by Zoë Archer
“Mab’s Cauldron.”
Catullus carefully set his hand on the handle of the lid. He waited to see if any charm or protective spell might come into play. More than one Blade lost a digit or eyebrow to a charm.
Nothing happened. Still, he wouldn’t leave much to chance.
“Stand back,” he cautioned Gemma. She took a step backward. Not quite far enough for his liking.
“Farther,” he said.
“I can’t see anything if I’m too far away.” “And you’ll be safer, too.”
“I’m a journalist. You’ll have to knock me unconscious to keep me back.” She scowled at him. “Are you thinking about it?”
“I do not hit women. Though I am contemplating how quickly I can concoct a sedative.”
Her gaze narrowed. Then, to his relief, she took another step backward. “If I miss anything,” she warned, “I’ll turn your waistcoat collection into ribbons.”
“You’ll see everything. But when I lift the lid, you have to cover your eyes.”
“Catullus—”
“To protect your eyes. If I have to part with my waistcoat collection to keep you from going blind, I’ll do it.”
This admission startled her, knowing as she did how precious his waistcoats were to him. Not the one he was wearing, of course, which was now utterly filthy and ruined. He started collecting waistcoats soon after his eighteenth birthday, and while his body had changed since then—he’d grown still taller, filled out, and added muscle—his love of a beautiful waistcoat had not altered. By his calculations, he owned approximately two hundred and twenty-five of the garments. They represented years of travel, since he loved to buy new waistcoats in exotic locations, and an investment of nearly a thousand pounds.
He’d give them all up without thought if it meant keeping Gemma whole and safe.
“I’ll cover my eyes,” she said.
He nodded. “At my count. One … two … three. Now!”
Gemma clapped a hand over her eyes as Catullus lifted the cauldron’s lid. He, too, shielded his eyes, using his forearm to cover them.
He braced himself for whatever protective spell had been woven around the cauldron.
A minute passed. And then another.
“Can I look now?” Gemma asked.
Taking his arm from his eyes, Catullus peered carefully at the cauldron. Water filled it, yet the water remained still and calm.
“Go ahead,” he said.
She took her hands from her eyes and stood on tiptoe to get a better view. “Anything?” “No, just some water.”
“After all that hullabaloo, this is a bit of a letdown.” He sent her a quelling look. “Better you be disappointed than hurt, or worse.” “Yes, Preacher Graves.”
Catullus resisted the urge to growl. Loving Gemma meant he had to embrace every aspect of her, including her cheekiness. He’d rather she be full of fire and impudence than meek and malleable.
Setting the lid on the ground, he studied the cauldron and its contents. Experimentally, he took a twig from the ground and stuck it into the water. Nothing happened. He tossed the twig aside, then dipped the tip of his finger in the water. Again, nothing.
“This seems suspiciously easy,” said Gemma, edging closer.
“I have to agree. No magic yields without difficulty. Yet “—he glanced around—” no creatures or faerie are guarding the cauldron, no spells of defense have been cast, and the water itself appears to be simply that: water.”
“Maybe we’ve finally caught a break.”
He made a noncommittal sound. If it truly was to be this easy, he would not complain. They still had to cross the Lake of Shadows again, and make their way through the rest of the Night Forest. More of the forest’s inhabitants would surely try to make a meal or capture him and Gemma. He’d not question any gifts.
From a pocket, he pulled his empty flask. He pushed up his sleeve before dipping the flask into the water. The small container filled.
He lifted the flask from the water and quickly screwed the cap back on. “Water for Merlin. Now, all we have to do is take it to him.”
“Good. I won’t be very sorry to see the last of this forest. Can’t wait to feel the sun again.”
They both turned to retrace their steps. Catullus shifted the flask from one hand to the other. As he did this, something peculiar caught his attention. He held the flask up to his ear and shook it.
“I cannot hear anything.”
“We both saw you fill it just a minute ago.” She studied the flask. “Maybe it’s too full to make a sloshing sound.”
Seeking to allay his concerns, Catullus unscrewed the cap and tried to peer inside the flask. The opening was too small for him to see the contents. Figuring that he could always get more water from the cauldron, he tipped the flask to pour some of the liquid onto the ground.
Nothing came out of the flask.
He shook it, inverting it completely. Not a drop came out.
Catullus and Gemma shared a look. “Is there a hole in the flask?” she asked.
He rapped it with his knuckles. “This is solid silver. Having made it myself as a gift to Bennett, I can state with absolute authority that it doesn’t leak. The flask was also in my hand the whole time, and I never saw or felt anything trickling out.”
“Try filling it again,” she urged.
He did. This time, he did not replace the cap. As he held up the flask, both he and Gemma stared intently at it. No drips or leaks. He tipped the flask. Nothing came out.
“Maybe we should try filling something else,” suggested Gemma.
Catullus glanced around the clearing. After spotting a thick fallen branch, he broke it apart into smaller pieces. He used his hunting knife—now darkened with blood from the lake creature—to whittle the wood into a small cup. The hard wood made for a watertight vessel, so Catullus’s confidence was high.
The cup was dipped into the cauldron and filled. The moment Catullus lifted it out of the water, the cup’s contents vanished. He tried this two more times, and each time had the same result, even after he placed his hand over the top of the cup. As soon as the cup left the cauldron, the water within the cup disappeared.
Catullus dropped the wooden container onto the ground. Truly frustrated, he cupped his hands together and plunged them into the water. Yet it made no difference whether the vessel holding the water was a solid flask, a wooden cup, or his hands. The water simply dematerialized when it was taken from the cauldron.
“Son of a bitch,” Catullus gritted. He grasped the cauldron’s handle. “I’ll just have to carry the damned thing back to Merlin.” With a grunt, he attempted to pick up the cauldron. It refused to budge. He tried once more. It did not move.
He stared at the cauldron, mystified. It would be heavy, especially made of solid metal and filled with water, but Catullus worked very hard to ensure his physical strength. It meant life or death in the field. Lifting this cauldron would be difficult, but possible.
“Let me help.” Gemma stood, shoulder to shoulder with him, and also gripped the handle. At her nod, both she and Catullus strained with all their might to lift the cauldron.
After several minutes, they both stopped lifting, huffing from their exertions.
“This damned thing isn’t going anywhere,” Gemma panted.
“I should have known.” Catullus ran the back of one hand across his damp forehead. “A Blade should always remember: If something looks too easy to be true, it is.”
Gemma displayed her aptitude for cursing. The swearing that came from her pretty mouth would have made even the most battle-hardened sailor proud. Catullus was impressed. When she was done, she also pushed up her sleeves.
“All right,” she announced, “I refuse to be beaten by some hunk of metal. Enough playing, cauldron.” She glared at the offending hunk of metal. “Now it’s time to do this the hard way.”
Gemma studied the cauldron. It looked as ordinary as a large metal pot could, but as she’d just wit
nessed, its appearance deceived. Clearly, this was a test, one she fully intended to pass.
“It’s a riddle,” said Catullus, also studying the cauldron. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the pot as if it were a mathematical equation that needed to be reasoned out. “Can’t tell you how many times Blades have faced similar conundrums.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Something about magic seems to feed on these puzzles. A direct proportion between the amount of power and the complexity of the riddle. That, and I think magic just likes to frustrate the hell out of people.”
“If magic thinks its going to beat us today,” she said, walking around the cauldron, “then it’s mistaken. Hear that, hunk of metal?” She rapped her knuckles against the pot’s side. “You won’t get the better of us.”
Bluster only went so far, though. She and Catullus had to figure out exactly how they could bring water from Mab’s Cauldron to Merlin.
“Putting the water into a vessel is out,” she mused. “We know that.”
“The cauldron can’t be lifted or transported, either. How, then, to move the water from one place to the other?” Unsurprisingly, Catullus began to pace.
She let herself have a moment to simply watch him move and think. It didn’t seem quite fair that such a brilliant mind was housed within a long, athletic body. The two qualities didn’t often coexist in the same person. Catullus, as he so often did, defied expectation.
She worked hard for the accomplishments in her life, which meant that she didn’t allow herself complacency. With every achievement, she set her bar still higher, knowing she could do better, had more for which to strive. Watching Catullus as he paced the clearing, his mind deeply engaged, she allowed a brief bit of self-congratulation. She had thought herself in love only once before. She knew better now.
The true recipient of her love was, at that moment, trying to solve the enigma of Mab’s Cauldron. There was no question in her mind that Catullus’s scientific intellect far outpaced her own. But she didn’t become one of the only female reporters in Chicago by flaunting her breasts and lifting up her skirts. She had a mind, too. A good one.
“What if we froze the water?” she theorized. “Maybe by trapping it in a solid state, we could move it.”
“Theoretically, that might work. If I had access to my workshop, I might be able to engineer a device to chill the water to the proper temperature.” He curled his hands into fists, still pacing. “But my workshop is literally in another world, and this place “—he gestured to the dark forest surrounding them—” hasn’t got what I need to fabricate anything but the most rudimentary tools.” He growled in frustration.
There was a solution in his words. She knew it. But she had to dig further. “Like what kind of tools?”
“A lever. Perhaps a wheel. A torch.” He smiled ironically. “Fire. Man’s first great discovery. Doesn’t get more primitive than that.”
“Prometheus brought fire to Man, and was punished for it. Nobody can refute how important fire is. America runs on cups of coffee—I know I do—and that wouldn’t have been possible without a coffeepot and fire.”
He abruptly stopped in the middle of his pacing, his expression sharp. “What did you say?” he demanded.
“Coffee wouldn’t be possible without a pot and fire,” Gemma repeated.
For a few seconds, he was perfectly still, except for the movement of his eyes, moving back and forth as if reading an invisible book.
“Bloody hell—that could be it.” A moment later, he was all motion and intent. He strode around the clearing, gathering up fallen branches. “Collect kindling,” he clipped. “The driest you can find.”
She knew better than to demand explanations, not when his mind was in the process of piecing together a solution. Following his lead, she gathered armfuls of dry, brittle wood.
“Put that under the cauldron,” he directed.
They both set bundles of kindling beneath the pot and he pulled up several handfuls of withered grass, which he tucked between the assembled branches. He crouched down, taking a flint from one of his pockets and using it to create a spark. Carefully, he coaxed the tinder beneath the kettle to burning.
Golden firelight carved out the glade. The trees surrounding them became both more solid and also more menacing, as light cast shadows over their knotted trunks. Yet there was a reason why Prometheus’s gift of fire cost him so dearly. The gods feared that fire might embolden man too much, give them too much strength and hope. In a way, the gods were right. She felt her own strength and spirit revive to see the flames, to watch Catullus’s gratification as he created fire. He pushed back the darkness and bestowed power to himself and her.
Satisfied that the fire blazed appropriately, Catullus rose and replaced the lid on the cauldron.
He might be in the depths of solving a riddle, but Gemma couldn’t stop the questions bustling in her mind. “Are we cooking something?”
“No, but we do want the water to boil.” He pulled his knife and turned to her. “I need your petticoat.”
It wasn’t exactly balmy here in the Night Forest, even with a fire going. Her petticoat had seen better days, yet it did provide some extra warmth. Still, Gemma complied, wriggling out of her underskirt. As she gathered up the yards of white muslin, she caught Catullus staring at her with a tight expression.
“Could you …” His voice rasped, and he cleared his throat. “I want you to do that move for me later.”
Pleasure heated her cheeks. “I’ll shimmy out of all my clothes, if you want.”
“Oh,” he growled, “I want.” He took the proffered petticoat, then groaned. “God, it’s still warm from your legs.” A new thought occurred to him. “Damn, I’m sorry you have to lose a layer of protection from the elements. I’d give you this coat, but it’s damp as a basement and less cheerful.”
“If I can survive a Chicago winter on a writer’s budget, a few hours in the Night Forest are nothing.”
He gave her an encouraging smile. Right before taking his knife to her petticoat and tearing it into large squares. “I would’ve used my handkerchief, but it’s too small. And wet, besides. Just like my shirt and trousers and … everything else I’ve got on.”
“Hell, how can I complain about a little breeze up my skirt when you might catch pneumonia?”
“Pneumonia is number thirty-two on my list of concerns at the moment.” He removed the lid from the pot. “First, let’s try something.”
He took one small square of cut muslin and tried to dip it into the water. The water’s surface grew tacky, impenetrable, every time he tried, leaving the fabric completely dry.
“So much for soaking the muslin in water,” he said. “I’ve another option.” He stretched a larger square of fabric over the top of the cauldron. The muslin was bigger than the top, so that when Catullus replaced the lid, the muslin formed a ruffle around the lid’s perimeter. “The seal is secure, so this ought to work. We need to get the fire burning as hotly as possible. More wood.”
They both resumed the task of collecting tinder. “Can I ask you what you hope to accomplish?”
He gave an enigmatic smile. “It will be much more satisfying if you simply watch.”
“And not ask questions?” She snorted. “Can’t do it.”
“Oh, you can ask as many questions as you like. That does not mean I will answer them.”
More pieces of wood were fed into the fire until it blazed high, licking the sides of the pot. Catullus lifted the lid to peer underneath the square of fabric. “Good. The water’s boiling. We have to keep it at a steady, strong boil.” He replaced the fabric and lid.
“And now?”
“Now we wait. This could take some time, given the size of the cauldron.” He glanced around the clearing, frowning. “Blast. I don’t have anything clean or dry for you to sit on.”
She found his solicitousness touching, but unnecessary. “I’m not a hothouse flower, Catullus. More of a scrappy weed.”
“Do
n’t demean yourself.” He scowled.
“I’m not. Weeds are hardy, tough to kill. They can grow anywhere. Maybe they aren’t the most beautiful plant—”
“You are to me,” he said immediately.
How he’d changed from the tongue-tied scholar! “All right, some weeds are almost pretty,” she allowed. “The most important thing about them, though, is that it takes a lot to keep them from enduring. They don’t mind a little dirt. After everything we’ve both been through, sitting on the ground is unimportant.” To demonstrate, she sat indecorously cross-legged. When he just looked down at her, hands on his hips and shaking his head, she patted the ground beside her. “Come on. Grab some dirt. It’s comfortable,” she added in a singsong tone. “Soft, cushiony dust. Mm.”
He heaved an exasperated sigh before settling down beside her. He folded his long legs as he sat, resting his shotgun across his lap. One hand hovered close to the knife at his belt. The fire gleamed on the glass of his spectacles, turning them into circles of light as he remained vigilant, continually looking around and assessing possible danger.
For a while, they watched the fire beneath the kettle in companionable, comfortable silence. Or as companionable and comfortable as one could be in the middle of the Night Forest, in eternal darkness, surrounded by dangerous, magical creatures on every side. Safe. She felt safe with Catullus, knowing that no matter what situation they found themselves in, he was the most capable, confident man she knew. Survival wasn’t a guarantee, but she sure as hell felt better knowing that Catullus had not just her back, but her front and every other side.
She fought a yawn. God, she was tired. Her sleep in the cottage felt like days ago—and it might have been. If there ever was a place to take a nap, the Night Forest was not it. And she would not force Catullus to keep watch as she blithely slept.
Talking. They needed to talk to keep her awake.
“Watching this pot over a fire makes me think of food,” she murmured.
He groaned. “Bloody hell, I’m hungry. Can’t wait to get back to our own world and have Bakewell pudding.”
“What’s that?”
