Spellbinders Collection

by Molly Cochran

  He blinked and forced his eyes to focus. "Hey, what's this about, anyway?"

  The man in blue wrinkled his nose with disgust. The collar tabs called him a sergeant, square body with a bit of a donut belly and buzz-cut brown hair and medium-dark skin, maybe Naskeag or Black genes in there somewhere.

  David blinked again and focused on the nametag, working his way through half a pint of vodka. Getchell, that was the name. Sergeant Getchell. No ethnic clues there.

  "Family tried to call you, urgent. No answer for weeks, so they asked us to check. We went in with a key from your landlord."

  Jo squirmed in her chair, glancing across at David. "Weeks? Weeks? We've only been gone a week or two!"

  The cop frowned. He looked like he was giving a blood alcohol test by eye and nose. "Ms. Pierce, our records show that your last day at work was February fifteenth. Same for your sister. Last time anyone saw any of you was the next morning. Today's date is April thirteenth. I think your people had a right to be concerned."

  "Shit."

  Jo looked pale, worse than her normal fair skin. Scared. Now the freckles stood out like a rash. But that date explained the shrunken snow-banks along the road that had graced their walk to the cop shop. Mud Season, Maine's least lovely face.

  The silence stretched out until David felt compelled to fill it. "Why the crime scene tape? We were out celebrating. What's wrong with that?"

  "Food rotting, mail piling up, looked suspicious. So we called in a lab team. The forensics guys came up with blood between the kitchen tiles. A lot of blood, looked like, then somebody had scrubbed it up. Maybe murder. We secured the scene in case the DA wanted more tests."

  Oh. Brian's blood, from when Fiona had set a street gang on him, trying to capture him. He'd staggered back to Maureen for help. But they didn't want to talk about that . . .

  "Brian cut himself, bad. Kitchen knife. You go into their apartment, as well? Find the old bandages, same blood type?"

  The cop nodded, reluctantly. "Yeah. Forensics says there's not much doubt, blood type is rare as hell. But we still want to talk to this 'Brian Albion' of yours. Some street rats got beat up in an alley. One died. They identified him, by name. Kids like those, we wouldn't take their word for what day it was. Myself, even if the story's true I think he's done us a favor. But we still need to talk to him, to close the file."

  Right, thought David. And you think I'm drunk enough to believe that. Then you'll sell me some prime Florida swampland.

  The sergeant consulted his notes. "You say you spent last night in Toronto. Can you give me a name for the motel?"

  David glanced at Jo and shook his head. She waved it off. "Wrong. Last night was Syracuse. Toronto was last week. Brian had to return a car to this friend of his. Apartment, not motel."

  He burped and tasted recycled vodka. Damn good thing there wasn't any law against walking under the influence. "No. Car was in Detroit. Toronto was that big blue crew-cab pickup."

  The cop was getting pissed. "Look, my notes say that you claim to have rented a blue pickup in Kentucky. Is that the same vehicle?"

  Jo blinked and stared at David. "We were in Kentucky?"

  David nodded and then shook his head, trying to clear it. "Fort Knox. Brian wanted to see the old tanks and stuff at the Armor Museum." He flopped a hand at the police sergeant. "Brian was in the British army for years. Officer, Gurkha Scouts, SAS, all that macho stuff. Probably could take out one of those Russian tanks with a pocket knife."

  The cop's frown deepened. "British Counsel says those records are . . . confused. There seem to have been three or four different 'Captain Brian Albions' at different times, going back to the Second World War. Some embassy people would like a word or two with him after we get through. You sure you don't know where to find him?"

  David thought he smelled the smoke of burning bridges. "Look, are we charged with anything? Do we need a lawyer?"

  He almost saw thoughts chasing across the sergeant's forehead: "They've asked for a lawyer. They're drunk and incompetent. There are so many contradictions in this statement, it would be laughed out of court. Whole frigging thing stinks."

  The cop shuffled papers in their file. "You've got a citation here, 'Possession of a useable amount of marijuana.' Civil fine. That's it."

  Hell. Two joints in his guitar case. Three, and they might have tried to stretch it to "Intent to distribute," a felony. Anyway, another hundred bucks shot to hell.

  The cop's chair groaned as he leaned back, his face a study in disgust. "Time was, I could toss both of you into cells for the night, let you sober up. Can't do that any more. Bleeding hearts." He made the phrase sound like cussing. "But it's a slow night, and I don't have anything better to do. We all can just sit here and talk until you decide to tell this numb old cop something close to the truth."

  His eyes narrowed, and he squinted first at David and then at Jo. "Now let's start in from the top. What kind of car is Albion driving?"

  Jo swayed in her chair, face shiny with sweat. "I don't feel good." She lurched forward and vomited across the desk, drenching papers and the sergeant's lap. He jumped up and swore, inventively and at length, while he rescued their file. The reek of puked alcohol filled the room, and David's stomach churned in sympathy.

  The cop stood behind the desk and shook his head, jaw clenched. "I come on duty at 3:00 tomorrow. I want your butts in those chairs when I walk through that door. Clean, sober, and ready to talk. And I want a story we can check. Understand?"

  David nodded. The sergeant pulled out a small manila envelope and tossed it to David. "Answering machine tape. Get her out of here. Call her family."

  "Can we use the apartment?"

  "Hell, go ahead. Just get out of my office!"

  The air outside was cold and damp and raw, threatening rain or sleet, stinking of four months of winter filth finally surfacing again. It didn't help him any in fighting back the queasy vodka that surged at his throat. But Jo's timing had been too damn perfect, and she had seemed to aim. Even stone drunk, the Old Blood ruled her.

  Shadows lurked away from the streetlights, hiding furtive things with fangs. He shivered, remembering the fear of stepping between the worlds.

  Jo lifted her head and glanced around. She grinned up at him. "Did I get anything on you? Those notes he took aren't going to be worth a hell of a lot, once he gets them cleaned up."

  She seemed to be cold sober. He wondered just how much she had . . . witched . . . that cop.

  * * *

  Something shook him hard enough to rattle his brain. It hurt. His eyelids seemed to be stuck shut, and his hands missed their target when he tried to knuckle the glue away.

  "Wake up, damn you!" The voice echoed from one ear to the other, across a cavern full of pain.

  He pried one eye open. Jo. She had a pitcher of water in her hand, aimed at his face. He ducked, and the sudden move made the room spin around him. He grabbed the sofa to make the cushion hold still. His stomach heaved.

  "Never again. No more booze. Done."

  "Screw that. We've got problems."

  He tried thinking for a moment. It didn't work. "Who cleaned the place up?"

  "Maria Mendoza, you idiot. The cops let her come in after they did their thing. Just kept an eye on her while she cleaned."

  The neighbor woman. Self-defense, probably could smell the garbage through the walls.

  David concentrated on breathing slowly, not rushing his nose and throat and lungs. Jo looked like she'd just walked out of a beauty parlor, bright eyes and every strand of hair in place.

  She waved the pitcher again. It rattled. She'd dumped ice-cubes in the fucking water.

  He struggled to sit up, holding his head in his hands. He felt like he'd just been on a month-long bender, just like they'd told the cops. She backed off a step.

  "Problems? That citation? For the grass? No worse than a parking ticket. And Brian doesn't give a damn about the cops."

  "I played that tape from the answering
machine."

  David forced his eyes to focus. She looked mad. Mad and grim, with a touch of grief. "What's wrong?"

  "Mom fell, she's in the hospital. That's why Dad was trying to find us. Fucking fifty years old, and she had a stroke and fell down the stairs. Can't talk, can't move her left arm or leg."

  "Shit."

  "And I've been fired. No job."

  "Shit."

  "And Dé hAoine has a new guitar man. They've played four gigs without you."

  David staggered to his feet, took the pitcher of ice-water from her, and finger-danced along a wall to find the bathroom. He stood in the tub, clothes and all, and dumped the water on his head. An ice-cube slithered down the back of his shirt and hung up against his spine. It almost helped.

  Of course, if he really wanted to sober up, all he had to do was think about that dragon. It haunted him.

  Author Bio

  James A. Hetley is also known as James A. Burton. He lives in the Maine setting of his Hetley-authored contemporary fantasy novels The Summer Country, The Winter Oak, Dragon’s Eye, and Dragon’s Teeth. His residence is an 1850s house suitable for a horror movie, with an electrical system installed while Thomas A. Edison still walked the earth, peeling lead-based paint, questionable plumbing, a furnace dating back to Teddy Roosevelt’s presidency, a roof perpetually in need of shingling, and windows that rattle in the winter gales. He's an architect. Not just any architect, but he specializes in renovation and adaptive reuse of old buildings. Go figure.

  Other diverse connections to his writing include black belt rank in Kempo karate, three years in the U.S. Army during the Vietnam War, a ham radio license, and such jobs as an electronics instructor, auto mechanic, trash collector, and operating engineer in a refrigeration plant. He continues a life-long fascination with antique crafts and the hand-tool skills of working wood and metal.

  Copyright Information

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 1992 by Molly Cochran and Warren Murphy

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  eISBN: 978-1-937776-34-3

  Table of Contents

  THE FOREVER KING

  Copyright Information

  Prologue

  Book One: The Boy

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Book Two: The Cup

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Book Three: The King

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Excerpt from The Temple Dogs

  Excerpt for Grandmaster

  About the Authors

  Other books by Molly Cochran and Warren Murphy

  PROLOGUE

  The king was dead; of that there was no doubt.

  The old man had gone to the castle and had seen the knights in ceremonial armor carrying their ruler's body down to the lake where they set it adrift on a funeral barge.

  Later, after the knights had left, the old man went to the lake and retrieved the king's jeweled sword from the waters where the knights had thrown it. He took it back with him to the cave where he now spent most of his time alone.

  For many nights, in the flickering light of a campfire, he stared at the sword. And more than once he wept for the young man who had been his student and his friend and for whom he had had such high hopes. Once he had even dared to hope that the young man would reign forever.

  But now that hope had died.

  Everything died in time, the old man thought bitterly.

  He mourned until the moon was new again and then walked back to the field outside the castle. There he mixed sand and pulverized limestone with water.

  He dug a hole in the earth, lovingly placed the sword inside, then poured the mortar mix over it until it was covered.

  The sword would never be found. In time, the castle too would be destroyed. There would be no songs or histories written of the dead king. It would be as if he never lived; as if none of this had ever happened.

  And perhaps it was best that way. Perhaps it was best that dreams of justice be allowed to die.

  So why was it that the bitter old man paused momentarily over the rapidly drying mortar in which the sword was encased and, with his finger, scratched a message into the cement?

  It was, he told himself, because he was nothing but a superstitious old fool. Then he strode away, turning his back on the giant castle, back to his small cave where he bundled himself in animal skins and lay down to die.

  But he only slept.

  . . . and dreamed.

  . . . and waited.

  CHAPTER ONE

  He was there again.

  The bright orange blaze was scorching, suffocating in the July afternoon heat. Through the din of cracking timbers and the air-sucking whoosh of the impossibly high and angry gasoline flames the frantic voices of the firefighters sounded muffled and small.

  Hal Woczniak swallowed. His hands rose and fell in a jerky motion. The features of his face were contorted, still wearing the expression of shock that had followed the explosion. Nearby, sweating and helpless, stood a small army of useless men—six members of the FBI, a fully armed SWAT team, the local police. A heavyset, balding man unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth.

  "Forget it, Hal," he told Woczniak.

  The house blurred and wavered in the heat. Two firemen dragged a body—what was left of it—out of the doorway.

  "Leave him!" Woczniak shouted.

  The heavyset man raised a hand to Woczniak's chest, a gesture of restraint.

  "Chief, there's a kid inside!" Woczniak protested.

  "They know that," the Chief said placatingly. "But they just got here. They've got to move that body. Give them a chance."

  "What kind of chance does the kid get?" Woczniak growled. He shoved the Chief's hand away and ran for the house. Into the thick of the smoke pouring from the building, his lungs stinging from the black air, his legs pumped wildly.

  "Woczniak! Hal!" the Chief shouted. "Some
body stop him, for God's sake!"

  Two firefighters flung themselves at him, but Woczniak leaped over them effortlessly and hurtled himself into the inferno.

  It was pitch black inside except for high licks of orange flame that shed no light in the dense smoke. Coughing, Woczniak tore off his shirt and pulled it over his head as he crawled spider-like up the fragile, superheated wooden stairs. A timber broke with a deafening crack and fell toward him. He slammed against the far wall at the top of the stairs. In the blind darkness, a shard of glass from a broken mirror cut deep into his cheek. Woczniak felt only a dull pain as he pulled it from his flesh.

  "Jeff!"

  Stooped and groping, he found a door. He pulled it open.

  The boy will be there, tied to the chair. The boy will be there, and this time I'll get to him. This time Jeff will open his blue eyes and smile, and I'll muss his carrot hair, and the kid will go home to his folks. This one will escape. This time.

  But it was not the boy with the carrot-red hair tied to the chair. In his place was a monster, a fire-breathing dragon straight out of a fairy tale, with eyes like blood and scales that scraped as it writhed. It opened its mouth, and with its foul breath came the words:

  "You’re the best, kid. You're the best there is."

  And then the creature, the terrible beast Hal Woczniak had somehow known all along would meet him in this room, cackled with a sound like breaking glass.

  Screaming, Woczniak ran up to it and clasped the saurian around its slimy neck. It smiled at him with triumphant malice.

  Then, fading as if it had been fashioned of clouds, it vanished and the reality of his life returned. In the monster's place was the red-haired boy, tied to the chair . . . dead as he had been all along, dead as he always was in these dreams.

  Woczniak was still screaming. He couldn't stop.

  He woke up screaming.