Stranger

by Zoë Archer

  Within a minute, both mortals found themselves entirely naked. All the contents of Catullus’s countless pockets had mysteriously vanished, including the wheel. His firearms also disappeared. At the least, the greedy insects hadn’t chewed off his spectacles. But the wheel was most important.

  Her arms crossed over her breasts, Gemma muttered, “I’m not ambling all over creation naked as a cat.”

  Much as Catullus loved to see her nude, he had to agree. “Can’t fight very well without a scrap to cover oneself. And where are the wheel and my Compass?” Of all his material possessions, they were the most precious.

  “The impatience of mortals,” sighed Merlin. “Bide a moment.”

  Catullus again fought the urge to giggle as the moths fluttered over his body. He bit back a startled gasp as the insects worked the garment-devouring process in reverse. From their tiny mouths, scraps of fabric appeared on his body, as well as leather around his feet. More and more, until he and Gemma were both fully dressed.

  Not with their original clothing. Nor in current fashion.

  “Now you are truly worthy of your quest,” said Merlin with approval as the moths flitted away.

  Both Catullus and Gemma gaped at their new clothes. “We’re straight out of a tapestry,” she breathed.

  Merlin had dressed them in garments from the pages of a courtly medieval ballad. Catullus wore a knight’s white tunic and leggings, with soft leather boots laced to the knee. Over this, he wore a blue sleeveless surcoat embellished by a silver embroidered Compass—an apt standard. In true chivalric fashion, a silver belt was slung around Catullus’s hips, and heavy gauntlets protected his hands. The boy within Catullus delighted: He was a knight! Exactly as he’d dreamt of being so many years ago.

  And Gemma was his lady. “Always knew you’d look stunning in green and gold,” he said, husky.

  She colored with pleasure at his compliment, and gave a spin to show off her new clothing. Merlin’s magic had provided her with a dress worthy of a pre-Raphaelite faerie queen: a long gown of emerald silk, with long, trailing sleeves and a wide neckline that almost bared her shoulders. Intricate golden embroidery adorned the sleeves, neck, and hem, and a golden belt embellished with cabochon emeralds encircled her hips. As she spun, she revealed a tissue-thin underskirt of gold, and dainty slippers.

  Catullus’s eyes and heart filled near to bursting with the sight of her, so impossibly lovely, a vision of femininity worth any price. He didn’t care what Gemma wore—he loved her regardless—but to see her in what could truly be described as raiment, it almost brought him to his knees.

  “I never wanted to be a princess,” she said, smoothing a hand along the embroidery at her neck, “but I might change my mind if I could dress like this every day. And you.” She stepped nearer and, eyes glowing, stroked his chest. “Doubt any princess had so gorgeous a champion.”

  “For my lady, anything.” His words were the forged steel of his vow. Turning to Merlin, he said, “Your gifts are generous, but I must have the silver wheel and my Compass.”

  “And I’d like my derringer back,” Gemma added.

  The sorcerer nodded toward them, and a satchel of soft hide appeared on Catullus’s shoulder. Opening the bag, Catullus found that it held not only the wheel and his Compass, but his tools, the flask, his pocket watch, knife, and every one of the dozens of items he’d stowed in the pockets of his Ulster overcoat. Yet the satchel was surprisingly light, hardly hinting at the vast number of things Catullus had been carrying.

  Catullus’s shotgun appeared on his other shoulder, and he breathed a little easier. It might spoil the overall effect of a romantic knight, but he’d rather be prepared and anachronistic than authentic and ill-equipped.

  As for Gemma, a small damask purse materialized on her belt. She grinned as she pulled out her pistol and checked to see if it was loaded. It was. “This princess won’t be captured by any dragon. Not without a fight.” Something else in her purse made her smile: her notebook. She held up the writing pad. “I can serve as scribe, too.”

  Catullus realized they hadn’t discussed her writing in a long while. If they survived the upcoming battle, would she tell the world about the Heirs, the Blades, and Sources? To do so would compromise everyone’s safety.

  He cleared the thought from his mind. Too much lay between now and that distant future. Survival could not be relied upon. Better to face the impending battle with one objective: victory.

  Though Catullus and Gemma were satisfied with their weapons, Merlin was not. He glowered at the shotgun and pistol. “Ill-fitting armaments for magic’s champions.” He mumbled words in a guttural tongue.

  Warm metal materialized in Catullus’s right hand. He stared as light took shape, forming, solidifying. A sword. Not an officer’s sword—as he’d seen on numerous soldiers and Samuel Reed’s mantle—but a knight’s double-edged sword. It fit perfectly in his hand, balanced flawlessly, and he stepped back to give an experimental swing. Part of his training regimen included swordplay, but never in his life had he held such a wonder, moving as a natural extension of his arm.

  Any doubts as to whether the sword was meant for him vanished when he saw the Compass motif wrought in its pommel, as well as the embossed gears adorning the leather scabbard on his belt. Catullus glanced at Merlin, and the sorcerer’s eyes glittered at his own metallurgical wit.

  “The lady shall not go defenseless,” Merlin said. He stared at Gemma’s right hand, and a dagger took shape within her grasp. Like Catullus’s sword, the dagger was a marvel of craftsmanship as it gleamed in the sunlight.

  “Pretty little thing,” Gemma murmured, approving. She tested the edge of the blade with her thumb before hefting it with purpose. She held the knife out for Catullus’s inspection. “It has a writer’s quill worked into the grip.”

  “The pen and the sword,” murmured Catullus, “mighty together.”

  “Are these weapons magic?” Gemma asked Merlin. “No magic but the skill of who wields them,” came the answer.

  After a last flourish, Catullus sheathed his sword. He made sure the silver wheel was secure within the satchel. “The task ahead of us is a great one, and you have dressed and armed us as the heroes we hope to be.”

  “As the heroes you must be.” Merlin stared hard at them both. “Arthur advances on London, and you must stop him.” His eyes began to cloud, losing sharpness.

  Catullus knew they hadn’t much time before Merlin was mired once more in madness. He bowed respectfully to the sorcerer. “The world’s magic owes you a debt, Merlin.”

  “Debt? There are no debts,” the sorcerer answered, distracted. “Not when the walls collapse and the flame is loosed. The moon in the water. The metal heart is forged.”

  Gemma and Catullus shared a look. Already Merlin was slipping away into the labyrinth of his insanity. They began to back away, with an anxious Bryn hovering behind them. Making their way backward through the clearing, Catullus observed the sorcerer alternating between mumbling and shouts.

  Yet Merlin was anything but a sad, mad man. He contained so much power, it was a wonder the whole of the Otherworld forest wasn’t ablaze. Catullus thought perhaps keeping Merlin contained within the oak was the wiser choice. Power such as the sorcerer possessed could level the world if unchecked.

  As Catullus, Gemma, and Bryn reached the farthest edge of the clearing, Merlin shouted, “Fire. Air. One must have the other. Smother the beast.”

  Silence fell. Catullus waited, but Merlin did not speak again. The sorcerer turned inward, shutting out everything around him. Seeing that Merlin was entirely lost, his visitors withdrew into the woods.

  “Poor guy,” Gemma said sadly as they walked. “To be trapped in that tree, in that unbalanced brain forever. Do you think his ranting meant anything?”

  “Sounded like alchemy,” mused Catullus. He turned Merlin’s words over and over in his mind. Some accounts of Merlin described him as not only a sorcerer, but a seer, as well. Was Merlin prophesy
ing? If so, what was he trying to tell them?

  “I like your new clothes.” Gemma eyed him. “Gives me some wicked ideas about tempting the virtuous knight.”

  “The knight isn’t so virtuous. He’s thinking about ravishing the pure maiden.”

  “Not very pure, this maiden.”

  “Thank God for that. Still,” he added, slightly melancholy, “I’m sorry to see that Ulster coat gone.”

  “It was a grimy disaster full of holes.”

  “Sentimental value.” His thoughts drifted back. “I remember you standing on the deck of the steamship as we neared Liverpool, wearing that coat. How lovely and determined you looked—the kind of woman I never thought to call my own. I didn’t know it then, but when I saw you” — he gazed warmly at Gemma— “I saw my soul. Wrapped in black cashmere.”

  Bryn flew ahead, darting between massive trees. The pixie barely waited to see if the mortals kept up, which they did, but barely. Human legs proved less speedy than wings. Perhaps that might be another project for Catullus, should he ever return to his workshop. He’d built glider wings—which Bennett had put to very good use in Greece—but a self-contained flying machine … his mind whirled with the possibilities and mechanics.

  “A door between worlds is near,” Bryn called back.

  “Where will it take us?” asked Gemma.

  “Where you need to be,” came the opaque answer.

  Catullus hadn’t the patience for ambiguity. With time in such short supply, he needed to know where he and Gemma would emerge and how long it would take them to reconnect with the other Blades before moving on to London. “Care to be more specific?”

  Naturally, the pixie would not answer. He zipped onward, with Catullus and Gemma all but running to keep pace.

  Bryn suddenly darted back. “Not that way! We have to find another path.”

  “What?” Gemma asked, but the pixie shook his head.

  “No time! Head back … it’s coming!”

  Bryn flitted off, leaving his mortal charges to hurry after him. Catullus threw a look over his shoulder to see what, exactly, they were trying to avoid.

  It turned out to be a hunched-over, wheat-skinned creature, its form crudely human. A thick patch of tangled dark hair obscured most of its face, but did not quite hide its wide-jawed mouth. It shuffled with ungainly motion, dragging a heavy club, periodically stopping to sniff at the air. Catullus thought that perhaps Bryn overreacted to the creature, since it moved so clumsily and didn’t seem to see very well. But as soon as the thing caught a scent, it leapt, quick as gunfire, and slammed its club down onto the ground.

  With a large, yellow-nailed hand, it picked something up from the dirt. The smashed form of some forest animal dangled from between its fingers before the creature crammed the dead animal into its mouth.

  “Troll,” Bryn whispered, coming up beside Catullus. “Hungry and ill-tempered.”

  They ran on, careful to keep downwind. The troll smelled horrible, but better to smell its stench than have it catch their scent.

  Yet they had not gotten far when sounds just ahead caused Catullus to skid to a halt. He pressed himself up against a tree, pulling Gemma with him. She knew better than to demand an explanation. They both held still, listening.

  Human voices. Men’s voices.

  “God Almighty,” one of them groaned. “When are we getting out of this accursed place? I hate it here.”

  “Did you see what happened to Coleby?” another said, horror in his voice. “Took one bite of that apple and then those … things … came. Dragged him right off. Staithes, you’re our mage. Why couldn’t we stop ‘em?”

  “Because,” growled someone else, presumably Staithes, “that kind of faerie magic cannot be combated, even by a mage. Anyway, if Coleby was so stupid, serves him right.”

  “I still hear him screaming,” the first voice said, horror chilling his words. “Let’s just go, before that happens to someone else.”

  “Shut it,” a fourth voice snapped. “We can’t leave until we find and kill Graves and that Yank woman. Otherwise Edgeworth will burn us to cinders.”

  Catullus inwardly seethed. The very last thing he had time or tolerance for was a pack of Heirs. Ammunition for his shotgun was running low, and he didn’t fancy getting into a sword fight, not when the Heirs had him and Gemma outnumbered and outgunned.

  Retreat in the other direction was not possible, not with the troll making its slow, steady way toward them.

  The troll …

  “Wait here,” Catullus whispered to Gemma.

  Before she could speak, he sprinted away. Directly toward the troll.

  Catullus’s soft leather boots made almost no sound as he sped over bracken and grass, weaving a path toward the advancing troll. He spotted the creature long before it became aware of him, lumbering as it was with its nose high in the air.

  The troll grunted in surprise when Catullus jumped in front of it—far enough to be out of range of its bloodstained club.

  “Hey, Porridge-Brains.” Catullus waved his arms to be sure the troll saw him. “I’m a tasty morsel. Yes, I am.”

  Growling, the troll raised its club, but Catullus turned and ran before the crude weapon could crash down on his skull. He dashed ahead of the troll, yet not so fast that the beast lost sight of him. A tough balance, for the troll could not run quickly, yet had the leaping speed of a grasshopper. Several times, the whoosh of acrid air announced the troll’s presence moments before its club came swinging down. Each time, Catullus dodged the blow, though only barely.

  With a burst of speed, he raced back toward the Heirs. He thought himself clear of the troll.

  It leapt out from behind a tree, cutting him off.

  Catullus tried to sprint around the hulking beast, attempting to lead it toward the Heirs. Its swinging club kept pushing him back.

  “Son of a ruddy bitch,” Catullus growled. His plan wasn’t going to work.

  “Hey!”

  Gemma’s voice.

  “Hey!” she shouted again. “Limey bastards! With the bad teeth and waxy skin! Yes—I’m talking to you!” What the hell was she doing?

  A flash of russet hair up ahead. He spied her, standing not a dozen yards from the Heirs. When the men also spotted her, they stood, momentarily stunned that their intended prey stood nearby, literally waving her arms overhead so they could see her.

  “The Yankee bitch,” one spat.

  “Come over here and call me that,” she said. She turned, gathering her trailing skirts, and ran.

  The Heirs started for her, all but the mage, who shouted warnings for the men to stop, that it was a trap. His admonitions went unheeded, and so even the mage was forced to join the pursuit.

  Catullus, still dodging the troll’s club, caught glimpses of Gemma as she sped toward him. Toward the troll. With the Heirs in pursuit.

  He grinned, despite the angry troll trying to brain him. Gemma knew without being told exactly what Catullus had planned, and when that plan had faltered, she knew how to fix the situation.

  Gemma skidded to a stop ten feet from the troll. The Heirs were closing in quickly. She picked up a rock and hurled it at the troll’s back.

  “Behind you, Ugly!” she yelled.

  The troll spun around, arcs of saliva flying from its slavering mouth. It charged her.

  Catullus lifted his shotgun, preparing to shoot the beast, but Gemma dove aside as the troll ran at her.

  The troll, full of unstoppable momentum, barreled on and straight toward the Heirs. Shouts and guttural growls clashed with gunfire and crushing club.

  Catullus ran to Gemma and pulled her up from where she lay upon the ground. He held her tightly. “Damn reckless woman!”

  “Making sure your scheme worked,” she countered. “And it did, didn’t it?” A rhetorical question, since both Catullus and Gemma plainly saw the Heirs and the troll battling one another in a frenzy of modern technology, magic, and brute force.

  “Like iron and carbo
n,” he murmured, gazing at her. “Combined, they create steel.”

  She smiled up at him. “The steel of a blade.”

  They turned away. With the sounds of battle at their backs, Catullus, Gemma, and Bryn raced toward the portal.

  “There it is,” said Bryn.

  The gateway between the mortal world and Otherworld appeared to be nothing at all. Only more forest.

  Catullus’s brow furrowed. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Between those two trees,” the pixie answered, exasperated.

  Catullus studied the trees in question. They seemed ordinary—if gigantic, knotted trees could be considered ordinary, but definitions of what was and wasn’t remarkable grew indistinct in Otherworld. He looked beyond where the trees stood, yet all he saw were farther stretches of the woods, deepening into gold and green shadow.

  “It shimmers,” Gemma said, “like liquid glass. I see it with my magic. The doorway.”

  This satisfied him, even though he wished he had her gift, something that allowed him to penetrate the realm of the visible using his own ability. “As long as one of us can see the door, that’s all that matters.”

  She pressed her lips together, and seemed to come to a decision. Taking his hands in hers, she said, “There is something I’ve wanted to give you. It’s been on my mind for a while. And now is the right time.”

  He tried to think of what she might have to give him. Her notebook? Her derringer? She didn’t have much, and he was quite certain that a journalist, especially one from a large family, wasn’t wealthy. The Graves family’s coffers were more than full.

  “You’ve given me your heart,” he answered, “and that is all I want.”

  “There’s more.”

  He meant to object, but she closed her eyes and an expression of deep concentration sharpened her features. She seemed to retreat deep within herself, drawing upon something unseen. He felt it then—a growing, gathering energy that hummed and pulsed through her. Her hands warmed quickly, almost fever-hot. The heat and energy radiated from her into him, first in his hands, and then unfolding up his arms, through his chest, until his whole body resonated with them.