Morgan Fairchild looked like she was considering Fay’s argument and finding it wanting. The actress tucked a stray lock of hair behind an ear and tapped her fingers on her glass again, smiling faintly when the sound made Fay LeBeau wince.
“I do appreciate your concern for your old friend,” she said to Fay, emphasizing the word old in a not very subtle jab. “But I have to tell you, he seems fine to me. His little delusion, if it truly is one and not just a cute way of getting attention, doesn’t seem to interfere with his ability to function at all.” The actress gazed into the distance, as if there were answers written on the horizon and she could see them through her oversized sunglasses.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “unless you have some kind of note from a doctor to back up your story, I think we’ll just have to leave the decision up to Merlin. If he wants to stay here with me, I’m happy to have him.” Morgan Fairchild looked at Fay and added pointedly, “He is a perfect guest.”
Fay restrained herself with obvious difficulty, flexing her red-tipped fingers under the table. Morgan had the sense that the sorceress was reassessing the situation and coming to the conclusion that another tactic was going to be needed if she was to persuade Morgan Fairchild to give up her prey. Silently, Morgan cheered for her namesake. Clearly, the actress was proving to be tougher than Fay had expected.
“Ah, yes,” Fay purred at her hostess, “ I have been somewhat rude, haven’t I?” She fluttered one delicate hand in the air as if waving away her social blunder. “I didn’t mean to imply that you wouldn’t take wonderful care of dear Merlin, not at all.”
Morgan Fairchild looked wary, and behind the bushes, Arthur and the coven members tensed as they waited to see what Fay was up to now. But she just reached into her voluminous Prada handbag and pulled out some fancy glass containers with ornate gold labels. Morgan recognized them as the “magical” face cream Fay had been selling on TV, the first night Morgan and Arthur had spotted her. And vice versa, of course.
Fay nudged one across the table toward Morgan Fairchild with the tip of one manicured fingernail.
“You know what these are, I assume?” Fay said, smiling just enough to show a hint of her gleaming white teeth.
Morgan Fairchild picked up the container and gazed at it over the top of her sunglasses. “Ah, yes, the famous face cream. It’s gotten quite the reputation in Hollywood over the last couple of years. Some of my friends swear it makes them look years younger.” She rested it gently on the table in front of her with studied disinterest. “I hear it can be difficult to come by.”
Fay smiled more broadly. “Yes, indeed. Since I started doing the television commercials, I can barely keep up with the demand. Astonishing, really, when you think of how much I charge for a jar.” She managed to look embarrassed at her own nerve while at the same time smug that she was getting away with it. Morgan was almost impressed.
“I find it hard to believe that anything could possibly work well enough to be worth a thousand dollars for only a month’s supply,” Morgan Fairchild said grudgingly. “But since people seem to keep buying it, I suppose it must be pretty good.”
“Oh, it’s more than just pretty good,” Fay responded with pride. “It is practically a miracle in a jar.” She gave a low laugh. “Of course, it is a very nice jar, too.”
She nodded at the container sitting on the table between them. “It’s amazing the difference my anti-aging serum can make. Why, it’s practically sorcery.” She laughed at her own joke and Mortimer snickered. Morgan Fairchild just looked bemused.
Next to Morgan, Arthur ground his teeth at the mention of the word sorcery. But Morgan just nodded her head. She’d figured that Fay was using her magical abilities to boost the potency of her famous cream in order to make a product that women (and probably men) would pay through the nose to have. Especially in age-conscious Hollywood.
Fay narrowed her eyes as she looked across the table at the other blonde. “I do believe I see a few tiny little lines, dear, although you’re holding up remarkably well.” She ran her fingertips over her own flawless face. “You must tell me who your plastic surgeon is, in case I ever need to use one.” Fay glanced pointedly at the jars of cream sitting in front of her expensive purse. “Not that I’m likely to, of course, as long as I have my marvelous serum.”
Morgan Fairchild sniffed indignantly. “I haven’t had any surgery. And a few tiny little lines don’t bother me at all.” She took her sunglasses off to emphasize the point and tapped them against the glass tabletop. “I happen to think I look just fine for my age.”
Mortimer smirked. “And what age would that be, Ms Fairchild? Thirty-nine?” He gave a snort-like laugh and almost choked on his iced tea. Morgan, behind the bushes, wished that he would.
“Now darling,” Fay reprimanded her son, “Let’s not be rude. Clearly Ms. Fairchild is much older than thirty-nine. But she looks quite good, all things considered.” She held up one slim hand as if to stop her hostess from replying, although Morgan Fairchild hadn’t said a word (unless you counted the steam coming out her ears as speech).
“I’ll tell you what, dear,” Fay said, as if the idea had just come to her. “If you could just see reason and let me take my darling Merlin home with me where I could look after him, I would be happy to give you a life-time supply of my anti-aging serum. Completely free of charge, of course. Just a little favor between friends.”
She flashed her bright white teeth in a dazzling smile and reached into her purse to pull out a tiny vial. She put the slim plastic tube down in front of Morgan Fairchild with a decisive click.
“What’s that?” the actress asked, suspicion covering her face like a rain cloud.
Fay endeavored to look innocent and caring. “Oh, that’s nothing, dear. Just a little sleeping potion—that is, medication—to put in Merlin’s tea. It would be so much less traumatic for the poor thing if he could just take a little nap and wake up safe and sound, back in my house where he belongs.” She fluttered her eyelashes coyly. “We wouldn’t want to upset the old dear, now would we? He has a bad heart, you know.”
Across the table from her, Morgan Fairchild picked up the little vial and held it gingerly between two fingers. In their hiding place, Morgan and Arthur looked at each other with dismay. But they needn’t have worried.
“I don’t think so, dear.” Morgan Fairchild said succinctly, dropping the vial back down on the table as if it was poison. “I don’t know about how you normally treat your friends, but I don’t make a habit of drugging mine and then handing them over to perfect strangers.”
She put out one slim finger and shoved the jar of face cream decisively away from her. “And I don’t need your miraculous anti-aging serum, either. I’ll have you know that I have been blessed with a natural beauty, and I have no intention of handing over my honored guest for the dubious privilege of smearing my face with some smelly, over-priced ointment in an ugly jar.”
On the other side of the table, Fay gave a hiss and started to stand up, an affronted look on her face. It had clearly never occurred to her that an actress of a certain age might actually turn down the chance to look young forever. A nasty glint glittered in her narrowed eyes, and Arthur got ready to step forward out of the bushes.
But Morgan Fairchild wasn’t done.
Taking a deep breath (which did impressive things to the ruffled blouse she was wearing), she arose from her own chair and crossed her arms across her extraordinary bosom.
“I’ll have you know I happen to think Merlin is just as cute as a bug in a rug,” she said to Fay, her perfect nose practically quivering with indignation. “And I would never sell him out to a bleached blond tramp with a bad boob job.” She pointed toward the edge of the patio, and Arthur ducked back down hurriedly.
“I’ll thank you to take your bony behind off my property.” She tossed the jar of anti-aging serum at Mortimer, who promptly dropped it on the pavers at his feet with a crash. “And take your glorified Oil of Olay knock-off wi
th you.”
Fay gave an undignified screech and dived for Morgan Fairchild, reaching out a hand with carmine-painted nails to tug at her hair. The two of them fell to the ground, kicking and clawing at each other. Mortimer tipped over his chair in his hurry to get out of the way and Crystal just sat there gaping, her mouth open in amazement.
Morgan, Arthur and the coven all gazed at each other in astonished shock for a minute, then Arthur rushed out from behind the bushes, quickly followed by all the rest. He started to go to Morgan Fairchild’s aid (although from what Morgan could see of the tangled mess as the two women rolled around on the stones, it looked like the actress was giving as good as she got) but Mortimer thrust himself in the way.
As Arthur tried to go around him, the smaller dark-haired man suddenly produced a long wicked-looking knife from where it had been tucked away in his boot. He brandished it with surprising skill, sending a chill up Morgan’s spine.
“Hello, Dad,” Mortimer said with a sarcastic snarl, “I was hoping you’d show up.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Arthur made a noise low in his throat that sounded remarkably like a growl and lunged for Mortimer. Morgan and the rest of the coven gasped in unison and stalled out at the edge of the patio, torn between trying to help Arthur and going to Morgan Fairchild’s aid. Morgan glanced wildly between the two separate battles, neither of which looked as if they would be improved by the addition of another combatant or two.
Mortimer feinted to the right with his knife and Arthur swerved to avoid having his belly slashed when the knife swirled back around again. Morgan bit her lip—the man might be a weasel, but he was clearly quite good with his weapon of choice. She looked anxiously at Arthur as he dodged one attack after another; he was much larger than his opponent, but Mortimer was wiry and frighteningly fast. And Arthur was unarmed. She didn’t see any way that this could turn out well.
Meanwhile, Morgan Fairchild and Fay LeBeau still grappled with each other in classic catfight fashion. (ET would have been proud.) They had rolled off of the patio onto the nearby grass and smears of green and a few drops of bright red blood marred Morgan Fairchild’s once pristine white blouse. She looked like an Impressionist painting of Christmas at the North Pole. One vivid blue eye was swelling shut and her lower lip was as puffy as if she’d just gotten a shot of collagen.
Fay LeBeau didn’t look much better. Her nose was battered and bleeding and her once neatly-coiffed hair hung down in disordered hanks around her shoulders. She’d lost an earring and her taupe silk shirt had a large rip where Morgan Fairchild had grabbed it in the midst of their tussle.
Clarice and Charlotte decided they were better off staying out of the way and dashed over to where Crystal still sat in stunned immobility. They each grabbed one of her arms, lifted her bodily out of her seat and hustled her over to the sidelines. Once there, they burst into a cacophony of explanations, questions and concern.
To his credit, Davis tried to go to Arthur’s assistance, but was forced to retreat almost immediately, holding a gashed and bleeding arm against his chest. Clearly, he was no match for Mortimer’s speed and determination, and he and Lewis reluctantly went to stand by the other women of the coven.
In the meantime, Morgan had been searching the patio for anything that looked remotely like a weapon. She picked up and discarded, in rapid succession, a small planter (plastic, and unlikely to do enough damage even if she could get close enough to Mortimer to hit him with it), the iced tea pitcher (heavy enough to hurt, but too small to do more than annoy him), and a quaint garden gnome (adorable, but useless unless it suddenly came to life and started biting).
Finally, she spotted a long pole with a hook on one end, probably used for opening and closing the canopy currently unfurled to partially shade the patio. It was fairly lightweight and too long to be easy to handle, but at least it was something. Sidling over to the edge of the lawn where the two men bobbed and wove around each other in a so-far futile attempt to gain advantage over one another, she waited until Arthur was turned in her direction.
She held up the pole and looked a question at the big red-haired man. In answer, he cocked an eyebrow at the pathetic armament she’d found, shrugged, and held out one large hand. Morgan took a deep breath, tried to forget all the embarrassing bumbles of long-ago gym classes, and launched the makeshift lance into the air.
It landed squarely in the middle of Arthur’s palm as if it belonged there and a huge smile spread across his face. The sun shone down on his broad shoulders and rugged features, bestowing on him an aura of grandeur all out of proportion to the setting and his flimsy weapon.
Morgan had a sudden vision of the man, standing at the head of a great army in all his regal splendor. Emotion rose up to overwhelm her, blurring her vision with tears of pride and fear and transforming Arthur momentarily from a modern man in blue jeans and a tee shirt into the greatest king who ever lived. She choked on a sob; what would she do if she lost him now?
Then Mortimer took a swift step forward, aiming a vicious slash at Arthur’s chest, and the moment was lost in a snarling flurry of blows. A line of red appeared on Arthur’s massive torso, seeping slowly out to stain his once-white shirt. But he wielded his improvised javelin with practiced skill, reaching out to tag Mortimer with a series of sharp blows that rocked the dark-haired man back on his heels.
Suddenly, it was Arthur advancing and Mortimer who retreated, frantically dodging strike after strike. Finally, at the edge of the patio, Arthur reached out with the hooked end of the pole and snagged one of Mortimer’s ankles. The smaller man hit the ground with a thud and the knife went flying. Morgan quickly ran over to grab it as Arthur lodged the flat bottom of his weapon against Mortimer’s throat.
“Yield,” he said sternly. “It is over.”
“I don’t think so.” Fay LeBeau’s throaty voice rang out over the yard. “Let him go, Arthur. Or this woman will pay the consequences.”
Morgan and Arthur turned to where Fay stood, battered and bruised yet clearly triumphant. Morgan Fairchild crouched at her feet, clutching what looked like a broken arm but still managing somehow to look dignified and beautiful.
“Don’t make me do anything drastic, Arthur,” Fay sneered at her former lover and king. She raised her hands over her head in the classic spell casting posture. “You know how much you hate it when I am forced to resort to sorcery.”
Arthur twitched at the word and the pole he was holding dug a little deeper into Mortimer’s soft white flesh. Mortimer made a choking noise and squirmed against the ground as he tried to move away.
“Arthur, you can’t just let him go,” Morgan hissed, hoping Fay couldn’t hear. “You’d lose the only advantage you have.” She clutched at his arm, and then let go as she realized that she might impede his grasp.
Fay let out a ringing peel of laughter. “You foolish peasant,” she said, lip curling in distaste at her paramour’s current lady. “He has no advantage over me and never will.” Fay shook her head pityingly. “You simply have no idea of what you are up against, do you?”
The sorceress stretched her red-tipped fingers up to the sky and a rumble of thunder split the previously calm afternoon. Bolts of lightning streaked across the horizon and a sudden wind blew sand and leaves into a swirling geyser that twirled its drunken way over the patio and onto the lawn. She laughed again, the sound rising up to become a shriek of fierce madness.
On the other side of the stone expanse, the coven members huddled together in fear. Standing next to Arthur, Morgan straightened her spine and stood firm, but she could feel her heart banging against her ribcage in fear and awe. Even Mortimer let out a small whimper as his mother’s power grew to a crescendo finish.
At Fay’s feet, Morgan Fairchild let out a scream that tapered off into a sound like a muffled bark. And where she had been, there sat a beautiful cocker spaniel with silky cream colored fur and wide blue eyes. The dog looked up at Fay and growled.
Fay just laughed as Art
hur and the rest looked on in horrified disbelief.
“Now do you see?” Fay asked Morgan. She looked down at her work with arrogant satisfaction. “There is nothing you or Arthur can do that can match my abilities as a sorceress.” She raised her chin in triumph. “You are powerless against me!”
From around the other side of the house, there came another, even louder clap of thunder, and a calm voice said, “Yes, but I am not.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
From around the corner of the house strolled a mild-looking older gentleman with a white beard and long white hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was wearing baggy Bermuda shorts with large pink and orange peonies, Birkenstocks, and a tee shirt that said, “Do Not Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons for you are Crunchy and Good with Ketchup.”
In one hand he carried a garden trowel and from the other dangled a woven basket containing carrots, lettuce and various herbs. There was a smear of dirt across his forehead and ground into both knobby knees and he had the beginning of a sunburn on the top of his prominent hooked nose.
In short, he looked like any elderly retired man coming in from an afternoon of puttering around in the garden. What he did not look like—in any way whatsoever—was a powerful magician from an ancient time.
But he was clearly the man they had been seeking. Even if Arthur’s glad cry of “Merlin” hadn’t confirmed it, Morgan would have known from the look on Fay LeBeau’s battered face. Morgan had never seen such hatred before in her life.
“Merlin,” Fay said, the flatness of her voice a stark contrast to the hot fury in her eyes. “So, we meet again. I have waited a long time for this moment.”
King Me! Page 21
