely silent. “Go,” he said roughly.

  They both nodded. Tristram sat down in the sand and pulled off his sneakers. Brian moved out to the edge of the waves and stared at the tiny white hull. Michael took off his newly acquired shirt. Tris stripped off the torn denim jeans. The guy had an interesting set of tattoos: blue and green Celtic knots over one shoulder and down over his biceps, small red knot patterns on his chest and abdomen. No wonder he didn’t entirely mesh with the scion of the family. Maybe he and Tristram had more in common than he thought.

  They realized at about the same time that with Tristram’s bad leg he couldn’t push himself up off the sand by himself. Michael held out his hand.

  Tristram stared at it a minute, obviously examining every alternative. Finally he took it. “I’ll still outlast you.”

  “In your dreams,” Michael said as he pulled him up.

  *****

  Drew came to consciousness slowly. Her head hurt, and there was a terrible ringing in her ears. She could hear the sound of an engine in the distance. It was night. She was cold. And wet.

  The explosion! She tried to sit up. Her head broke apart into fiery pieces, just like the yacht. With a gasp, she lay carefully down again.

  “Not feeling quite the thing?” The voice sounded so far away.

  Drew moved her eyes toward the voice down at her feet. Even that much movement hurt. Rhiannon sat smoking a cigarette in a cone
of light at the dining table of The Purgatory. Drew was on Michael’s boat. She was lying on the sofa that formed the long side of the dining seating. Her sweater was soggy, her slacks were wet. She was barefoot.

  “I’ve been better,” she managed.

  “We’ll have a doc check you out when we get to Jamaica. We can fly direct out of Kingston. Faster.”

  “Faster for what?”

  “Let’s just say you have a whole new career ahead of you. Futures to see, people to meet. And I need to get a sword to Chicago.” She took a drag on her cigarette and blew out a channel of smoke. It swirled in the cone of light. She looked like a painting. Not real. In fact all of this seemed just a little distant as though Drew was watching it all from far away.

  “Where are....” she almost said her family. Maybe that wasn’t smart. If Rhiannon were part of the Clan that had attacked Tris and Maggie, Drew wouldn’t want her to know that more Tremaines had been on that boat. “Where are the others?” she amended. She had to be careful here. Hard, because her brain felt like sludge when her headache wasn’t throbbing at her.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about them.” Rhiannon tittered. “Who were they anyway? Derelict friends of Dowser?”

  “I ... I wouldn’t call them derelict,” she said.

  “I was lucky you were aft. Or you were.”

  Drew tried to think. Hadn’t they all been aft? No. Her father had been at the wheel. Kemble had been crawling up the mast to get a better look with the binoculars. Tris ... Tris had gone below to look for a launch.

  Tears welled into her eyes. Could any of them have survived? She wanted to call her power immediately. She had to see them in the future and know they were okay. But she couldn’t. There was the sludgy brain factor. But she also couldn’t let Rhiannon know jack about her family or her abilities. Jeez. Know jack? She sounded like Michael.

  Michael. He’d been fighting Rhiannon’s thugs. That meant he’d ditched the plan to work for Rhiannon, or maybe she’d ditched him after he found the sword. He wasn’t with her now. Sometime while she’d been out, the connection to Michael had been broken again. She couldn’t feel him at all. Was he dead? Dared she ask? She couldn’t think.