by E. G. Foley
With a smile, Jake opened his eyes and dove in to his meal.
CHAPTER 22
Courage & Consequence
Zolond was elated, his heart light. He gazed into the mirror on his parlor wall one last time and adjusted his bowtie.
He chuckled to recall the early days of their courtship, how he’d groomed himself with fastidious care before calling on her, and dressed to impress her in doublet and hose.
To this day, he still recalled the feel of his favorite black velvet jerkin; annoying as the fashion had been in those times, he had thought himself dashing indeed in his well-starched ruff.
He wondered if they would even recognize each other now, two wrinkly old things. But he didn’t care. He could’ve changed his appearance to some handsome young stud with a wave of his scepter. But that spitfire would no doubt laugh in his face.
He smiled, too. Humming under his breath, he then set his black bowler hat on his head, reached for his walking stick, and left his apartments, trailed by two reptilians.
As he marched through the Black Fortress, he quickly schooled his face into an ominous expression. If anyone noticed the Dark Master was feeling, dare he say, happy, they would know he was up to no good.
The furious howls of his powerful prisoners raging in their rooms resounded through the jet-black halls of the warlocks’ castle as he made his way to the bridge, but Zolond ignored them.
He’d disposed of Wyvern, at least. He was still thinking about what to do with the others, but their fates wouldn’t be much better. For now, the thought of the Nephilim cowering before those bizarre little entities crooked Zolond’s lips in a half-smile.
Approaching the bridge, he had to scold himself with a reminder to concentrate. He feared his anticipation of this meeting had him a little distracted. That was dangerous, he knew, but he couldn’t seem to help it. All he could think of was her.
The hour of their meeting was set for three. He was going in early to London, though, not merely because he was excited. He also wanted to make arrangements for his trip to the city with his grandson.
Zolond did not know whether to laugh or shake his head at the thought of that lad’s audacity. Well, he was the Black Prince, wasn’t he?
An inordinate level of daring was to be expected. Cocky? Perhaps. But the boy had backbone in spades. For a moment, Zolond almost regretted that such a fine young man had been born into such a cursed bloodline. He deserved better.
But he swept aside that distressing awareness. Nothing must be permitted to ruin his strange sensation of joy today.
Instead, he mentally listed the landmarks he’d take his grandson to see.
He especially wanted to show him all the old things that had been there when he was Victor’s age. Like the Tower of London, which had already been centuries old before Zolond was born. And the Temple Bar, where the executioners used to display the severed heads. Victor would enjoy that.
Ah, and the Globe Theatre, where Zolond had watched the debut performances of Shakespeare’s plays. Why, yes, he decided, he’d take the lad to a show. Then they could have lunch at The White Hart, the oldest pub in London, where he and his young companions used to make merry, guzzling pints and flirting with the tavern wenches. Once upon a time, after all, the Dark Master had been a normal young man, with a normal young life.
The times had been anything but ordinary, though. If his mates in those days had had any idea he was a budding warlock, they’d have burned him at the stake. He pushed the unpleasant thought away.
Victor would probably enjoy a boat ride on the Thames. With the view from the river, he could tell the boy how London used to look before the Great Fire of 1666—and how the Dark Druids had been involved with that.
Zolond himself had only been a regular member of the warlock brotherhood at the time. It would be decades before he seized the throne from his predecessor in the usual way…
It still made him wince just a bit when he thought of wrenching the Master’s Ring off the dead finger of the sorcerer-king. In due time, he would hand the ring over to Victor without coercion.
Sometimes he thought he’d be glad to be rid of it, rid of all this. Unfortunately, the moment it was off his finger, he would probably turn to dust, and death now held very little appeal, after Shemrazul’s promises. He shuddered and, again, thrust the unpleasantness out of his head as he stepped onto the bridge.
The navigator caught sight of him and all but shrieked with his newly returned mouth.
“Sire!” said the lieutenant, snapping the rest of the crew to attention. “Commander on the bridge!”
The gray-clad men’s hands shook as they all saluted and stood at attention.
Zolond almost pitied them; that was how good his mood was. “At ease,” he said begrudgingly. “Set a course for some discreet landing point outside London. I have business in Town.”
“Aye-aye, sir. Right away! You heard him!” the lieutenant yelled at his men.
They scrambled to obey, rushing back to their places and quickly donning their dark glasses.
Druk brought Zolond a pair. “Shall I attend you, sire?”
Pondering the carriage he’d conjure to take him from the outskirts of London into the city, Zolond glanced absently at his toothy head bodyguard, still thinking. Perhaps he would just hail a hansom cab, travel for once like the plebes. The idea struck him as charmingly quaint.
No magic. Ramona would like that.
But she most certainly would not like the sight of his crocodile-headed guards. They had both agreed to come alone. Secrecy was paramount.
“You stay here,” he told the reptilian. “We have dangerous prisoners in tow. At least you won’t have the Noxu to annoy you—or Wyvern. I left you those two gargoyles for extra security, just in case. Feel free to take dragon form if anyone misbehaves. I will only be gone for a few hours, anyway.”
Druk gazed intently at him for a moment, worry in his yellow eyes, but then bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Never fear, ol’ boy. I’ve always got this.” Zolond tapped the Master’s Ring on his finger. The very thing Wyvern had wanted—before he had become the plaything of the ice grendels.
Stakes were high in their game. Always had been. That was why his dear Ramona had wanted no part of it.
I shall destroy the locust army after our meeting, he decided on the spot. If Ramona ever found out about that particular experiment—and what he had intended to do with the resulting creatures once they were ready—she would never speak to him again. It was best to put them out of their misery before any more hatched and had to face the horror of what Zolond had done to them.
They had once been men, after all—mercenaries, who’d agreed to a job without quite knowing what they were getting into. Death would be merciful compared to finding oneself a monstrosity.
Ramona must never know the full depths of the evil he had dabbled in over the years.
Then the sorcerer-king put on his dark glasses and sat down on the captain’s chair for the jump. With each loud pulsation of the infernal machine, he counted the seconds drawing his meeting with his lost love ever closer.
He had waited hundreds of years for this day.
Now it was finally here.
* * *
Oh, what now? Something was happening.
Badgerton scurried through a ventilation shaft in animal form, determined to find out what was going on, though he was still reeling from the latest jump.
Seconds ago, the Black Fortress had slammed into being he had no idea where, but he needed to find out.
The dizziness didn’t help. The jump had thrown his furry body around in the cramped metal walkway of the ventilation shaft where he’d been hiding. He’d bumped his head pretty well and bruised his shoulder, but that wasn’t the worst of his pains.
Though he’d been nowhere near the big, blinding flashes of light, the pounding vibration of the infernal machine had bellowed along the sheet metal, nigh deafening him, with his acute anim
al hearing.
Somehow Badgerton had bitten back his scream of pain and covered his ears with his still-wounded paws as best he could.
One more injury to add to his growing collection, he thought bitterly as he limped on, listening for voices.
He could only wonder where they’d landed this time. The last leap through time and space had brought them to the snowy wastes of Antarctica, of all places. He’d heard one of the crewmen say so.
Then Zolond had gone out briefly, floating a chained Lord Wyvern before him once more. The best Badgerton could figure, the Dark Master had marooned the earl there, like a pirate captain would a mutiny leader.
Cruel.
Well, unless Wyvern had some serious spells for warmth, he’d be dead in minutes out there. He was probably frozen solid even now, Badgerton supposed. The remaining Dark Druids would have to choose a new leader—but they were dead, too, unless he got them out.
Maybe this would be his chance.
Of course, he was still terrified of his own plan to sneak into the bridge room, jump up onto the control panel, and open the Dark Druids’ guest chambers, so they could fight Zolond.
He, himself, had no chance.
As his hearing finally grew less muffled, he followed the sound of voices, tiptoeing down the badger-sized metal hallway until he came to a grate.
He peered through it, unnoticed.
He’s leaving again, he thought, homing in on the old man in the bowler hat. But this time, Zolond wasn’t taking any more of his powerful prisoners with him.
Badgerton narrowed his eyes. What is he doing? And for that matter, where are we?
When the drawbridge lowered to let Zolond out, Badgerton caught the whiff of a sunny autumn day.
Ah, how he missed the woods this time of year! Badgers did not belong in ductwork. More than that—sniffing harder a few times, he caught the scent of the Thames.
London?
Well, that’s odd.
For a moment, he considered trying to escape here. Perhaps, if he moved quickly, he could somehow scamper out of this madhouse. London was an excellent place to slip away and blend into a crowd.
Ah, but a heartbeat later, Badgerton realized that the Order would quickly hunt him down here. Then he was doomed.
No, alas, his only hope was to go through with his heroic plan to save the day.
It was too late, anyway. His slim chance of escaping closed with the already-lifting drawbridge. The moment it slammed shut, the crew breathed a sigh of relief, then hurried back to their posts.
As did the reptilians.
When the tall, scaly lizard men passed beneath the air vent, Badgerton stared down at them in dread.
The task before him would indeed be a test of his nerve. He must take care to stay clear of those teeth. And those spears.
Queasy with fright, he gave himself a trembling pep talk as he headed back through the ductwork maze to watch the bridge room from the air grate in the ceiling, which he had already managed to find.
Right, he told himself. Best not to think about it too much. Just act. What choice do you have?
He reminded himself that he was brave.
Why, of all species in the animal kingdom, there were few things more dangerous than a cornered badger, and cornered he was. He took inspiration from his cousins, the honey badgers of Africa, who could rip open the bellies of lions when attacked—as long as they worked together.
Well aware he was totally alone in this, Badgerton could only gulp. But as he crept into position over the bridge room, he decided he’d use his fear to make himself even more vicious. Just like he’d taught chubby little Charlie.
His plan was simple, at least. Nor did it require much skill.
All he had to do was wait for the exact right moment, when the reptilian wasn’t paying attention, then remove the metal grate, jump down onto the control panel, and get the job done.
For the children, he reminded himself. The thought of his dear little skunkies steeled his courage. With that, the shapeshifter lord crouched in the shadows…and bided his time.
* * *
Prue sat (in girl form) on a sun-dappled boulder in the rustling autumn woods a couple of miles away from Merlin Hall.
For most animal shifters, it was a relief on a normal day to escape into the forest, but especially so to her, after all the danger and destruction last night.
Since then, a golden Sunday afternoon had arrived, and Prue found herself feeling surprisingly content, even with the world turned upside down.
The skunk side of her found the woods so cozy this time of year, with the moss shining green on the fallen logs and the deer flitting up and down the trails known only to the animals. The latticework of tree branches formed colorful arches overhead, and the forest smelled of her favorite food—the delicate wild mushrooms that came into season in the autumn.
On her lap, meanwhile, rested Arvath’s Arcanium, her coveted prize. She perused the grimoire’s collection of spells at her leisure.
Her willow wand rested on the flat rock by her side, but in truth, she was still a bit wary of handling the thing.
“A wand isn’t a toy,” Uncle Boris had warned her when he’d handed over the money for the Fairy Market last spring. “You may buy one, I suppose, but be careful! And don’t let your brothers try it, dearheart. I don’t think that would be…safe.”
A tactful way of saying they were too stupid to use it.
Prue agreed. Pleased that her uncle knew she was the smart one, she had smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry, Uncle Boris. I don’t like sharing, anyway.”
He’d patted her on the head, and off she went.
And now, here she sat—with a stolen grimoire, a wand she wasn’t sure how to use, and a family name that had just become synonymous with outlaw.
Strangely enough, Prue was warming to the role.
She turned another page, savoring her newfound freedom from any and all adult supervision. Her brothers seemed to be enjoying themselves, too. A few feet behind her, the boys (in skunk form) feasted on insects they’d found in an old log.
Prue usually pretended she thought eating bugs was gross, but deep down, she didn’t, really. Other people would think so, however, therefore, she claimed that she only ate berries, mushrooms, and eggs when in skunk form.
Ah, but the real truth was she was particularly fond of wriggly grubs and crunchy crickets. She couldn’t help it! It wasn’t her fault. It was just instinct!
At least she wasn’t as bad as Charlie, who preferred fat, juicy frogs.
Welton, on the other hand, was partial to field mice. He relished the chase, and he liked how they screeched with fright as they tried to run away.
Well, she mused, at least the three of them wouldn’t have to worry about snobby Order people judging them anymore.
They were officially outcasts now. And that meant there was only one thing to do: follow in Uncle Boris’s pawprints and join the Dark Druids.
Now she just had to figure out how to find him.
Arvath’s Arcanium offered a range of intriguing options to choose from.
Scrying was, she believed, the usual method witches used to locate missing items or people. Unfortunately, that required two things Prue didn’t have on hand: a map and a crystal pendant to dangle over it.
But it probably wouldn’t work, anyway. The rumors the skunkies had heard last night claimed that Uncle Boris had escaped into the Black Fortress, which had now flown away.
So long as he stayed inside the warlocks’ magical moving castle, Prue had little hope of tracking him. Everyone knew the Dark Druid stronghold was concealed from detection by a host of formidable spells.
To be sure, if it managed to elude the likes of Sir Peter and Balinor, then a neophyte magician like her would never be able to locate it.
For now, though, Prue wasn’t too concerned. She and her brothers would be fine on their own for a while. Food was plentiful, foraging was fun, and they could shelter in any hollow log o
r abandoned foxhole they came across.
If all else failed, they could simply make a den under an outbuilding at the nearest farm.
Without adults telling them what to do, it would be, she decided, an adventure. Uncle Boris would come looking for them soon enough. Lord Wyvern no doubt had spells that could help their uncle find them.
The half-demon warlock owed the shapeshifter lord, after all. Wyvern never could’ve carried out his raid last night if Uncle Boris hadn’t let his forces in.
Prue was rather proud of him, when she thought about it. “He’ll come and get us when it’s safe,” she murmured to herself.
In the meanwhile, the grimoire offered numerous methods to conjure anything she and her brothers might need, like money, fresh clothes, even a carriage with servitor horses…
A smile spread slowly across Prue’s face as she realized that in her hands was the means to have whatever she pleased.
At last, the full impact of the power she had seized for herself finally began sinking in. Oh, real magic was much better than being a simple shapeshifter…
She suddenly had a feeling that she was going to like her new life among the Dark Druids, once her uncle came to fetch them. Till then, she intended to relish her independence.
And figure out how to use that wand.
CHAPTER 23
A Secret Meeting
“So, what are we going to do with ourselves until Derek comes?” Jake asked, lounging on a striped silk divan.
He and his friends had left the dining table, stuffed to the gills, and moved to the sitting area by the fireplace at the other end of the long, gilded parlor.
“Rest and be lazy,” Dani declared. She had curled up in a velvet armchair, petting the scruffy dog perched on her lap. “I feel like a princess!”
Brian paced over to the window and braced his hands on the sill as he peered out, looking bored. “Maybe they’d let us go for a walk around London while we wait. See the sights?”