by LJ Rivers
Placing my spoon in the bowl, I leaned back in my chair. “Who would’ve thought Elaine Morgan, queen of the can opener, would turn into Nigella Lawson. I hope this runs in the Morgana blood, too.”
Mum drew her mouth to the side, grimacing. “You’d better hope the cooking skills skip every other generation, then. I’ve learned a lot from Tabbie, but I’m still a dunce by the stove compared to your nain.”
That was the first time Mum had ever mentioned her mother in a positive manner. I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the table.
“How was she? I mean, how were they?”
Mum stabbed a roasted carrot from the other salad bowl and bit off the tip. Her eyes drifted while she chewed, as if she were travelling back in time in her thoughts.
“I’m sorry that I haven’t told you much about them, but the truth is I sort of blocked them out of my memories as the years went by. They didn’t approve of me being with your dad, a human. But they weren’t—aren’t—bad people, I have to be fair. It’s just that their traditions and my lifestyle didn’t mesh. I wanted to be a normal girl growing up in modern Britain, not the ancient world they adhered to.”
Normal. I could relate to that dream. “When did you last have contact with them?”
“It’s been almost twenty-one years since I saw them last.” Mum stood and began clearing the table, her voice low and solemn. “Mam wished me luck, but told me she had to cut the ties now that I had a half-human in my belly. Both she and Tad were crushed at the thought of me breaking the Morgana bloodline. She cried when I left their farm. I walked up the road, hoping with every single step that she would shout my name. That she would say ‘Elaine, come back. We didn’t mean it.’ I would turn around and see them standing on the doorstep, Tad holding his arm around my mam. And he would say, ‘And tell Dennis we want to meet him.’”
It was still only 2.38, but there was not a single atom in my body that would blame Mum for mentioning Dad before 3.15. I swallowed hard. “They—they never even met him?”
Tears welled in Mum’s eyes. She wiped them away and resumed clearing the table. “I told him to wait in the car, down by the main road, and that I would come get him when I had talked to my parents. Somehow I thought I could convince—” Her voice faded.
I went to her. I took the bread basket from her hands and placed it on the countertop before pulling her into my arms.
“I’m so sorry, Mum,” I whispered into her ear.
“Well, it’s their loss.” She pulled away, but only enough to look me in my eyes. She ran her finger down the side of my face. “My tad would have loved your dad.”
“I wish I could meet them. Maybe if they learned I’m just as Pure a Mag as you, they might see it differently.”
“Maybe. But then I would have to tell them about Auberon. I don’t want them to accept me—or you, for that matter—based on him. You are the daughter of Dennis Rivers, the most wonderful man I have ever met.”
I squeezed her tighter. “When will it stop hurting?”
“Most likely never. I hold on to the good memories. They are so many and so strong that they almost ease the pain.”
“Almost.”
We finished clearing up, filling half the fridge with plastic wrapped bowls and plates with leftovers. Mum washed the frying pan while I wiped the table.
“Speaking of Auberon,” she said, “have you heard from him again?”
“He came by here a couple of days ago. Said he wanted to make sure I was safe, considering all that’s happened lately. But I told him I didn’t want to talk to him.”
She bit her lip. “I wonder if I should have a word with him.”
“It wasn’t that far back that I had the same thought,” I said. “Before I got my head back on straight and understood what he had done. Figured the two of you might find a way to exist in the same world, seeing as how I’m your daughter, and all.”
She leaned on the counter, wiping her hands with the dish towel. “I see. Well, I can’t say I would have managed, but I get your point. From your position at the time—”
Freddie Mercury started singing “You’re My Best Friend”. I held up a finger. “Sorry, it’s Charlie. She’s at work, so it might be important.”
I answered the call. “Hi, Char. What’s up?”
“Sorry to butt in on your mum-and-daughter time, but I’m worried about Jen. Her phone is active down by Waterloo Bridge.”
“Are you tracking her?” Before she had time to answer, a thought struck me. “Wait, are you tracking me, too?”
“Just Jen. Honestly.”
“OK.” I had no reason to think she was lying, but at the same time I doubted she had told Jen about keeping tabs on her. “What’s happening at Waterloo Bridge, then?”
“Not much, but it’s close to Jubilee Gardens.”
Crap!
“She said she was going to roam a little, to give Mum and me some peace and quiet. You think she’s going to the concert? That’s in what, three or four hours, isn’t it?”
“There’s been some chatter on a new forum,” Charlie said in a low voice. “I can’t say too much, but it’s called ‘Avalon’s Revenge’, and is basically the home of Gemma and her followers. There’s a lot of JC-bashing, obviously, but nothing concrete about this afternoon. Still, with the clock ticking towards the twenty-four hours Gemma provided, it’s more than enough to tickle Travers’ interest.” A male voice in the background said her name. “I’ve got to go, Ru. See if you—”
“I’ll see if I can get hold of Jen, don’t worry.”
We hung up, and I immediately dialled Jen’s number.
“The person you are phoning cannot accept calls at thi—”
“Crap on top of crap,” I muttered.
“—on a pile of crap in Crapville, Tennessee,” Mum said. “If there ever was a paternity suit, that would definitely seal your bond with Dad.”
I gave a half smile. “Sorry. It’s Jen. I wish I could stay and talk more, but we’ll have to pick it up later.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Not sure yet. But I must go find her and make sure nothing is up.”
“Find her where?”
I hesitated, then said in a low voice, “In central, by Waterloo Bridge.”
Mum narrowed her eyes. “I’m coming with you.”
“That’s not necessary. I’m just going to find her and talk—”
“If you think for one second I’m letting you go to central alone, after the ruckus we witnessed yesterday, you’re delusional.”
“Leave it up to you to call yesterday a ‘ruckus’,” I said. “But you can just hang back and relax. I’ll be back in no time, and we can watch a film together. All four of us.”
Mum faked a yawn. “Are you quite finished, so we can get going?”
I drew a breath to protest once more, but gave up and let it out again. “Fine.”
The sinking feeling I’d had in my gut yesterday was back, and I couldn’t quite shake the ominous sensation I was having. Mum’s impressive, even to me, display of magic yesterday had convinced me she could look after herself, but I felt the need to protect her from the big city dangers. Thinking about it, I could see how ridiculous the idea was.
The train was packed, as one would expect on a warm Saturday in June. As we walked up the stairs from the underground at Waterloo, the flood of tourists seemed to double in size. A few English words reached my ears, but mostly it was a mix of German, French, and a few other languages.
I tried Jen’s phone again, but there was still no reply. I sent her what had to be the tenth text message since Mum and I left Craydon Court less than an hour ago.
Please ring me, Jen! Urgent! Love, Ru.
We exited the station complex and crossed Addington Street. A bus passed by, flashing the serious face of Jarl Colburn to the world. Three-feet-tall, bold letters spelled ‘For Humans’ Sake’ along the entire side of the bus.
“That’s right!” shouted a young man behind u
s. “For humans!”
The rest of his group joined in the chant, and all eight or ten of them started running towards Jubilee Gardens. A thumping bass drum was already echoing in the streets leading to the park, and soon the drum was joined by a bass guitar. I recognised the tune as one of the biggest hits of last summer.
Mum and I turned down Chicheley Street and were met by one of London’s most famous tourist attractions. The oversized Ferris wheel was rotating slowly above the Thames. I had never gone up the London Eye myself, and even if I hadn’t been looking for Jen, I wouldn’t have gone today either. Maybe later in the autumn, when I didn’t have to wait three hours.
The music banged in my eardrums when we reached the south entrance to Jubilee Gardens. What I had thought was a decent cover band turned out to be the real deal. Four mega-screens around the park showed what was happening on the stage in the north corner, some three hundred yards from where we stood. Three girls and two boys were jumping around, singing their megahit “I Want You 2 Want Me”.
“That’s quite spectacular,” I shouted in Mum’s ear. “He’s got 3G2B to warm up for him.”
They had billed it as the ‘Summer Jubilee Bash 2020’, but with Colburn’s appearance, I’d thought of it more as a JC event with added music. With the biggest pop chart sensation of the last twelve months on stage, however, I might have to reconsider.
“Who?” Mum asked.
“Jarl Colburn.”
“Yes, but I mean, who’s the band?”
I rolled my eyes at her.
“I’m kidding,” she shouted back at me. “I think they’re brilliant.” She started dancing, doing a more than fair impression of the moves from the sixteen-year-olds on stage.
“I’m too old to be embarrassed,” I said. “But I’m happy to have you wait here while I go looking for Jen.”
She stopped dancing. “I bet you are, but I’m not leaving your side.”
“Thank you, London! We love you!”
The crowd screamed and revealed their average demographic as twelve-year-old girls. Not exactly the regular JC crowd, but I reckoned the families would leave as soon as the pop group was finished.
A sting of pain lanced through my heart as I recalled a memory of my twelfth birthday. It was one of my few birthdays I could celebrate on the actual date, the 29th of February. I had unpacked all the gifts Mum and Dad had got me, including a Kelly Clarkson T-shirt which I had already pulled on. It had a picture of the only singer that could compete with Pink in my life, and the word ‘Stronger’ over Kelly’s head. I thought I had reached the pinnacle of happiness. Then Dad pulled out an envelope from his back pocket.
“I don’t know, Elaine. I think Ru needs something stronger.”
“You might be right. What do you think, Ruby?”
I shrugged. “Dunno.”
“Come on, Ru,” Dad insisted. “Something Stronger?” He waved the envelope in front of me.
“I—I know it’s Kelly’s last album. I play it all the time. But other than that—?”
“Open it, luv.” Dad handed me the envelope.
Inside were three tickets to Wembley Stadium, on the 9th of June 2012, to see Kelly Clarkson on her ‘Stronger Tour’.
My scream as I realised that I was going to the concert would have crushed the 3G2B fans, I had no doubt about it.
But then Auberon came along and had Dad killed three days before the concert.
A man’s voice on the PA ripped me from the memory.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have just received word that your next prime minister has arrived backstage.”
So much for this not being a JC rally, I thought.
The crowd reacted with applause and much more masculine cheers as the younger crowd dispersed and the older audience took over the lawn in front of the stage. A few banners appeared and were soon followed by more. The park was quickly littered with ‘Maggers Out’ and ‘Lionhearts for Colburn’, among many others. The whole atmosphere had changed in less than five minutes from happy teen pop to a dark, Mag-unfriendly mood.
“I don’t like this,” Mum said. “This is exactly what Gemma forbade him to do.”
“I know. And there’s no way we can get to Jen before he starts up there.”
“Are you all having a good time?” the MC asked.
More cheers erupted, interspersed with a few “No!” and boos.
“Wait a minute! Who said no?”
Someone in the crowd shouted back at him.
“Oh, right. Yes, then I agree with you,” he said. “And for those of you who didn’t hear the young lady, she said, ‘I’m not happy until Colburn’s in charge’. Give it up for her!”
That really got the audience going, although I suspected they had another level ready. The MC turned and waved at someone by the side of the stage. He nodded and turned back to the audience.
“Then let’s not keep you good, loyal citizens of England waiting. It is a great honour and an even greater pleasure for me to introduce to you all the leader of the fight against the Mags; the one who can save England from being overrun by Satan’s fallen angels.”
Mum leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Is this even legal?”
“Not unless we’re in Germany in the early thirties,” I said.
“—of Purity, Jarl Colbuuuuurn!”
Chapter Eighteen
The reaction of the crowd when Colburn entered the stage could definitely hold its own against the fans of 3G2B. Roaring about two octaves lower, the predominantly male audience greeted their hero for three uninterrupted minutes. JC, ever the professional showman, spent the first two and a half of those minutes walking back and forth on the stage, waving and greeting the ones up front. Every now and then he turned and reloaded his stack of baseball caps, which he then sent flying into the crowd, one after another. Desperate hands reached for the hats, and as usual, small fights ensued between two or three who all claimed to have caught the same seemingly priceless artifact. When JC finally returned to centre stage, he held his hands out to calm his fans, which only encouraged them more.
Mum nudged me, and I leaned closer to hear her. “It’s the same show, with all the same moves. When did our elections become such a circus?”
I shook my head, having witnessed so many of his rallies that I knew the whole storyboard from first to last scene.
“Thank you! Thank you so much, lovely people!” Colburn’s opening voice was filled with warmth, apparent gratitude, and all the fatherly love of his perfected image. “I cannot thank you enough for your support, but I’ll do my utmost to repay you once we take back this wretched country of ours.”
That spurred another minute or so of ColburnMania, which, when I thought of it, I hadn’t seen in any headlines yet. I made a promise to myself never to say it out loud, in case an unimaginative reporter picked it up.
“Now, before I say anything more, let me just remind you all that this isn’t a political gathering. This is a rock concert, and they have invited me to introduce the next artist.”
“Smart,” I whispered to Mum.
“What?”
“He’s clever,” I said a little louder, my mouth almost touching her ear. “Since he supposedly has suspended his campaign activities, he has to cheat. And believe me, this bloke isn’t a stranger to bending the rules.”
A man came strutting across the stage, waving his arms. I recognised him as JC’s press officer. He donned a wide smile and went straight up to the podium, where he leaned in front of his boss.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but this cannot wait.”
Colburn looked annoyed and was clearly struggling to keep a straight face. He wasn’t about to give up the spotlight, however, and reclaimed the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies. This is one of my dearest friends, Steven. But—”
“No, no, no, Jarl, for once you’re not the one speaking.”
Nervous laughter spread among the crowd as Steven Butcher, still smiling, pushed Colburn to the side. He
held his hand up to silence the crowd. “You see, I just got news I know you would like to share with your friends in Jubilee Gardens this gorgeous summer evening.”
Colburn squinted at him, but his smile was less strained than a few seconds ago. His press officer pulled out his phone from his inner pocket.
“You know what? I think I’ll just read the message I received from the office of Her Majesty the Queen.”
Having watched Colburn closely, both in person and on the televised rallies, I took some pride in being one of the few who had made him look genuinely surprised. Apparently, I could add the Queen to the list. Gasps and loud chatter spread among the crowd, and Butcher, the press officer, gestured to the side of the stage. Colburn’s wife and two children came running out to stand next to him.
“For his outstanding work in the field of medical research and health care, Her Majesty the Queen wishes to extend her sincere gratitude to Jarl Colburn, on behalf of the citizens of the United Kingdom.”
When the applause started again, Butcher waved his hand to quell it.
“Hang on, please!” He cleared his throat. “Her Majesty also recognises Mr Colburn’s unparalleled efforts in combatting the H1M3 virus during the last months. For his loyalty and love of his fellow citizens, Her Majesty the Queen recognises Jarl Colburn as a Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire!”
“Merde!” exclaimed a voice behind me, the word almost drowning in the cacophony of Colburn’s fans. I turned and looked into the glacier-blue eyes of my favourite Shifter.
“Jen!” I threw my arms around her. “I’m so glad to see you. Where have—?”
“Yeah, we’ll get to the loving and all that.” She swatted me gently aside. “He’s getting a fudging MBE?”
“Apparently. And to tell the truth, I kind of had a feeling he might at some point.”
“And this doesn’t bother you?”
I shrugged. “It’s not like I can do anything about it. But of course it bothers me.”
