Tío Myrddin brings a hand to his side and says firmly, “Hand the man his sword, Morgan.”
Chapter Sixteen
Merlin, the Oathbreaker
“Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to ask Pastor Wilson to bless this goddamn sword? And don’t give me that look. It was hard as hell. You try walkin’ into some Southern Baptist preacher’s house and gettin’ him to bless a magical weapon.”
Gwen jeers, “Oh, whatever!” I look up from the book sitting in front of me on the table, baffled by her sudden wrath. “It was only hard because you fucked his daughter.” I sigh and return to the book. This conversation is not worth my time, and I need to focus on spellwork, on transmutation. “And don’t even try to save face because Lance is here. I know all about it. The whole damn school knows about it.”
Arthur chokes on the apple juice that he’s just chugged straight from the bottle. “I’ll have you know that I never had sex with that woman! And if anyone’s to blame here, it’s her. I was sixteen, and she was a sophomore in college!”
I rub my temples. Gwen and Arthur have been going at it like an old married couple for the past week. Living with Arthur was supposed to be temporary, only until Gwen sorted out her finances, but I’m not sure he can take her jabs much longer. Last week they’d gotten into it because Gwen had left for work without plunging the toilet, and Arthur had had to deal with the aftermath when he’d gotten home from work.
Ideal roommates they are not.
“What did he say to you about the sword?” I intervene. “Did he ask you a bunch of questions?”
Arthur opens the fridge and places the juice back on the shelf, then pulls out a couple of sticks of string cheese.
“Actually,” he replies, peeling apart the plastic packaging, “when I told him I was gonna fight demons with it, he immediately took me out back to this creepy cellar, where he keeps all of these portraits of Jesus and Mary and shit. I don’t know what he’s going through, but he had all of these metal canisters of holy water down there, said that an angel came to him in a vision a few months ago and told him he needed to start stockpiling it. Man, it was weird.”
“But it’s done now?” I say, getting up from the table. Arthur shoves an entire cheese stick in his mouth and gives me a thumbs-up. “Good. That means we’ve cleansed and dowsed every weapon. Morgan has all of the dolls we made. Gwen, you got all of the talismans finished, right?” She nods once. “All right. Now all we have to do is wait for Mordy to text with the go-ahead.” I glance at Arthur, who is now eating peanut butter out of a jar with a spoon. “I know how strange all of this must be for you, Arthur. I’m sorry you got dragged into it.”
“Dragged into it?” he asks, metal spoon mid-air. “If that old man is truly a thousand-year-old wizard, and we are all related to characters from some fairy tale, I’m not sure I even had a chance. I don’t think any of us did. Seems to me like we were all meant to come together to fix some cosmic mishap.”
Honestly, I’d expected everything to be more difficult for Arthur, to be more of a spiritual challenge. But last week at the initiation fires, he’d accepted everything Tío Myrddin had said and offered. There had been no hesitancy or reluctance to believe, no need to suspend disbelief. Arthur had received every amulet, charm and blessing with gratitude, and had even asked Tío Myrddin question after question regarding Santería like he was a toddler who had just discovered the word why. I haven’t asked him if he believes what Morgan told him that night, that he is a reincarnation of King Arthur, his literal namesake, because I’m not sure that matters anymore. As long as he believes in what we’re doing, it should be enough. At least, that’s the collective hope.
Around eight o’clock, I receive a text from Mordy stating that he and his sister are ready to go, that we should plan to meet at Emmett’s house a little before midnight.
The witching hour. The moment when witches and spirits are at their most powerful—which means Emrys will also be at his most powerful, unfortunately.
Gwen and I make a huge spaghetti dinner for the three of us, and we cram in together on the futon, watching old reruns of The Munsters. None of us are actually hungry, but we make a concerted effort to shove the noodles and garlic bread down our throats. All I can taste is sorrow and despair in every bite, the individual sands in an hourglass.
Arthur goes back to his bedroom and closes the door. I don’t follow him because I think he needs time to himself. What we’re about to do is insane, unheard of, incredible. I don’t blame him for needing some time alone, time to meditate and reflect.
Gwen and I step outside the trailer, then make a huge pentacle in the middle of Arthur’s gravel driveway out of sticks and daisies that we’ve collected, and position our bare feet inside the heart of it. Gwen takes both of my hands into hers and we send silent prayers into the universe—hers to Diana, the Moon Goddess, and mine to Mictēcacihuātl, who I hope is still listening.
Standing here with my sister like this, under the marvelous protection of the lunar queen, I’ve decided that black and white witchcraft don’t have to be at odds with each other. Not anymore. There’s no rulebook, no regulatory body, no statute that states we must be at war with each other.
No one path is right.
Besides, brujería exists without hierarchy or rules, and if I need to shape it into something to better fit my life, my belief system and my family, I can do it, because that’s how magick works. That’s how all magick works—regardless of what it’s called.
The sound of Arthur opening the screen door draws our attention toward him, concluding our ritual. Dressed in a tie and three-piece suit, he leans against the frame of the door. Now’s not the time for romancing, but if I make it through the night, I’m going to ask him to wear that outfit to every appropriate outing, because goddamn.
“What are you wearing?” Gwen asks, stepping out of the symbol. “You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
“Well, this is what I wore when my Uncle Jasper passed away last year. Mordy suggested it. Well, not this exactly, but he said I should wear something that holds sentimental value, and I loved Jasper.”
Of course I would get turned on by something Arthur wore to a funeral. Only me.
I follow Gwen up the stairs into the house, and prepare myself for the upcoming confrontation. There’s so much I want to say to both of them—about how much I love them, how I want to grow old with the both of them, how special they are to me. But I know this will sound like giving up to them, so I don’t, and try my best to soothe the sickness that’s slowly creeping into my soul.
After Gwen’s finished weaving sprigs of lavender throughout her hair, I take her place in the bathroom and remove the ponytail holder from my bun, letting my hair tumble to my shoulders. I haven’t cut it since I arrived in Avalon. There had been a time in my life where long hair had made me feel dysphoric—like less of a man—but now I can’t imagine having short hair. Seeing Arthur with short hair had been a shock, and I’m sure if I got mine chopped off, I’d have a similar reaction.
I reach into the makeup bag sitting on the sink and root around for the face paint I purchased a few days ago. When I find it, I unscrew the top lid and plow my fingers through the white waxy substance, then smear a big glob across my forehead. It’s the cheap stuff, Halloween makeup actually, and I can only hope that it doesn’t liquefy when I step outside and start to sweat—even more so than I already am.
The black tube of lipstick is the next thing I apply to my face. Large circles around my eyes, a spade on my nose, and vertical lines across my mouth. Then on my neck, hands and bare feet I lather an herbal infusion made from St. John’s Wort and olive oil—for added protection, not because I like the smell.
At first glance it might appear that we’re going overboard with this protection shit— lavender to ward off the evil eye, oregano to break curses, St. John’s Wort for providence, star anise to increase Morgan’s psychic abilities—but witches have always borrowed power fro
m the earth to expand their magickal abilities. And if we’re going to defeat a druidic priest who is commanding nature to do his bidding, we’ll need all the help we can get.
I fasten the necklaces I received from both Arthur and Mordy around my neck, carefully avoiding the sharp bones, then slip a pair of black socks over my oily feet and open the bathroom door.
Gwen and Arthur are sitting at the kitchen table, sharing a pot of tea. Wormseed. The fragrance hits me immediately. An herb popular in Mexico, wormseed is known for its many health benefits, but I know they are drinking it to cleanse themselves spiritually. On its own, the tea is pungent and bitter—I don’t see how they have mugs full of the stuff.
When I pull out a chair and join them, I can feel Arthur’s intense gaze boring into the side of my head. I wheel my face around to counter his ogling, and observe him carefully examining my face and hair.
“Got a staring problem?” I ask, accepting a cup of tea from Gwen. “Mr. Pendragon?”
“You just never wear your hair down anymore.” He reaches out and places a strand behind my ear. “I like it, is all.”
Gwen makes a gagging sound. “Get a room.”
“We have a room. A whole house, actually.”
Gwen’s tongue protrudes from her freshly painted lips and she rolls her eyes at Arthur. “Whatever. I’m moving back in with my folks on Wednesday, so y’all can get back to fuckin’ like bunnies if you want.”
Arthur’s relief is visible. “Well,” he says, “I, for one, will hate to see you go.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up!” Gwen whoops, then picks up a hand towel that’s drying on the back of a chair and chucks it at Arthur’s head, setting off a cacophony of laughter around the table.
Coming back here was not a mistake. I would face injury and death for these two people a thousand times over.
* * * *
Moonlight and meditation are the only reasons we’re able to make it up the steep hill—the hill leading to Emmett’s monstrous estate—without headlights.
When Arthur’s truck finally comes to a rumbling halt, I notice Mordy reclining on the hood of his Escalade. Moments later, Morgan’s head pops up from behind the vehicle like corn in a microwave. Her near-perfect pair of oval, black buns is the first thing to enter my field of vision.
Mordy jumps down from his SUV. “I don’t know why we said no headlights. You can hear that engine a mile away!”
Arthur opens his door and hops out. “Ha,” he says, scratching his head. “We can’t all be hipsters with nice rides, now can we? I mean, someone has to make y’all look cool, right?”
They bump fists, talk briefly, and Mordy turns his attention toward Gwen and me. We haven’t moved from the truck, still in shock because of what we’re about to do, and I roll down the window. When Mordy places his hands above his head on the warm metal and leans into the frame, I realize that he’s dressed in all black—a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, clothes too hot for the season, really—then it hits me—his enlarged pupils, tiny eclipses staring back at me. I reach up and tilt his jaw left and right.
“Are you high?” I ask firmly. “Goddamn it, Mordy.” At least three-quarters of each eye is inhabited by an astronomic black circle. I don’t know how the fuck he can see.
“Chill, Mister Rogers,” he replies. “I’m sober. It’s belladonna. Tío Myrddin and Morgan made a batch of the stuff a few nights ago. It’s supposed to help you detect psychic attacks. Morgan let Morgana help make the stuff, so it’s really potent.”
I let go of his chin. “Morgan looks like this, also?”
“Yes,” he says, his face a few inches from mine. “And you should, too. You’ll need to be aware of everything once we step foot inside that house. There’s no telling what kind of shit he’s conjuring up in there. And you are not to face him alone. Do you hear me?” He flicks his silver tooth with his tongue.
A well-dressed wraith, Arthur, materializes beside Mordy, carrying Galantine, Excalibur and Xiuhcoatl in his hands. “Do you hear all of us?” Arthur says, handing me the death dagger. “You’re not going in there with banners raised, man. It ain’t happenin’.”
I groan. Ever since they found out about the trade, it’s all either of them have been able to talk about. Gwen hasn’t brought it up, probably because she’s afraid of losing me, or because she doesn’t want to acknowledge the possibility that I could die tonight. Mordy has apologized to me through texts, and I’ve readily accepted his apology, but it’s a topic he won’t drop.
Gwen takes my hand into hers and gives it a little squeeze. “We got this,” she whispers. I examine the lines of her face, the high cheekbones and golden studs now in the centers of her cheeks. Her beauty never ceases to amaze me. Fair-skinned and blue-eyed, wearing a crown made of laurel and a loose, handmade dress made from white cheesecloth, she is easily a queen from faerie tales long ago.
Morgan is already strategizing a mental game plan by the time we exit the truck and join her. Halfway bent over, she extends her hands, and her careful fingers graze the tops of an overgrown, neglected lawn congested with fluffy dandelions that almost immediately lose their shape when any amount of air rouses them.
“Yo,” I say. “You ready for this?”
Morgan stands up and wipes the white fuzz on her black pants. “The first thing we gotta do is heal these trees. Look at the trunks. He’s straight stealing energy from them. God, at this rate, the wilt is gonna kill them.”
“What wilt?” I ask. “Where?”
“Holy shit, look at the size of that hole!” Gwen comments. “Poor babies!”
Gwen and I walk over to examine one of the towering oaks, tall grass brushing against our knees as we move toward the tree. Gaping black craters, as big as my side bag, consume the outer and inner bark, a ravenous disease devouring anything and everything in its sight. Morgan had referred to it as ‘the wilt’, but it’s something more insidious, something far more nefarious than a simple fungal disease.
“I don’t get it,” Gwen says, placing her hand in one of the holes. “Why would he kill these trees? Druids worship oak trees. The term druid literally comes from the Gaelic word for tree.”
“Right? It makes no sense,” Morgan says. “But whatever the reason, we gotta stop it. Can you help me tie these charms around the branches? Not too tight. Don’t wanna hurt these wooden babies.”
One by one, Gwen, Morgan and I tie paper talismans around the skinny limbs, doing our best to handle each green leaf with great care. Every individual charm contains a hand-painted healing symbol, drawing power from ancient shamanic magick—spiraling suns, the Eye of Horus and the Hand of the Goddess. Together Morgan and Gwen had come up with the symbols, then Gwen had been tasked with painting them. I’m just glad I hadn’t been asked to paint anything, not after Mordy forced me to paint that rune and it turned out looking like shit. Who knows what kinds of stuff my crooked-ass symbols might have evoked?
Once the trees are covered in paper like a ticker-tape cannon just exploded all over the place, the five of us form a line and trudge through the embedded tract of land. The dagger in my side bag feels heavier than usual, and I wonder if it’s because we’re about to enter a den of death.
“Oh my God!” Gwen bleats, grabbing my wrist, and forcing me to lose my balance. “Lance, it’s Olivia’s car! She’s in there with him!”
Before her panic has time to spread throughout our small group, I spin her around to face me, placing my hands on her shoulders.
“Hey,” I say. “We can’t go in there thinking the worst has happened. We have to hold on to the belief that we can still save Tammy and Olivia. There’s no point in thinking otherwise.”
“But what if she’s dead? What if they’re both dead? Oh God, Lance, are we actually going to do this?”
“Yes,” I reply. “We are. And we’re going to walk away from this house when it’s all done and never look back. Do you hear me? We are going to end it once and for all.”
Arthur slings his arm arou
nd the both of us, and we head up the stairs.
The closer we get to the door, the more derelict the front of the house appears—cracked windows boarded up with cardboard, nails projecting from missing floorboards on the porch, turned-over metal pots full of weeds and dirt. The neglect is astonishing, given how gargantuan his home is.
“All right, guys,” I say, letting go of Gwen’s hand. “It’s now or never. We have no idea what the fuck we’re about to go into, so let’s try to stick together. Don’t fight anything by yourself, and don’t separate yourself from the group.”
I don’t have a particularly inspirational speech rehearsed, and we don’t have an actual plan, just an expectation that everyone will make it out alive—everyone except for Emrys, that is.
At this point, there’s nothing else anyone could do. We’ve doused ourselves in protective salves, sent prayers to nearly every god, angel and saint listening, and have tried to decrease his power to the best of our abilities.
Whatever happens next is fate.
Mordy is the first to enter the house, followed by Morgan, then Gwen.
“Hey.” Arthur pulls on the sleeve of my hoodie, and I turn around. “Wait.”
“What is it?” I ask, then look over my shoulder at Gwen and Morgan, who are now holding hands.
“Please don’t do anything stupid tonight—like getting yourself killed. We’re going in there together, as a team.”
I blow air through clenched teeth. We’ve been over this a hundred times now.
I already promised everyone that we would fight the Merlin together, that we would tackle this problem as a group.
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