Spellbinders Collection

by Molly Cochran

  Almost unconsciously, Arthur reached out and touched the shining blade.

  "I was going to kill him, but he was asleep. He was beautiful when he slept, and I had a weakness for him."

  Arthur had heard about men with that particular weakness. He stepped back from the sword. Saladin didn't seem to notice. "He died young, as I knew he would. I could have protected him with the cup, but he wouldn't have me. And now his bones are ashes on the wind."

  He stroked the long blade of the sword lovingly, then put it back inside the case.

  "The cup," Arthur said, certain now. "It keeps you alive."

  "Of course. Have you seen this?" He picked up a shield-like object decorated with a geometrically stylized bird in pure gold with two emeralds for eyes. "The breastplate of Ramses the Great. And here, the knife Brutus used to slay Julius Caesar. Ah." He strode over a few paces to a small table covered with a velvet cloth. On it was a tall golden crown with three peaks in the front. "The crown of Charlemagne."

  He placed it on Arthur's head. "It's a simple piece of work, but it suits you. You never cared much for finery."

  The boy took it off and beheld it with wonder. It was heavy, almost barbaric. And a man had worn it, a king. "What did you say about me?"

  Saladin watched him for a moment, the child with the big crown in his hands, and smiled. "Nothing," he said. He took the crown away and picked up a small curved knife. "This was my own," he said, flipping it into the air and catching it by its handle, bandaged with gauze. "It was a cobbler's tool." The cloth strips, grown fragile with age, fell away when he caught it. Saladin looked at the pieces in his hand. "There, you can still see the blood."

  Despite his confusion and the indisputable creepiness of the man, Arthur leaned forward to see. The inside of the bandages were brittle with a dried, black substance that cracked at his touch.

  "Why is there blood on it?" Arthur asked, poking at it.

  "I used it to kill someone. Quite a few, really. All women."

  Arthur pulled back his hand with a jerk.

  The tall man held the half-moon blade up to the light. "That must have belonged to the first one," he mused. "There was so much blood. I always wrapped the handle after that first time."

  "How . . . how many people have you killed?"

  Saladin laughed. "Oh, my, I'm sure I couldn't remember." He looked at the blackened tool with amusement. "There were more men than women, though. Odd, how long it takes one to overcome the taboos of one's upbringing. My family believed that killing women was unworthy of a man. That would mean nothing these days, of course, particularly in your country. Women are murdered all the time for a pocketful of change. But my generation viewed it as an inexplicable wickedness. That was why I had to do it, I suppose."

  "Who were they?"

  He shrugged dismissively. "Shopgirls, mainly, or tarts. That didn't matter. Later, of course, the newspapers made a big to-do about the girls all being prostitutes, but that was nonsense. It wasn't my intention to kill them for their profession. They were simply the available ones. In those days, ladies didn't venture out on Whitechapel streets alone in the evening."

  "You're talking about . . ." Arthur swallowed. "Jack the Ripper."

  "Ghastly name, that." He winced. "The newspapers, again. If it weren't for them, Victorian London would have been a marvelous place. So proper and hidden. Murder was so very shocking then."

  He sighed. "I've always done my best killing in England. It means something here. In Hong Kong or New York . . . well, one might as well litter, or spit on the sidewalk. There's so little difference between crimes. But here in England, the taking of a life is still regarded as . . . well, odious."

  While he spoke, Arthur had backed away almost to the stairs.

  "Don't worry, child. I'm not going to kill you here. And you certainly won't be able to escape up the stairs."

  "You're really crazy," Arthur whispered.

  "No." He set down the curved knife. "A little bored at times, perhaps, but not crazy. You see, a life as long as mine can be rather dull. Murder becomes a habit, like cigarette smoking, only much harder to break. One tends to resort to foolishness now and again, to the cheap thrill."

  He walked around the room, touching various objects, occasionally picking one up and setting it down again. "Sometimes I think I've lived too long." Suddenly he looked over at Arthur. "Earlier you swore to kill me. Would you? If you had the chance, would you, say, cut my throat?"

  The boy met his eyes, then lowered them. "I don't know," he said.

  Saladin's eyes grew bright. "Why not try, Arthur? You may develop a taste for it." He strolled over to the boy. "Death is compelling. It gives one the ultimate power over another. Have you ever killed?"

  "No."

  "But you will. It's part of your fabric."

  Arthur didn't know what he was talking about, but he kept silent.

  "Kill your enemies. It's the first principle of every ruler on earth. Humiliate them, degrade them, make an example of them for others who might dare to doubt your power."

  "I'd like to go now," Arthur said.

  "You're afraid because you agree with what I say. Sacrifice the small life for the important one, the defeated for the conqueror, the weak for the strong. Every great king in history has understood this idea. Every great civilization has evolved from it."

  "Might makes right," Arthur said.

  "Simplistic, but a start. I said you were a clever boy. Your life may become one of the important ones, after all."

  "And you're dumber about me than you are about chess," Arthur said angrily. "Who decides whose life is important and whose isn't?"

  Saladin shrugged. "Fate, will, circumstance . . . Who can say what goes into the creation of a great man?"

  "Like you," Arthur said caustically.

  "My life certainly qualifies as something out of the ordinary," Saladin said modestly. "But I have never considered myself a great man. I lived as a king for a time. I ruled well. But it grew tiresome. I was never Alexander." Lightly he touched the boy's hair. "I was never you."

  He spoke softly. "Do you still not remember, Arthur?"

  From behind a tall cherry wood case he brought a painting. It was the full-length portrait of a man with reddish-gold hair on which rested a thin circlet of gold. He was simply dressed in black, but in his right hand was a sword of such magnificence that it seemed to leap out of the painting into the real world.

  "Do you recognize it?"

  "It looks like me," the boy said.

  "It is Arthur of England."

  The boy stood transfixed in front of the painting for a full five minutes, unmoving, breathing shallowly.

  "I painted it from memory the day I heard of his death. I used glass instead of canvas, so that it would last forever. The glass is what brings the sword to life."

  "You're lying," Arthur said, his eyes still on the painting.

  "You know I'm not. Do you truly feel nothing? Not even the wound that killed you because you refused to accept the cup?"

  Arthur made a small sound. He did feel it, the sharp, piercing pain that began in his side and burned up through his body to his heart. He held his side. His feet wobbled.

  "You were a fool," Saladin said softly. "Or perhaps only young, like Alexander. Merlin wanted you to have it. He wanted it so badly that he came back from the grave to see that you kept it this time. He has it now."

  "Oh . . ." The boy fell on the floor, drawing his legs up.

  "I do not wish to pass another millennium alone, Arthur. You have a great destiny before you. I shall see that you fulfill it. Together we can live forever. You will rule, and there will have been no king like you in all the days of the earth."

  His voice was compelling, almost seductive. "Merlin has hidden it from you," he said. "Don't you understand? He knows you belong with me, and he would rather see you die than give up his authority over you."

  "No. That’s not true . . ." He clutched at his abdomen.

  "H
e knows he is too weak to rule himself. He will use you to come to power, then take it from you. That is what he did to me." Slowly Saladin licked the perspiration from his lip as he watched the child writhe in pain on the floor. "But you can control him. Listen to me!"

  He touched Arthur's chest with one finger, and the boy cried out in agony. "You can make Merlin bring the cup to you."

  Arthur's eyes widened. "H . . . How?"

  "Call to him. He must answer his king."

  Saladin bent down low near the boy and whispered. "Call him with your mind, Arthur. Call the wizard. He will come with the cup."

  Arthur struggled to sit up.

  "Call him. It is your time. Your world."

  "What sort of world . . . would it be?" the boy moaned.

  Saladin's mouth curved in a faint smile of triumph. "Whatever sort you decide to make it. With me, with the cup, your power will be boundless. Do you understand me, Arthur? Boundless."

  Arthur closed his eyes. For a moment, he thought he was dying. Again.

  Yes, he understood. He had come back. He had been given a second chance to right his own wrongs. But he was dying now, while still a child.

  He tried to hang onto consciousness, but the darkness was overwhelming. He spun downward, down into a place so deep that there were no memories. And in that darkness he began to see the first vague, filtered images of a man walking down the length of a long stone hall. His face was filled with comfort and compassion and a light that radiated from it like the warmth of the sun, and his arms were outstretched, as if reaching for the object that floated in the air in front of him.

  It was a chalice, made of silver and gold, a great treasure, surely, and nearby was a voice, Merlin's voice—oh, friend!—Merlin's voice shouting, "Take it, Arthur! Take it!" And Arthur reached for the great cup, but as he did the light faded from the face of the stranger. Christ's face dying without the light, Christ's body fading, fading into darkness. But the Chalice was still there, without the light of Jesus on it, floating closer, closer . . .

  Take it . . .

  He came to a moment later. Whatever he had seen while unconscious had made no sense to him, none at all, but he remembered the fading, lightless face of Christ. And when he saw Saladin, waiting expectantly with his predator's eyes, he knew he was looking into the face of the devil.

  He drew himself up to a standing position and squared his narrow shoulders, trying to will the ancient pain away.

  "You're not part of the plan for me," he said.

  The dark eyes flashed. Saladin stood up. He walked to the far side of the room, his jaw clenching. Finally he turned to face Arthur. "You've just forfeited your life," he rasped.

  A frisson of fear rippled down Arthur's spine. His death would come soon, he knew. And Saladin would see to it that it was not a painless death.

  "Goodbye, Saladin," he said quietly.

  He walked toward the stairs, aching with every step, but he kept his back as straight as that of the king in the painting, the king he had once been.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  It was some time before Hal got back to the inn. After his discovery at Matilda Grimes', he went to find Inspector Candy to tell him about the mansion near the amusement park, but Candy was not in the police van. Higgins and Chastain had no idea where their superior had gone and were frankly surprised that anyone would expect them to know.

  "What if the kidnappers want to trade soon?" Hal had asked querulously. "Without Candy, who've we got to go after those maniacs, you?"

  "Now, Mr. Woczniak," Higgins whispered.

  "There are six of them. Do you guys at least know how to shoot?"

  Chastain only smiled.

  "We don't use guns," Higgins said.

  "Oh, great. That's just great."

  "Please don't worry excessively, sir. Inspector Candy will be back soon, I'm sure."

  "What about those reinforcements he was talking about? Has he called them?"

  "He will. When they're needed." Higgins was edging back into the van, as if he were afraid of exposure to sunlight and unprocessed air.

  Hal let him go. If it came to a confrontation with Saladin and his men, he knew, these two would be about as helpful as bunions. He cleared some more broken glass off the front seat of the Morris and drove back to the inn.

  Mrs. Sloan was sweeping the front steps when he pulled up in the car. He prepared a profuse apology, but she cut him off.

  "Now, none of that, lad," she said, not missing a stroke with her broom. "I'm just thankful that the young woman wasn't hurt. She told me all about it and gave me a check to cover the breakage, besides."

  "Thank you," Hal said. "Emily's all right, then?"

  "Oh, she's fine. Women are like that. When they're the one getting pounded, it don't matter a fig. It's when their babies are in trouble, and them with nothing to do but fret over it, that they fall to pieces."

  Indeed, Emily showed no signs of the lassitude that had overcome her when Arthur was first abducted. She jumped up from her chair inside the pub, her eyes wide, clutching an envelope in her hands.

  "This came about an hour after I got back," she said. "It came with the afternoon mail. The postman didn't know how it got in his bag."

  The envelope was of high-quality rag, the paper probably handmade. There was no postage on it. On the front was written the name "Emily Blessing" in the flowing script Hal recognized from the postcard. Inside, the sheet of paper contained only one word: Midnight.

  "The trade's tonight," Hal said.

  "But where? They didn't say anything about where."

  "They don't want us to know that yet. Wait here for a second. I've got to let Candy in on this."

  He dashed to the telephone and dialed the number of the mobile phone in the police van. Higgins answered, warily, as if he distrusted telephones and their use.

  "No, Inspector Candy hasn't returned yet," he said in his barely audible voice.

  "Doesn't he at least call to tell you where he is?" Hal shouted into the mouthpiece.

  There was a pause in which Higgins deliberated the question thoroughly. "Usually," he said.

  "Well, we've got the second note from the kidnappers. The trade's going to be at midnight tonight. I don't know where yet."

  "I'll give the inspector the message," Higgins said.

  "It's nearly five o'clock already."

  "Yes," Higgins agreed.

  Hal sighed. "If Candy doesn't get back to me in an hour, I'm going to make the arrangements myself to bring in the extra cops."

  "Oh, that would be quite impossible, Mr. Woczniak. You see—"

  "An hour." He hung up.

  He nearly collided with the stately Mrs. Sloan as he made his way back into the pub. She was just coming in the front door, mopping her forehead with the edge of her apron. "It's going to be another hot night," she said. Then, seeing his face, she added, "Things not going so well, eh?"

  "May I go into your kitchen with you?" Hal asked with as much courtesy as he could muster.

  "I suppose. Long as you don't cook. The car's one thing, but I don't like people fiddling with my pots and pans, most particularly men."

  "I need a bowl," Hal said.

  "What size?"

  "Small." He indicated the dimensions with his hands. "As big as a cup, but without a handle. Could you lend me one?"

  She sat the broom in a corner. "Well, let's see what I've got."

  "We're not going to fool them with a fake," Emily said.

  "No, but we can't go empty-handed, either. Maybe it'll get us through the door."

  In the small, sweltering kitchen, Mrs. Sloan opened a cabinet above the iron stove and pulled down dozens of bowls, all well used and in varying degrees of disintegration.

  "This is about right," Hal said, picking up a small metal measuring cup. It had a rounded bottom and a beaten metal handle. He looked up imploringly.

  Mrs. Sloan gave him an exasperated look, then snatched the cup out of his hands and beat it against the
cast iron stove until the handle fell off. "That's what you'd be wanting, I suppose."

  "You're terrific," Hal said.

  "But I want it back, handle or no."

  "Yes, Ma'am. Have you got some wrapping paper and a roll of tape?"

  She grabbed some newspapers from a pile in the corner of the kitchen and slapped it into his hands. Then she pointed the way back to the parlor. "In the desk where the phone is," she said.

  "Thanks. Thanks a lot."

  Mrs. Sloan grunted in response.

  Upstairs in Emily's room he wrapped the bowl in the newspaper and then sealed it with tape.

  "Hal . . ."

  He held up the round, mysterious-looking object. "Think we can get past the first rank with this?"

  "Hal, I don't think you should go."

  "What?"

  "The note was addressed to me. If they see you, they might harm Arthur."

  And if they catch you with this phony cup, they'll kill you, he thought. "We'll talk about it later. It may not come to a trade, if I can get hold of the Invisible Man from Scotland Yard."

  "Inspector Candy? Is he missing?"

  "The last time I saw him, he was going to check out a house on Abelard Street. That was hours ago."

  "Should we go have a look at the place? Maybe he's in some sort of trouble."

  Hal nodded. "I'll go. You'd better stay here. Another message will be coming before long."

  Wearily, he got back in the Morris and drove to the village.

  When Inspector Candy parked his car near the Spook-O-Rama tunnel, the first thing he noticed were the long strips of motorcycle track leading to and from the woods. It was the first time since the beginning of this investigation that he'd felt any real optimism.

  The house on Abelard Street had been a waste of time, the same as every other lead he'd followed. The place was empty, tenantless, and locked up tight. Some neighbors remembered a young, dark-haired man with a motorcycle, but he had apparently been gone for more than a month, and the house had remained empty since then.

  Following a hunch, he'd driven to the old amusement park grounds where the Blessing woman had been terrorized. The ground was still damp from yesterday's downpour, and Candy had hoped for just such a tire mark as he'd found. But the length and clarity of the track was even more than he'd hoped for.