by Zoë Archer
Her hands curled around his, her grip strong and cold. They turned in the steps of a dance. Her black gaze held his—he could not look away, even when he felt the woman’s nails rake down his face and throat.
“Catullus!”
He continued to dance with the woman, staring at her impossibly perfect face. Something behind him caught the woman’s attention, and she snarled at it over his shoulder. If he had been in possession of his faculties, he would have seen how the woman’s lovely features twisted like an angry animal’s, but all he could do was gaze into her eyes and keep dancing.
“You want a bullet in your brain, lady?”
Gemma. He wanted to turn to her, tear himself from this woman, but could not. His limbs did not belong to him, and his mind went wandering amidst the labyrinthine turns of the unearthly music.
The woman laughed, and the sound was arctic, soulless. “Mortals and their harmless toys. But your lover can bleed.”
He felt himself pulled closer to the woman, as if she used his body to block her own. Again, her nails scored him, and warm liquid trickled down his face. She leaned close and licked his cheek, making an appreciative sound. “Your blood is delicious, mortal. Full of light. I cannot wait to drain you of it.”
Gemma cursed.
The woman began to lap at his skin again, but she hissed when Gemma shoved between them. He staggered back from the force of Gemma’s shove.
“Maybe bullets won’t work,” Gemma gritted. “Let’s try a blade, instead.” She brandished Catullus’s horn-handled hunting knife.
The woman shrieked as Gemma swung the knife toward her. Shivering in fear, the woman slunk back toward the shelter of the forest. She held her long-nailed hands out for protection. The music abruptly stopped.
Gemma advanced, holding the knife. “I don’t cotton to uncanny whores trying to drink my man’s blood.” Her gaze was steely as she stared down at the woman huddling at her feet. “Get the hell out of my sight, or I’ll cut off your claws—starting at the wrist.”
Trembling, the woman turned and scuttled away. As she ran, the hem of her gown caught on a low-lying branch, revealing not a pair of human feet, but cloven hooves. With a snarl and tug, the creature—for she was no woman—freed herself and disappeared into the woods.
Catullus felt his mind, his will, come back into himself. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, to find Gemma standing in front of him, dabbing at the scrapes on his face and throat. “Gemma …”
Gruff, Gemma said, “You all right? She didn’t drink too much of your blood?”
“I’m fine. You stopped her before she could do more.” He held himself still beneath her ministrations, which weren’t precisely gentle.
“I didn’t like seeing that.” Gemma’s voice was tight, faintly angry. “Seeing her touching and licking you. I almost wish she did put up a fight so I could’ve taught her a lesson.”
“She learned, unquestionably.” He stopped her hand rubbing at his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to go to her.”
“You had no choice. That thing used powerful magic.” Her eyes were sharp blue knives, yet she kept her hand within his. “This is new—jealousy. I’ve never felt it.”
“I only want you, Gemma.”
“Good.” She pulled his head down into a possessive kiss.
He did not enjoy making her jealous, but he liked this, her heat and boldness. And, he admitted to himself, there was something darkly, erotically thrilling about her jealousy, having her want him all for her own. No one had ever felt that way about him before.
Yet the kiss ended too quickly. Threats loomed in the darkness. They had to keep going.
The Lake of Shadows was a black mirror reflecting back more darkness, an expanse of liquid night ringed by skeletal trees. Their branches reached up into the inky sky like worshippers invoking a god of calamity. Periodic shapes rose up from the lake’s surface—the low humps of some creature’s back breaking the water, then dipping back down into the depths with a heavy slide. Winged beasts flapped low over the water.
Somewhere, on the far bank of the lake, was Mab’s Cauldron. The key to averting disaster.
As if expecting Gemma and Catullus, a small boat perched on the shore where they emerged from the forest. Gingerly, they stepped forward to examine the vessel.
“Looks like a perfectly ordinary rowboat,” Catullus murmured, studying it. Oars waited in the oarlocks, and, while the hull wasn’t in pristine condition, Catullus could not find any holes or anything else that might compromise the boat’s buoyancy or integrity.
“Seems awfully convenient.” Gemma eyed the water.
“Such boats and devices are often found in fairy tales. If any place would follow those guidelines, it must be Otherworld.”
“Maybe we’re being led into a trap. We could walk around the perimeter of the lake.”
“You see there?” He pointed to the edges of the lake, where dark jagged shapes rose. “Rock formations. Or creatures that look like rocks. Climbing them will take as much time, and be equally, if not more, dangerous. And Bryn said that we must cross the Lake of Shadows, not go around it.”
“Fairy tales are also very specific about directions. There’s always a reason why someone must go a certain direction.” She blew out an exasperated breath. “Looks like we’re taking a little water jaunt.”
“I’ll row.” He tested the oars and found they moved fairly smoothly in their locks. If only he could go to his workshop and get some oil! But then, if he had access to his workshop, he could build something a hell of a lot more sturdy and safe than a undersized wooden rowboat.
“I can’t just sit back and twirl my parasol while you serenade me.”
“No singing on this excursion. You stay alert for any signs of danger.”
She glanced at the lake, and the dark forms that broke its surface and flew over its waters. “Guess I’ll be busy.”
“I can’t remember the last time I was in a rowboat. Must have been years ago.” Catullus moved forward and back as he rowed, adjusting to the slightly unfamiliar movement. It took a try or two, but he quickly gained his rhythm. The boat glided smoothly through the still water.
“Courting a sweetheart?” Gemma sat in the prow, her back to him, as she kept watch for threats.
“Courting fish is more probable. Bennett and I used to go on fishing trips in Devon. Never caught much. He hates to get up early and won’t stop talking.”
“I’m surprised you two are such good friends. You’re so different from each other.”
He truly hadn’t thought of that. “Perhaps that’s why we are good chums. Balance.”
“Is it different, now that he’s married?”
Catullus chuckled, rueful. “Wouldn’t know. We haven’t been in the same place for more than a few days in months. And I cannot begrudge him his happiness. He’s needed the right woman in his life for a long while.”
Gemma cast a wry look over her shoulder. “Seems like he had plenty of female company.”
“Not the right kind.”
“You sound downright moral.”
He grunted. “I pass no judgment on Bennett—or anyone, I hope. But the needs of one’s body and the needs of one’s heart aren’t always the same thing.”
“Speaking from experience.”
“It would have been grim, indeed, if I’d been a virgin at forty-one.” He cleared his throat, wondering how to broach a topic that had been in his mind for some time. “And with you, when did you … have you had many …?” Just the thought of another man touching Gemma sent bolts of unfettered fury through him. And if he so much as considered someone else kissing her, let alone … God help him. He discovered … he was a jealous man. It wasn’t Gemma he mistrusted, it was everyone else.
Was time travel truly possible? He might seriously consider developing a device that enabled him to travel back and beat each man who ever kissed her.
She turned to face him. “Let’s give each other the same ben
efit. You’ve had other lovers. So have I. None of them matter now.” The truth of this shone in her eyes.
The tightness around his heart eased. “You’re correct. It doesn’t matter.” He would not change a thing about her, because everything, including the lovers that had come before him, made her who she was now, and to him, she was exactly right.
She smiled, and began to speak, but the boat suddenly rocked from side to side. Something heavy knocked into the hull.
Gemma braced her hand on the side of the boat as it pitched, and Catullus held tight to the oars. They held themselves still, waiting to see if the bump to the hull had been mere happenstance—possibly a bit of wood or other flotsam knocking into the vessel.
Thump.
The boat rocked harder.
“Maybe your knife will ward it off,” Gemma whispered.
Balancing one oar across his knees, he unsheathed and brandished his blade, holding it over the water.
Thump. Violently, the boat pitched as the creature—whatever it was—struck the hull again. Catullus sheathed his knife, since it did not seem to have the ability to ward off this new threat.
“Can you swim?” he demanded.
“Yes, but “—she cast a wary look toward the water—” I’d sooner not.”
“Trust me, love.” He gritted as the boat received another battering. “If there is anything I do not want, it is for the boat to capsize and us to take a dip.” At the least, neither of them would drown, but that was only assuming they were left alone. Given the fact that something kept ramming the boat, that was unlikely.
Catullus whirled, shotgun in hand, at a rasping snarl off the portside. Gemma spun to face the sound, as well, and gasped.
It was, quite simply, one of the most disgusting creatures Catullus had ever seen. The beast that rose up from the water resembled a large horse with only one eye and a gaping mouth. From its back a man’s torso emerged, almost as if its rider had somehow been fused to the flesh of the animal. The human-shaped portion of the creature had long, long arms tipped with claws, and an oversized head that swayed back and forth as if too heavy to be supported by its neck.
Disturbing as all this was, the most alarming aspect of the beast was the fact that it had no skin. All the muscles were exposed, twitching and shifting as it moved. Veins throbbing with blood covered its body in a grisly network. Through the sinews and veins, a few pulsing organs could be seen.
In the darkness, the creature was the embodiment of nightmare. And it wanted the mortals within the boat. It charged.
Catullus fired two blasts from his shotgun. The beast jerked and slowed from the impact to its body, but didn’t go down. Snarling from both its human and horse mouths, it charged again. Shots from Gemma’s pistol had even less effect than Catullus’s shotgun. The creature kept coming.
“How do we stop this thing?” Gemma shouted.
“Damned if I know.” But he’d try.
The creature drew up right beside the boat. It was even more nauseating up close as it shied, waving legs that were partly flipper. Sensing Gemma was the easier prey, its humanoid arms reached out for her.
Catullus attacked. He swung his shotgun by its barrel, slamming the stock into the beast’s horse head.
It shrieked. The boat rocked harder. Gemma clung to the sides, crouching low to keep from falling out.
Catullus braced his legs wide and lashed out with his shotgun. Every time the creature lunged, he dug the gun’s butt into the creature’s unprotected flesh.
With an outraged scream, the beast pounded one leg against the hull. The boat pitched, and Catullus suddenly lost his balance. His shotgun fell to the bottom of the boat as he tumbled into the lake. He heard Gemma shout his name. Dark, chill water closed over his head.
He pushed his way back to the surface, hampered by his long coat. As he broke the surface, gasping for air, something grabbed him, then pulled him back down.
The water all around was black. He could see nothing, but he felt the creature’s slippery flesh and net of veins as it swam around him. It clawed at him, its horse’s mouth also snapping. He managed to dodge the creature’s flailing legs and landed a series of punches along its body. It was impossible to know where the creature was, or predict its movements. He fought to keep what breath he had when one of its humanoid hands clutched his throat.
The creature dragged him forward, and he grasped its wrist with both hands, trying to break its hold. Its human face swam into view as he was pulled closer. The thing resembled an opium-addicted anatomist’s drawing, red flesh and white ligaments stretched over its monstrous head. Muscles twitching, it opened its mouth to reveal long, cutting teeth.
Catullus’s lungs burned, his vision dimmed, and he definitively did not want this creature to bite him. He pulled his knife and slashed at the arm that held him, cutting deeply into the ropy muscles until black blood swirled.
The beast screamed in pain. Its hold suddenly lessened. With a shove, Catullus broke free and pushed his way up.
He broke the water’s surface, gasping. Gemma was a dark shape balanced in the other dark form of the boat.
She cried out to him, “Catullus! Thank God! Swim back and I’ll pull you in.”
Gladly. He swam toward her, narrowing the distance between them. He had only a few feet to go when the creature shot up from the water. It blocked him from reaching the boat, shrieking.
“Bugger,” muttered Catullus.
The beast reared up, readying to strike with its feet and long arms. Its horse’s neck stretched toward him. Catullus prepared himself for the attack.
There was a loud thump, and the creature shrieked again. It abruptly halted its charge. Another bang sounded. The beast threw up its arms to shield itself from this new assault. Catullus peered into the darkness to see what attacked the monster.
Gemma. She clutched an oar and swung it down onto the creature’s human head. The blow made a wet, thick smack. When the beast tried to swipe at her, she slammed the oar onto its cut arm, then across its back. It screamed in pain.
“That’s for you, you piece of beef! Straight from the Chicago slaughterhouse!”
Catullus seized the distraction. He positioned himself in front of the horse’s head, then plunged his knife into the monster’s single eye.
The creature’s bellow reverberated across the lake.
It pulled away, blood pouring down its horse’s head. Flailing, the creature bolted. It swam off before sinking into the water.
Catullus did not wait to see if it would reappear. He swam to the side of the boat. Gemma dropped the oar—the heavy piece of wood thudding as it hit the bottom of the vessel—and reached down to haul him up. They both strained, him pushing, her pulling, until he dragged himself over the side to lie, sodden and exhausted, alongside the discarded oar and, he was pleased to discover, his shotgun. At least that hadn’t taken the dive overboard with him. He still wore his spectacles, too.
Crouching at his side, her hands flew over him, testing for injuries.
“I’m fine,” he said, though his voice came out a little hoarser than he expected.
She let out an unsteady breath. “At least you don’t smell anymore.”
“I do not smell.” He sat upright and began fitting the oars back into the locks.
“Anymore.” At his outraged expression, she laughed softly. “We had a bath, but our clothes are long past their prime. Trust me, we both have grown a little ripe.
“If there’s anyone with whom I want to reek,” he said, chuckling, “I want to reek with you.”
“That’s one of the nicest and most bizarre things anyone’s ever said to me.”
He tested the oars. They moved smoothly in their locks. “I made no claims to being ordinary.”
“And neither did I.”
He took up his position at the oars. No choice but to move forward.
Chapter 19
Conundrums
Catullus deemed it a minor miracle that he and Gemma cr
ossed the remainder of the lake without incident. After the retreat of the monster, he fully anticipated it returning, along with several dozen of its closest friends, seeking retribution. Either the monster was less popular than Catullus had assumed, or all the denizens of the lake took its fate as a warning and stayed away.
He didn’t care why the voyage was uneventful. All that mattered was reaching the far shore safely. When the prow of the boat touched the gravel-strewn bank, he practically threw Gemma out onto dry land, then followed.
“I’ll take you boating in Regent’s Park,” he said as they stared at the unctuous surface of the lake. It appeared deceptively calm, yet he knew from experience what lived beneath the surface. “Much more pleasant.”
“Less exciting.”
“At this point, I’m willing to endure a little tedium.”
More dense forest ran up to the lake’s edge. After checking to make sure his shotgun was loaded and his knife ready, Catullus led Gemma into the woods.
They pushed through branches and brambles, unremitting darkness on all sides. The cries of animals and other beings shrilled. Fighting weariness, Catullus wondered what godawful beast or creature he’d have to battle next. The Night Forest held more than its share. If he ever did get a full night’s sleep, doubtless he’d have bad dreams about this place. He was so willing to find a nice, quiet, soft bed for himself and Gemma—without the prospect of being trapped—he’d endure whatever nightmares visited.
The forest opened to a dell. Both he and Gemma started, sensing the potent air of magic surging through the clearing.
They spotted it at the same time. A three-legged pot, large and heavy, stood above cold ashes. A domed lid covered it. The pot looked precisely like the kind of vessel a witch used for brewing potions and poisons, yet surprisingly ordinary. As they drew closer, Catullus saw that the pot had no inscriptions, no decoration. It was homely and plain. Yet its unprepossessing appearance belied the power it radiated. Surely such magic would hold the key to freeing Merlin.
“This is it,” Gemma whispered.
