King Me!
Deborah Blake
Copyright © 2020 by Deborah Blake
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Cover Art by Lindsay Tiry of LT Arts
Interior design by Crystal Sarakas
To my Patreon patrons, who read this first and kindly allowed me to share it with the rest of the world. Thanks for all your support!
Acknowledgments
Many thanks go to all my first readers, especially Judy Levine and Karen Buys. Big thanks as well to the lovely Crystal Sarakas, who told me people would want to read my second ever book. Smooches.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
About the Author
Other Books by Deborah Blake:
Chapter One
When a lunar eclipse coincides with the Summer Solstice, even the least gifted witch can work true magic. A powerful witch should probably stay home and watch bad reality shows on television, just to be safe.
Morgan Fairfax’s coven was a motley assortment of strange and wonderful eccentrics, none of whom had any unusual abilities. Which made it even more amazing when they managed to achieve the impossible, entirely by accident.
Oops.
Morgan held her athame out in front of her, the light of the full moon reflecting off the blade of the traditional witch’s knife. Around her, the rest of the coven drummed and chanted, raising energy within the magical circle they’d cast on the freshly mown grass in a quiet corner of Albany’s Washington Park.
When the moon’s face was hidden from sight, they would recite the spell that Morgan, as high priestess, had written for this very special occasion. In all the years that the Cauldron Oak coven had practiced together, there had never been such a potent time for magical work, so Morgan had labored for weeks to come up with the perfect words.
The wind blew her long dark hair into her face, and she pushed it away with her free hand. At least the candles stayed lit, protected in their hurricane lanterns; always a challenge when practicing witchcraft outside. Morgan could feel the energy building higher and higher, timed to coincide with the eclipse so that the witches could release their Will into the universe at the optimum moment.
The edge of the moon disappeared. Morgan looked around the circle at her coven mates as the sound of drums and voices filled the night. Charlotte’s chanting was endearingly out of tune and Michael’s sense of rhythm was all his own, but that’s what made the coven so powerful; they all put a part of themselves into the brew. The others had not been brought up with the Craft as Morgan had, but working together, they wove a magic far stronger than most individual witches could create.
Witchcraft was all about connection, as far as Morgan was concerned, bonding together all of them, the gods, and the earth itself. That’s why she’d designed tonight’s ritual as a gift to Mother Earth. She’d wanted a way of giving back to the land that nourished and supported humans and had been so badly treated in return.
The spell Morgan had written was a response to the ever-growing problems of global warming, the energy crisis, and the endless wars that depressed her every time she turned on the television. After all, Morgan reasoned, who better than witches—people who believed in the power of magic to create positive change in the universe—to try and move things in a better direction?
Not that she thought her little coven could single-handedly (or many-handedly) fix all the problems, of course, but why not ask the gods to send someone who could? Another Gandhi, maybe, who could bring an element of peace and sanity to the muddle of world politics. Or a brilliant scientist who might invent a cheap and non-polluting form of energy to save the environment. Mostly, Morgan just felt like the world needed help. A hero, even.
So she had crafted what she hoped was the best possible spell to tap into the extra magical power of the eclipse. Her coven had gathered together, bringing all their combined Will to focus on achieving their magical task on this most special night. And Morgan believed with all her heart that the gods would answer their prayers and send the person the world needed most at this time.
As the moon slid out of sight, the coven linked their hands and recited the words of Morgan’s spell three times, their voices echoing in the night.
“Moon above and powers of fate
Fire, water, earth, and air
Send to us a hero great
Our blessed planet to repair
A heart that’s pure
The strength to hold
With purpose sure
And wisdom old
Speaking clear
Straight from the heart
Gathering near
Those split apart
Send to us as we do ask
With the power of this night
The perfect man for this tough task
We summon now this magic knight”
In the silence that followed, Morgan’s bones buzzed with the power of true magic. Her bright green eyes looked around the circle and saw the same sense of mixed awe and accomplishment reflected on the faces that surrounded her. With a sense of satisfaction, she picked the chalice up off the altar and raised it to the sky in offering.
Then things got seriously weird.
First, there was the thunder. It started as a low rumble, then grew louder and louder. Lightning split the sky as if to replace the glow of the hidden moon, but there was no rain.
Then the ravens came. Three impossibly large black shapes, they swooped out of nowhere and flew around the circle repeatedly before vanishing into the darkness. Charlotte, always the most timid of the group, shrieked and cowered on the ground, covering her head with her arms. Davis, Lewis, Crystal and Clarice broke out into a pandemonium of excited babbling, as Michael said in his best aspiring-actor’s voice, “It’s a sign! It must be a sign!”
Morgan sighed. She loved her coven, but she had to admit that witches tended toward the dramatic at the best of times. Throw in a little lightening and an ominous bird or two and poof—instant chaos.
Not that she didn’t believe in signs. Of course she did. But she also believed in upstate New York’s propensity toward unpredictable weather and the occasional unusual wildlife sighting. She might be a witch, but she was also a down-to-earth pragmatic Taurus, and it would take more than a little unexpected thunder and a few large birds to spook Morgan Fairfax. A sign? Somehow, she just didn’t think so.
Still feeling a leftover ritual buzz the next afternoon when she got home from her Lark Street bookstore, Morgan rushed up the walk to her small cottage style house. Juggling a pile of books, her oversized purse jammed with paperwork, and a much-needed cup of coffee, she was p
eering inside her purse and fumbling to find her keys without dropping the rest of her burdens or tripping over her long patchwork skirt.
So she promptly banged into the huge box sitting right smack in the middle of her tiny semi-enclosed front porch. She glanced up and down the street for a delivery truck or the UPS guy. Nothing. Bemused, she tried to scratch her head and spilled her coffee in the process. Crap. She was way too tired for this.
Morgan tried to remember what she’d ordered that might come in a box shaped suspiciously like an oversized cardboard coffin. It was long and rectangular, maybe seven feet by four feet, and at least three feet high. Not the bra she was expecting from Victoria’s Secret, that’s for sure. And all the books went straight to the shop. What the heck could it be?
A quick examination turned up a label on one end that had her name and address on it, so it clearly wasn’t a mistake. But who would send her something so large? Her birthday was months ago, and anyway, she’d stopped making a fuss about that after she’d turned thirty. Age was just a number, and all that. So, not a belated birthday present.
She bent to look at the label again. The return address was smudged, but she could just make out the company name: Avalon Isles Storage Company, Inc. Stranger and stranger. Morgan knew she didn’t have anything in storage. Her house was small, but there was plenty of space for her stuff, even with all the books she’d amassed over the years.
She glanced at her watch. It was only three thirty, but a few of her coven members would probably be free to come help her move this monstrosity off the porch and into the house. Morgan crawled around the box so she could open the front door and thrown food at her oversized cat, ET (he had extra toes). Then she got on the phone and yelled for help. Michael, Davis, and Crystal all promised to drop what they were doing and come over ASAP. It might have been the mention of cookies that did it.
Davis had been coming to the coven gatherings for a little over a year but he still had a tendency to look at Morgan more as “high priestess” than as friend the way most of the rest of the group did. He was in his fifties, a professor at nearby Russell Sage College, and older than most of the other coveners. His graying blond hair was receding like the tide, but he was still solid and strong.
Michael, on the other hand, was more of the thin and weedy type, but he’d been her high priest since the coven started, so they were closer than family in some ways. And no, as she told her grandmother during every Sunday afternoon call, that didn’t mean they were an item.
Actually, Michael was as gay as a San Francisco parade. Like her, he had his own shop, although his was—ironically, since Michael never exercised if he could help it—a sporting goods store. He was still wavering half in and half out of the closet, but no one in the group cared about his orientation. Pagans were pretty mellow about alternative lifestyle choices, for the most part—it kind of came with the territory.
Speak of the devil, Morgan could hear a babble of voices outside on the porch, exclaiming over her mystery box. She put iced tea and cookies out on the table and went out to examine the problem.
Crystal, a short, bubbly blonde who flirted as easily as she breathed and had a tendency toward serial monogamy, leaned over Michael’s shoulder to peer at the label. “What on earth is the Avalon Isle Storage Company?” she asked Morgan. “And how did the delivery guy ever get this thing up here, anyway?”
Morgan held out empty hands. “Not a clue. Let’s just move it into the house, open it up, and find out what’s inside.”
The four of them walked around the huge package for a few minutes, muttering variations on the “what could it be” and “we’ll never get it inside” theme, then managed the seemingly impossible task with a combination of lifting, shoving and sheer stubborn determination.
Morgan would have opened it outside on the porch, but Old Mrs. McLean across the street was observing as usual, and Morgan didn’t want to take a chance on the contents of the box being something odd enough for the neighborhood watch committee to notice.
So Michael pushed his dark, shaggy hair behind his ears, Davis settled his glasses more firmly on his face, Crystal hiked up her skirt, and ten minutes of shoving and banged-up legs later, they’d gotten it moved. Once inside, the box took up most of the space available in her tiny living room, with one corner sticking out into the hall that led toward the kitchen.
She tried not to think about her hardwood floors. They needed refinishing anyway, since ET had a tendency to use the entire house as one big cat gym. At least if they banged the box against her grandmother’s beat up hand-me-down antiques it wouldn’t make them look much worse, and the couches were safely covered with funky Indian bedspreads.
Crystal, an interior designer, once said Morgan’s style looked like Prince Charles had married a hippie chick with no taste. And then had a really wild party with friends from both sides. Davis had laughed hysterically. But what did he know? He still wore loafers with pennies in them.
Michael took out a Swiss Army knife and looked questioningly at Morgan.
“Are you sure you want to open this thing? Maybe Count Dracula is inside,” he said with a smirk.
Crystal giggled. “Or maybe it’s a really large blow-up doll. After all, it’s been a while since you’ve had a boyfriend.” To Crystal, a week without a boyfriend was like a day without eating: you could do it, but why would you?
“Very funny.” Morgan responded. Jeez, a couple of years go by without a date and people start insinuating you might need a mail-order husband. Next thing you know, they’d suggest she kiss frogs.
“Oh, just open the thing already,” Davis said. “I’m dying to find out what’s in there.” He gave the box a little kick with one loafer-shod foot.
Since Morgan was feeling much the same, she grabbed the knife from Michael and started slicing through the miles of packing tape. After what seemed like hours, she finally got the top of the huge box opened, only to see another box inside.
It reminded her of when she was young, and she and her sister used to wrap tiny gifts inside increasingly larger boxes until they looked like something big and important. Morgan gritted her teeth. If this was her sister’s idea of a joke, somebody was going to be in serious trouble. She grabbed the cardboard on one side and ripped it away, a pretty easy task now that all the tape was gone. Crystal mimicked her actions on the other side, and they were left looking at a big pile of cardboard on the floor, and a large ornate wooden box, still without a clue as to its contents.
Davis tried to pry the top off, and let out a frustrated groan. “Have you got a crowbar? This thing is nailed shut.”
Everybody else groaned, too, and Morgan squeezed by the end of the box to check out the tool drawer in the kitchen. Two flathead screwdrivers and a hammer later, the top of the box came loose with a screech of nails that was loud enough to wake the dead.
“Well, if Count Dracula is in there, he’s awake now,” Michael quipped.
But Morgan noticed he didn’t make a move to look inside. Ha! Chicken. She peered over the edge and saw packing peanuts covering some fancy silk fabric. Could someone have used this huge container to send her a comforter? No, that didn’t make any sense—the box was too heavy. She tugged on the corner of the cloth, and little foam bits went flying everywhere. Well, that was going to be fun to pick up later. ET selected one to torture and kill, and retreated with it under the rocking chair.
As Morgan bent over to retrieve the peanut before the cat could choke on it, Crystal gasped, backing away from the box so fast, she tripped over an ottoman and landed on her butt with her heels flailing in the air. As Morgan turned back to see what on earth had prompted such an absurd response from the normally unflappable Crystal, she saw the cloth move on its own.
Eek! There was something alive in there! For a moment, Morgan had visions of vampire teeth, then forced herself to get a grip. There was no such thing as vampires. No doubt there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the richly embroidered fabric rising to
ward the top edge of the box. Unfortunately, she just couldn’t think of one.
Chapter Two
When Arthur awoke, it was dark. Of course, his chamber in the castle was always dim in the early morning, unless a servant came in to light a torch or some candles, so that told him little. But something was amiss. He just did not know what.
He lay still for a moment, waiting for the pounding headache that would signal the morning after a late night carousing with Sir Bedivere and the other knights, or the aching bones that meant he was still recovering from a particularly grim battle. Nay, he felt perfectly fit.
But something about the idea of a battle rang a distant bell in the back of his head. Had he not been fighting? He tried to force his sluggish brain to grasp the elusive thought. Battle. Horses trumpeting, men yelling. Blood and dust and pain. Mordred.
Mordred! It all came rushing back to him: the witch Morgana La Fay and her twisted revenge for his rejection of her advances, the treachery of her son Mordred, and finally, the fatal sword thrust that ended his battle. Forever, he’d thought.
Odd, he didn’t feel dead. On the other hand, he’d never been dead before, so how would he know?
Arthur pondered the likelihood of his own demise. Was he in heaven? He would have thought there would be more light. So, hell, then? Surely it would be warmer. Besides, he had not been that bad. Slowly, a vague memory became clear. A boat ride, where every movement jarred the gaping wound in his side. Then gentle hands, the smell of herbs, and the sound of chanting. But after that…nothing. So if he was still alive, where was he?
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