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Copyright ©2008 by Buffi BeCraft-Woodall
First published in 2008, 2008
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CONTENTS
CONJURING CAL
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Epilogue
About the Author
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A Total-e-bound Publication
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Conjuring Cal
ISBN #978-1-906590-52-9
©Copyright Buffi BeCraft-Woodall 2008
Cover Art by Lyn Taylor ©Copyright March 2008
Edited by Claire Siemaszkiewicz
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This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author's imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-e-bound eBooks.
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The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2008 by Total-e-bound eBooks 1 The Corner, Faldingworth Road, Spridlington, Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, LN8 2DE, UK.
Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-sizzling.
CONJURING CAL
Buffi BeCraft-Woodall
[Back to Table of Contents]
Dedication
For my mother, my best friend. Your faith and love are a formidable magic.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmark mentioned in this work of fiction:
SpongeBobSquarePants: Wal-Mart Stores, Inc.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter One
"Hey, Gennie? Why couldn't the knights get the sword out of the stone?” Sixty-two, with balding grey hair and sagging cheeks, Stevie bounced on his toes, an aging, but sweet six year old. Smudged, thick-lensed glasses slipped unnoticed down his nose. He clasped his favourite book tight against his chest, his moss green gaze following her every movement as she turned to put the lid back on the pot of sauce.
To Gennie Pendragon, the residents of Camelot House were not mentally defunct. Her charges depended on her to keep the order that they needed to lead productive lives. Gennie planned meals, oversaw medication, and kept the peace. Her guys were way more than a pay cheque every week. They were the children she'd never have. Smiling, she held out a hand for book number two of The Round Table Children's Readers, The Boy Who Would Be King.
A few Christmases ago, her grandfather, Merle gifted the guys with the entire series. The gift was another blatant play on her guilt for abandoning her studies. Oh, Merle could play hardball with the best of them, but she appreciated the gesture on her guys’ part. Stevie loved King Arthur's story best. After that, he claimed to love Gennie most. She had little doubt that by having his hero's surname went a long way in keeping the peace on her shift. Gennie had been dubbed official house mascot years ago. With Merle's bag of magic tricks and big heart, the guys adopted her grandfather as their own.
"Gen-nie."
She stifled a laugh at Stevie's persistence. A stranger would never guess that she answered the same question every afternoon. “You know, Stevie. You could just read it for yourself."
"I like the way you read it.” Following her to the ‘Round Table', a huge oak monster that took up most of the dining area, they sat while Gennie found the correct page.
Tracing a finger over the lovely caption, Gennie marvelled anew at the artist'shandiwork. Merle's books held all the detail and rich artwork of an ancient tapestry. Young Arthur Pendragon, a gangly tow-headed teenager struggled to pull the sword from a boulder. That sword, Caliburn, would later be remade into the legendary Excalibur. Above, Merlin presided in fine robes and the traditional trailing white beard. Below, the crowd of knights and ladies pointed and laughed.
"See. Only the old king's son could get the sword out.” Gennie traced the picture with one finger. No artist could truly capture the power and beauty of Arthur's sword. At night, when she closed her eyes, she could feel the warm metal of the oversized hilt in her child-sized palm. The giddy rush of magic always woke her, yearning for more.
Another resident sidled up behind her, pulling her out of the reverie. Ben peered over her shoulder at the book. His pudgy body leaned into hers. Ben had almost no concept of personal space. In a slightly slurred voice, he began his favourite argument. “No, no, no. That's not what Merle said.” Ben patted the pages with the hand curled from his stroke last February. “Tell me what Merle said, Gennie."
Somewhere outside, the sound of a small engine started up. This came as no real surprise. In the last decade, East Texas winters didn't get started until January. Here in Tyler, a well-maintained lawn might have growth until then. Slow growth, but enough to make the yard Nazi next door haul out his equipment for that sparse one-inch ruining the symmetry of a perfect lawn.
"Okay, just this once. Then, I have to start dinner.” Gennie still had her third charge to locate and find out if Rory was into anything.
Rory liked to help ... a little too much. He drove their neighbour nuts, hanging over the fence to give advice on lawn care. On more than one occasion, Gennie had to make amends for Rory ‘weeding’ the neighbour's flower beds. A lot of people didn't understand that mentally limited individuals like Stevie, Ben, and Rory wanted the same love and compassion as everyone else. People shun what they do not understand.
Gennie turned the page. The next caption showed the wizard taking Excalibur from the old king, Uther Pendragon. She began to read. The artist had taken a lot of artistic license with the story, but he'd done an amazing job of simplifying it for young readers.
"Excalibur can only be used by a good man for a good cause. You are not just or good.” The wizard ignored the king's whining argument and thrust the sword into a small boulder. Once Excalibur is released, one of your line has three days to prove himself worthy. On the fourth, the sword will return to its stony sleep."
"Wow.” Stevie grinned. “I bet you could keep the sword, Gennie. Right, Ben?"
Ben shook his head, always on the opposite side of the argument. “Gennie's a girl. Only boys can be king."
Stevie took the book back, holding tight against his chest. “I bet Nick would help you keep the sword. He's our friend."
Gennie laughed. Poor Nicholas Myra, better known as Nick, was one of her grandfather's failed schemes to see her happily married again.
Nick, a widowe
r himself, sympathised with Gennie's reluctance to move on. He was fabulously cover model sexy, an attentive date, and generous. Chumming around with him made the holidays fun. Too bad the sexual zing between them equalled zero. To her, it had been a bit like dating one of her brothers. Ick.
"Yes, Nick is a good friend. But with Christmas only days away, he's a little busy right now.” Gennie gave the guys a conspiratorial wink.
Nick didn't keep his job secret. If the world's jaded attitude about magic bothered him, Nick never let on. That guy spread Christmas cheer for the three hundred and sixty-four days a year he worked at his other job raising exotic livestock.
Making little shooing motions, Gennie cleared the kitchen. “It's time to start dinner. Just in case Nick decides to drop by early to let us beat him at video games."
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Merle jogged up the sidewalk, a scarecrow with white flyaway hair. The all important letter crushed in his hand. Bushy eyebrows drew together as he contemplated Agdern's completely non-magical letter. The postal service was far more secure than conversing by phone or magic. And this news was critical, if not surprising, in keeping his oath to protect Arthur Pendragon and his line.
Merle and the other wizards knew that worm Mordred was sneaking on their coattails at the turn of the century when Arthur or Art as he now thought of his long-time friend, and the remaining knights relocated to the colonies. It had been easy enough for the wizards’ ocean dwelling allies to drag the ship to the sea's depths. The problem of King Arthur's greatest enemy, Mordred, and the pirate crew serving the wretch, was presumed taken care of.
Possibly, Merle should have told Arthur at the time—or the time before that—that the traitor was still alive. But, he and the other wizards had already taken care of the problem and Merle really didn't want to bother the boy. Arthur blamed himself entirely too much for Mordred's actions.
What was he to say? I'm sorry Arthur. We had to kill your son. Again. No, like you, he managed to survive the Calamn battle. He's not quite right in the head, you know. So, we tried killing him in the sixteenth century because we found him before he found you. Then again, when you moved here from the European continent.
Merle sighed. Carefully, he took down the wards guarding his home from intrusion. Unlike his spells, which were words and some flash power, wards had to be crafted and put together with a delicate touch. Unmaking a ward was done in reverse, the same way one would unravel a complicated piece of crochet. Except that one did not have to worry about a crocheted doily triggering a nasty surprise when taken apart.
He resigned himself to withholding the news from his greatest friend. Telling Arthur of Mordred's survival would only raise the former king's hopes of reconciliation, only to be dashed when Mordred literally placed a blade in his father's back. Inside, he twisted the deadbolt into place and jiggled the lock. He never trusted those things. Any fool could jimmy one to open. Give him a lock-tight spell and solid oak bar any day. If anyone should break in, even Arthur's traitorous whelp, Mordred, then Merle should have plenty of warning.
The wizard shook his head as he dodged the hodgepodge of Christmas presents, wrapping paper, and stacks of magazines on the floor. A determined hop avoided crushing a video game left by one of his many ‘grandchildren’ as he hurried through the house for his basement workshop. He'd long since given up on figuring out the number of greats involved in his family relations. He liked being crazy old Uncle Merle.
The paper crinkled in his hand, bringing forth more regrets than he cared to recall. He should have drowned Arthur's brat the moment he learned the truth of Mordred's conception. But no, being the great Merlin, counsel to kings, he believed in free will. His foolish sentimentality caused them so much trouble before. Now, again, Arthur's sins had come to haunt them again. Merle was getting too old for this garbage. Just when he thought he could make plans for retirement, Mordred made another bid for power and revenge. Would the unrepentant cur ever die?
Merle slammed the basement door shut behind him, locking it with a negligent wave of one hand. “So how is Cal doing today, Grimmy?"
The book on the podium ruffled his pages at the hated nickname. The tome's clear, deep announcer's voice filled the basement, irritation in every distinct syllable. "Excalibur is embedded in stone. The same as yesterday. The same as the day before that and the day before that. The same as every day for the past decade since. The same as the century before, and before that. The same as—"
"Enough of that.” Out of self-preservation, he cut the book off mid-sentence with a wave of the letter. Civilised conversation and Grimmy weren't going to happen in any century. “Mordred is back from the dead my paginated friend. Agdern's already done a prophesy reading. And—"
The grimoire interrupted, ruffling its pages once more, the sound reminiscent of a very large, very irritated bird of prey. “—And the Black Sword of Arthur contrives to hold Excalibur the Kingmaker. To be named the future king, the one not claimed must travel mist and time behind. Reprisal, swift and sure, to secure a place there was not before."
"You knew the prophesy and didn't tell me.” Merle waved a hand at the selection of copper pots hanging from the chef's rack high over his worktable. His favourite pulled itself off the hook, floating down to be filled in the inset sink.
"I know all prophesies. My place is to record them, not spend eternity reciting them,” Grimmy retorted.
In the book's defence, there were endless prophesies that may or may not come true depending on the choices people made. There were just too many. Merle couldn't blame Grimmy for not pointing them out, when it was his job to scan them for relevance. The pot floated from the sink to the burner, which lit underneath as the pot set down. “I'd have expected something cleverer from Mordred besides a simple snatch and run.” Sprigs of dried herb floated down from tied bunches stored on clothesline crisscrossing the basement ceiling to Merle's hand. “Let's see if we can find where he's hiding."
The grimoire thumped its cover, the irritable sound bringing the wizard to the present with the irritable sound. “Have you another task that requires my attention? If not, I will leave the guarding of one comatose magical sword in your mostly competent hands. I am quite sure monitoring energies of the universe, while as titillating as charting the migration patterns of tuna, can wait a while longer."
With his free hand, Merle made a shooing motion at the smart-aleck book. “Go, go. One would think that a sentient grimoire powerful enough to keep track of the universe's magic would be a little more respectful of its creator."
"One would think ... not.” The grimoire snorted and slammed shut.
Merle dismissed the book. Grimmy had been full of itself from the day of its creation. Merle had no idea how that happened. He'd been the book's sole creator and keeper. Magical constructs, like Grimmy, took on some of its owner's traits, sort of like magical DNA.
Without the distraction of the book, Merle crushed the handful of herbs onto the surface of the water. Stirring the water with one finger, he murmured the scrying rhyme while the bits drifted to the bottom. He stared as the rippling surface smoothed. The water turned glassy and silver, reflecting nothing of Mordred's whereabouts. He might as well have been wasting energy scrying for the dead or one not yet conceived.
Merle let the spell fade as he considered the sword sticking out the side of the concrete basement wall. Agdern had sent him forewarning. The sword was safe enough for the time being while he located Mordred's lair. Spells built into the very structure of the house protected the ancient weapon from his enemies and held it in trust for its wielder.
The sword sure made a heck of a story for his grandkids. A faint smile tugged at his cheek, fading at the reminder of Gennie's refusal. The first sorceress born to both Arthur's line and his own, Genevieve Pendragon's destiny shone bright as the sun. If only the girl would stop hiding her head in the sand and take up her legacy, Merle would have a worthy apprentice.
Speaking of the girl, it was time to stir t
hings up a bit in her safe little world. She needed to get out more, go on a date like other young people. Merle jingled the change in his pants pocket with one hand. The other he stroked over the short white beard on his chin. Not as grand a beard as he once had, but neat and becoming for this time period.
Now, what extraordinary men did he know, that his granddaughter had not already met and rejected? Godlings, saints, wizards, and a few mythological heroes, Merle had sent her a selection of the most extraordinary males. And what did she do? The girl handed the poor fellows their egos back and sent them on their way. It had gotten to the point that many of his friends feared answering his calls. Merle harrumphed. As if he would send any of those crotchety fools to his granddaughter. Gennie deserved someone with honour. He searched for the phrase his dear departed wife used. A knight in shining armour.
Only one man was qualified to hunt their Gennie up a knight. Matchmaking for his favourite ‘niece’ would be just the distraction to keep Arthur out of Merle's way while he took care of the Mordred problem.
Merle searched the pocket with change and frowned. No cell phone. He patted his other pocket with the same results before moving on to his flat vest pockets. He checked those too, before he remembered handing Gennie his phone and a new list of numbers to enter into the address book. “Damned son of a satyr."
Shoving both hands into the loose pockets of his well worn khaki trousers, he wondered where in the ninth hell he'd posted Arthur's new number. Surely the boy could come up with a few decent knights for Gennie to date. If not, the longer the task took the better.
The deep voice took him by complete surprise. Soft menace infused the familiar accent that his enemy never managed to rid himself of. “Truly old man, you do not age. You're as withered and wrinkled as in any other century."
Merle twisted around, surprised to see what appeared to be an affable young version of his closest friend, leaning against one of the far bookshelves near the staircase. Arthur's sin made flesh, the bastard prince had inherited the handsome face of his father, the magical talents of his mother, Morgause, and the black, conniving heart of his grandfather, Uther.
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