“Yes. I have to eat somehow, and he loves my Happy Accidents of the Swing.”
“Who doesn’t? He looks in a good mood today, so best of luck. Come to our apartment later for a drink, if you’ve a mind to celebrate or commiserate.”
“A kingly offer. I will see you tonight, Merle. Madame.” He bows to Celeste then walks smartly to the marquis.
“Oh, Merle. I’m so happy right now.”
“For what reason? You like the coffee? You’re with me? Or you’re now a woman of leisure instead of a lady of the evening?”
“There are worse ways to make a living. I was a very high-class courtesan, if you recall. Only the richest gentlemen could afford me.” She places her cup down with careful precision on the table. A fleeting expression of fear is followed by a wry smile. “Well, not all of them were gentlemen, were they?”
“Not that last one with the torch, no.” I match Celeste’s light, playful tone, but the memory of our first meeting boils in my gut as angrily as it did when it first occurred. Screams from down the hall in the hotel near the Palais Royal. My bursting in at the scent of burned flesh. Celeste’s slumped form on the crumpled sheets. My fingers ripping at the man’s lauvan as he flailed helplessly. My instant lauvan bond with the unconscious Celeste as I laid her gently on my own unused bed. Burns are difficult for me to heal, and with the extent of damage she was lucky to live. I did the best I could with her lauvan but she will carry the scars for the rest of her life.
“Celeste, ma cherie, we don’t have to decide now, but I have only a few more years before people start to question my unchanging face. Have you given any thought to our next steps? I could give myself wrinkles and gray hair if you wish to stay in Paris—it’s not easy, but it can be done.”
Celeste brushes back my hair with a smile.
“No wrinkles, please. Why mar this handsome face when you have no need to? No, I’m almost ready for a change. I love Paris—conversations, friends, the life humming at all hours—but I’ve been here for many years now. Is there somewhere new to you? Where haven’t you been?”
“I’ve been everywhere, that’s the problem.”
“Oh, you.” She slaps my arm playfully. “Now you’re just being difficult. Is there somewhere you haven’t been for a long time?”
“Hmm. What do you think of Russia? The upper classes speak decent French these days, and I could fill in a few holes in my lauvan cable maps.”
Celeste thinks for a moment, and an adventurous light kindles in her eyes.
“In a few years, yes. Take me to Russia.”
My mind fills with thoughts of Russia, a region I haven’t visited since the fourteenth century, when Ivan the Great was king and Moscow lay in the territory of Muscovy. Celeste idly swirls her coffee, lost in thought.
“Merle,” she says dreamily. “Why are there no air lauvan cables, up in the sky? Why only earth cables?”
“As far as I can tell, the Earth is much like a human body, with its own lauvan network and centers. What would the sky be doing with a cable? What would support it? Air lauvan are so fragile.”
“You’re such an earth snob. I’ll bet there are air cables, way up high where you can’t see them.”
“Even when I fly?”
“Even then. Oh, what a beautiful thought—what if rainbows were air cables? How lovely.”
I laugh and cover her hand with my own.
“I love your imagination, Celeste. Never let go of that whimsy.”
***
Winter storms have kept us bound within the walls of the villa for days. Guinevere sews a new cloak for Arthur by the flickering light of the fire that billows smoke into the room with the worst gusts. Arthur is stoic about his incarceration by the weather, and alternates between looking at maps to plan for the summer campaign and mending his scabbard. I am not so occupied.
“Merlin, please sit down,” Guinevere says. “You make me anxious. So many steps, back, forth.”
“I’m so bored.” I fling myself onto a bench by the fire. My fingers drum against the wood. Arthur looks up from his map.
“You could help me plan for next summer.”
“We’ve already discussed tactics a thousand times. I don’t know what else you expect to find on that parchment.”
“What about some more music?” Guinevere says. She eyes my harp, which stands in the corner. Its oiled wood gleams invitingly in the firelight, but I shake my head.
“My fingers ache from playing all morning.”
At that moment, the winds die. The shutters stop their ceaseless banging and clattering and the whistling through the tiles on the roof quiets. I leap up.
“Finally. I’m off for a deer-run. Don’t expect me anytime soon.”
Before the others can say anything in return, I grab my cloak and move to the front door. A loud knocking gives me pause. Who would be foolish enough to venture out in this weather, aside from me?
Arthur stands in readiness.
“Open up, Merlin. Let us see who is in need of a warm fire.”
I slide the bolt and pull the carved door slowly toward me. A woman wrapped in a long gray cloak stands on the stones before the door. She is tall and stately, perhaps forty, with clear gray eyes and a high forehead.
“Greetings. I look for a man named Merlin. Is he within? It’s a matter of some urgency.”
“I am he,” I say, bewildered. I’ve never seen this woman before. She studies me with an appraising eye.
“Let her in,” Arthur calls out. “And shut the door before we freeze to death.”
I usher the woman in. One last glance before I swing the door shut affords me a curious sight. Trees in the distance toss and sway under the influence of a mighty wind. But here, the most I feel is a gentle breeze.
The woman accepts a chair graciously from Arthur and allows Guinevere to take her sodden cloak and call a slave for some warm wine. I wait until she is settled in front of the fire before I speak.
“You said you had urgent news? And what is your name? I haven’t met you before.”
“You haven’t met me, but you are very close with my sister of the elements. I am Arden, Lady of the Wind.”
She’s one of the four ladies honoring the old goddess, of whom Nimue is Lady of the Lake. But what urgent news would the Lady of the Wind have for me? Unless… I slide onto the bench near her with fear in my heart.
“Nimue. Is she all right?”
Arthur and Guinevere exchange curious glances, but all that matters are Arden’s next words.
“She is why I am here. Nimue is gravely injured. She asked for you, saying you could help. I find it hard to believe, but she was insistent.”
“What sort of injury?” Not everything can be fixed with lauvan. I hold my breath to wait for Arden’s answer.
“A terrible leg wound—it’s broken in many places. If she survives, I doubt she’ll ever walk again.”
“Any inflammation?”
“Not when I left. There were only a few scrapes. Most of the injury is internal. She was climbing a hillside and the rocky scree loosened under her feet. Her leg caught in a tree root on the way down.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and lean back, painfully aware of the hammering of my heart. There is still time. Bones, I can mend. Inflammation is trickier but usually achievable if caught early. If I hurry, I can heal Nimue.
“Let’s go. I can help, but sooner will be easier than later.” I stand and both Guinevere and Arthur look at me in surprise.
“Hold on, Merlin,” Arthur says. “Who is this Nimue, that you would instantly run to her side? In the worst storm we’ve seen all year, no less?”
I sway back and forth, deciding what to tell two of my closest friends. I’ve never mentioned Nimue to them. Some might think it odd but in all my years, forty in total, I’ve never considered myself in love until Nimue appeared. Even now, I wonder at the extent of my feeling. It’s a foreign, albeit pleasurable sensation, but it always felt odd to bring up Nimue to Arthu
r and Guinevere in conversation. My trips to her lake were not remarked upon, as I often come and go without warning.
“Merlin, you have a love? I did not know.” Guinevere smiles at me. “I am glad. What is she like?”
“What?” Arthur is half-laughing, half incredulous. “I never expected this from you. Have you finally found a woman who can melt your iron heart? I didn’t think it possible. And to not tell us?”
“Because I knew you would react like this,” I mutter, although I’m pleased they now know. Secrets are tricky. And now I can speak to them of Nimue, something I didn’t realize how much I wanted to do. I turn to Arden. “Are you ready to travel, or shall I go on ahead?”
“I am ready,” she says. She eyes her sodden cloak. “Ready enough.”
“I can fix that.” I stride over to her cloak and pull long strands of water lauvan off the material. Water follows, and drips onto the floor when I release the threads. When I finish, I hand the cloak to Arden who takes it with an appreciative look.
“That’s an excellent trick. Many thanks, Merlin.”
“You’ve told Nimue about the lauvan?” Arthur shakes his head in amazement. “It must be serious. When are we to meet her?”
“She doesn’t often leave her home.” It’s uncomfortable to imagine my two worlds together under one roof. “Perhaps one day.”
“Go quickly and make her well once again,” Arthur says. “But hurry back—we’ll want to know she’s safe.” He gets up and holds out a hand for Arden. She stands with his help then clutches his arm, her eyes wide and unseeing. Her pale gray lauvan writhe with intensity around her head and wrap around Arthur’s arm below her grasping fingers.
“Arthur Pendragon,” she says in a hoarse voice. “You are connected to others in ways you cannot fathom. You will last far beyond the grave, and will return again when you are needed.” Arden closes her eyes, then begins to cough. Arthur helps her back to the bench until she is recovered. When her coughing fit subsides, she looks up with interest.
“What did I say? I’m prone to prophesy. A few have even come to pass.”
Arthur glances at me, baffled. I shrug in reply and fasten my cloak in preparation for our departure. Normally I wouldn’t give much credence to tales of prophesy, but these ladies are different. Nimue always knows exactly when the rain will stop, or where a stream can be found. Could Arden have really said the truth? And what does it mean, to last beyond the grave?
CHAPTER X
In the morning, I hand Alejandro a bus schedule and a map on which I’ve circled main attractions.
“I have to fetch my car, then follow up on some leads on my shooter. If you’d like to meet for a late lunch, make your way here by two o’clock.” I point to a circle on the map.
“What if the shooter comes back for you?”
“I’ll be watching out for him. Don’t bother locking the door when you leave.” I slide open the balcony door and step out. “See you later.”
“What are you doing?”
I grin.
“Just watch.”
I gather the necessary lauvan, and pull hard.
My body dissolves and reforms as a merlin falcon, the form I take when I want to travel at speed. My feathers ruffle in the wind and I look up at Alejandro’s face, every hair follicle on his slack-jawed chin visible to my raptorial eyes. It never gets old, that trick.
My taloned feet push off with a thrust of powerful wings. As I soar away, I release a shriek for Alejandro’s benefit. Oh, the beauty of flight. Not much comes close to the freedom of the open air, the unfiltered sun warming my feathers, the muffled roar of the city spread below me.
It’s not far to where I parked my car in Steveston, not as the merlin flies. The neighborhood lies on a sharp corner of land, the sea on either side. A long causeway above a dyke that holds the ocean back from the delta lowlands points me in the right direction.
I’m nearly there when I spot a disturbance in the air to my left, coming from inland. It’s a writhing cluster of air lauvan, like the ones that flow through my feathers. There is nothing calm about these. The huge mass rolling my way in midair reminds me irresistibly of a minnow ball in a defensive maneuver against seals.
It’s coming fast, directly toward me. I flap harder and catch an updraft to gain some height, but the lauvan ball also rises. A chill passes over me. There is nothing natural about this wind.
My car is so close, but not close enough. I fold my wings and plummet in a dive that would normally fill me with exhilaration. All I feel now is dread at the ball of lauvan that drops from above. It’s close enough now for me to hear a shrill whistling, growing louder and louder. If I can make it to the ground and regain my human, much heavier, form…
I’m swept into a whirling frenzy of wind. Roaring and whistling fill my ears and my little feathered body is buffeted in every direction. I don’t know where the ground is, which is a problem because I wasn’t very far away to begin with. Round and round, this way and that—I shriek my dismay and desperately try to regain my balance. My beak snaps at the lauvan but I can’t easily grasp one for balance.
I catch a glimpse of the ground, far too close now. With a gargantuan effort, I thrust my wings out stiffly and in the slight pause this affords me, clasp a bundle of frenetically dancing lauvan in my beak.
The winds still for an instant and I flap my way out of the melee and to the ground as fast as my wings will carry me. As soon as I land on a patch of asphalt behind a parked car, I revert to my normal form and sit on the ground, breathing heavily.
So, flying in bird form is no longer a viable mode of transport. Wind does not act in that manner naturally. Is this another scheme of Potestas? If so, my enemy has power over the wind itself, incredible power that I can only dream of. How is this possible? I may have met my match, and more. Why the winds died when I grasped the lauvan in my beak, I can only guess. Perhaps they weren’t expecting my meddling.
When I stand and dust off my jeans, I recognize the street. My car is only a few blocks away. Good. I’ll feel better with a ton of steel around me. I haven’t felt that shaken up in the air since I flew through a rain of arrows during the battle of Agincourt in 1415.
The car is right where I left it, miraculously untowed. I check the map on my phone when I slide into the driver’s seat. Wilson and Jones, a law office potentially connected to Drew, is only a few minutes away.
There’s a space out front in which I manage to squeeze my Lotus. Frosted glass etched with the firm’s name informs me I’m in the correct location. My eyes rake critically over my too-casual jeans. I’ll spruce up before entering—it pays to make a good impression. A quick glance up and down the sidewalk to make sure no one is paying attention, a few quick twists of lauvan, and I’m dressed in business slacks and an open-necked button-up shirt. One last look around reveals a little girl staring open-mouthed at me. I wink at her and step into the blissfully air-conditioned lawyer’s office.
“Good morning,” says a receptionist smoothly. Her shiny brown hair is coiled neatly in a bun, with nary a strand out of place. The office is tastefully decorated in dark green and wood with a glossy book of aerial photos on a glass coffee table in the waiting room. There is nothing out of place, no untethered lauvan to see, no hint of anything untoward.
“Good morning. I was told I’d find Drew Mordecai here. Is he available?” No point in dancing around. If she’s heard of him I’ll see a reaction, no matter what her verbal answer might be.
To my annoyance, her lauvan of light pink show no motion whatsoever.
“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name. Do you have an appointment?” She moves her computer mouse to check her calendar. I wave to stop her.
“No, no, it’s fine. I must have the wrong place. Sorry to bother you.” Before I turn to go, a flicker catches my eye. A free-floating lauvan clings to a file folder above the receptionist’s head. It’s a deep purple that looks familiar, although I can’t place it at the moment.
The insurance broker and the credit union are equally bland and unhelpful and it’s with very little hope that I enter the cupcake shop, Sweet Thing, after texting Jen to invite her to lunch with Alejandro. The girl behind the counter greets me.
“Good afternoon! What can I get for you?” She’s very chipper with a neon green apron and a wide smile. I don’t think I could muster up that much enthusiasm for every customer, but I’m a jaded old soul.
“Nothing for me, thanks. I’m looking for Drew Mordecai. Is he in?”
A flicker of uncertainty passes over her face. Could I have found something at last? She turns to her colleague behind her, who pipes icing on fresh cupcakes.
“Carly, what’s the name of our new dishwasher?”
“Peter, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.” She turns back to me. “Sorry, no one here named Drew.”
“Thanks anyway.” I must look despondent, because she holds up a tray of mini cupcakes.
“Cheer up. Have a sample.”
I can’t help but smile, and reach for one.
“Thanks.”
I walk to the door and reach for the handle, then stop. On the doorjamb, almost faded beyond recognition, is a free-floating lauvan. It’s the gray of a stormy sea.
Bingo. I carefully pinch the strand between finger and thumb and exit the store. Once outside, I examine my finding. The faint echo of fear and anger lingers and that strange oil slick coloration is present on the end. Drew was here before. Unless he is simply partial to miniature pastries, Drew has a connection to Sweet Thing. I need to find out what it is.
CHAPTER XI
The sun is relentless, and even I am glad for the umbrella over our restaurant table on the balcony. Alejandro and I are waiting for Jen at one of my favorite spots overlooking the water—the combination of dazzling sea, moody mountains, and glittering city is hard to beat. At least, within a quick car ride from my apartment.
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