"Mordred.” Merle spat the name as if he could get the foul taste of it from his mouth.
Tall for the men of that time, Mordred had the muscular build of a professional athlete, or a warrior trained to the sword. The bastard prince's chain-mail gleamed, polished to perfection. He smiled, revealing the dimples in his planed cheeks that women at court had tittered over. One hand hooked over the ornately carved leather belt holding his scabbard. Leisurely, he propped his other elbow on one of the shelves, as if at rest.
Unlike many others, Merle had never been deceived by Mordred's good looks. He disdained polishing as a lazy use for magic. Elbow work nourished the soul and one should not waste the precious gift of magic on pretence.
The young man's smile faded into a hard, grim line. “Have I struck you speechless great wizard?” The blue of his eyes glowed with a depth of anger and hatred found only in hell. Straightening, he walked further into the room, facing the wizard across the expanse of the centre worktable. “Or has your mind become so feeble to have missed the tiny crack in your defences that I used for my time-gate spell."
Merle raised his arms, steeling himself inside. There could be no mercy here. He called on the well of magic that lived inside him, allowing the reservoir to fill him full. Power tingled along his nerves. “Foul whelp! Get thee gone!” Wind whipped around the room. Loose papers took flight. Glass beakers rattled in their racks. Above, hanging bunches of dried herbs ripped from the clothesline.
Mordred swayed, keeping his footing steady. He lifted a finger, pointing back and forth “Nay, wizard. Not this time. Do you remember the day I promised the destruction of all you loved?” A smile twisted his lips, belying the conversational tone. “Today is that day. Elector!” He pointed and a gods-bolt, alive with brilliant blue energy, slammed into the wizard.
Magical energy tore through Merle's body, threatening to tear him apart molecule by molecule. Merle reeled, gasping in agony. He stumbled and fell. His head hit the edge of the table. Stars of pain exploded behind his eyes.
A second bolt blasted into the wall beside Excalibur. The stone that kept the sword trapped and dormant cracked. The protecting wards wavered, but held.
Merle pushed past the fire in his body from the gods-bolt. He tapped into the well of power stored deep inside him, sending a white lightning bolt of pure electricity into Mordred's armour. The intruder's third blue gods-bolt blew the wall into a shower of grey-white powder that filled the room with a thick, drifting cloud. Ears ringing from the explosion, Merle listened with his inner senses, using the magic in the spells and wards woven into the building's foundation to locate his enemy. The dust thinned, revealing a crouched shadow hunting through the rubble. He felt more than heard the hollow grinding of concrete rocks being moved aside. Merle's inner sense screamed the alarm, the wards providing his brain with the image as Mordred's hand touched the sword.
"I have it! Excalibur is mine!” The shadow straightened, triumphant. Mordred's cultured accent dropped into the musical accent of his birth. Mocking derision dripped from his words. “Merlin the wise. Merlin the merciful. Shall I show you the same generosity you have always given me?” Mordred laughed, a chilling sound that grated on the wizard's nerves. Mordred thrust the sword aloft. His voice rose in a binding spell intended to tie the magic of Excalibur to him. When he finished, silence fell over the room. Sifting dust cast eerie images into their vision. “What? This is dead steel!"
Instead, the rogue prince triggered a trap. The spells protecting the house fractured and broke. Like a huge gas leak, magical energy flooded the room. The decoy clanged when it hit the floor and rubble. Somewhere in the pile of broken concrete wall, lay the real Excalibur.
Merle sagged, feeling the weight of every one of his thousands of years. He'd planned for just this contingency. The only thing worse than Mordred taking Excalibur, would be the smarmy bastard obtaining Grimmy. He would allow neither one to happen.
Magical energy stirred the concrete dust, keeping the cloud from settling. Merle found it hard to breathe. He coughed on rock dust. A thousand magical needles pricked his skin as something warm trickled into his eyes. Mordred would not gain Excalibur or the grimoire through Merlin's failing.
Rock and matter shifted as his enemy walked through the mess. “What are you about, old man? Not dead yet? Never matter, you will be."
"Dead, because of you? A pathetic hanger-on?” Merle laughed, ignoring the sliver of uncertainty running through his gut. “I think not.” He muttered the spell under his breath, a common fairy-tale curse, clichéd as hell, but ingenious too. So much could go wrong.
Mordred's hatred for his father, his hatred for them both, Arthur and Merlin, blinded him. Mordred would never think to look in plain sight. Wounded pride made many a man bitter. Thank the gods that few had the power Mordred possessed to wreak havoc.
Merle added another qualifier to the spell to hide the constructs, giving them protectors until they returned to their original forms. “Not today, boy.” He breathed in a lungful of rock dust and air, screaming the spell's trigger word. “SHA-ZAAAM!"
Nothing happened.
Mordred laughed. King Arthur's brat laughed so hard, he bent double.
BOOM!
The house exploded and the world went black.
* * * *
Gennie's head pounded with the ferocity of a hangover. Oh, God. What sadist turned her bed into a cold slab of concrete? Peeling her eyelids open took monumental effort. Pulling the bleary world into focus brought her inches from two intent pairs of eyes. She blinked, thinking that she saw double. Gennie moaned. She didn't remember going on a bender. The overwhelming urge that she should be up and doing something made her twitch, but her head felt too muzzy-headed to think. The last thing she remembered was doing their nightly Excalibur story routine with Stevie and Ben, then putting Sloppy-Joe fixings on the stove. The explosion had come from within, a surge of magical power from...
A deep voice rumbled through her painful train of thought. “You okay?"
"Frank?"
"Yeah, you passed out right before I came in.” Frank, a male nurse who'd tired of hospital politics and turned his skills to home health care, crouched before her on one knee. He pressed a cool cloth to her head, allowing her to ease up. A six-foot-seven African American who lifted weights, Frank looked like a huge dark tank. He had the heart of a gentleman and played papa to Gennie's mama over their charges.
"Frank? Can we call and ride in the am-blance now?” With his good hand, Ben waved the cordless phone between them, ready to punch out nine-one-one the moment they gave the word. It wasn't that Ben enjoyed her hurt. His spiked lashes and round flushed cheeks told the story of his earlier trauma. But now, riding in an ambulance would make the rest of his limited friends, his peers, green with envy. That childlike innocence both amused and exasperated many a health care worker. It also balanced the political machinations of the government run medical programme Gennie and Frank worked for.
"No.” Both Gennie and Frank answered at the same time. He helped her to stand.
"Are you okay? Did'ju hit your head?” Tears still sat high in Stevie's green eyes, waiting to spill over. Abandoned by an affluent family ashamed of his disabilities, and left to the care of a system with a high burnout rate, he lived with very real fear of his ‘parental figures’ leaving him.
Gennie steadied herself against the kitchen countertop while Frank and the guys hovered close by. None of her body parts actually hurt. She just felt very sensitive and raw. Her insides felt sunburned, the result of channelling too much magic. Since she'd sworn off that particular pastime it meant that Merle was doing the wizardly version of carousing with his buddies. No bowling night for them. She envisioned the great Merlin Ambrosius and his cronies sitting around matchmaking and plotting ways to light a fire under their reluctant successors.
Gennie carefully touched her forehead with the tips of her fingers. A tug of compulsion urged to find ... something important. Oh, Lord, what we
irdness was Merle trying to drag her into now? Rubbing her forehead, she hardened her resolve. Whatever showed up this time, she'd send it on its way in the most human and mundane way possible. She wasn't getting involved.
The sweet charcoal of burnt tomato sauce assaulted her nose, making Gennie's head throb. Her stomach gave a small lurch in protest, as she gestured helplessly at the stove. “Oh, blast it. These Sloppy Joes are going to be more like Scorched Sams."
"No problem. We'll order pizza. Right guys?” Her co-worker ushered her out of the kitchen area amid the vigorous nods and chorus of happy yeses. “Go home Gennie. Get some rest.” Lowering his head and his voice, Frank glanced around to make sure their charges were out of earshot. “By the way, your boyfriend called and bailed on dinner. Sick livestock.” Frank shifted uncomfortably, his dark skin taking on a reddish glow. “You, know ... you might want to get one of those tests."
"My boyfriend?” Gennie rubbed her head, trying to think through the ache muddying her thoughts. Fighting the deep impulse to leave and start hunting for whatever thing the spell specified, distracted her. Her head throbbed in time to the compulsion. It was possible that some other wizard was messing with her. But odds were strong that Merle was at the bottom of this.
Frank stared hard at her stomach. “You know ... a test."
The dim light of comprehension broke through her clouded brain. Oh! Gennie's biological clock ticked louder every day, unfortunately just not anywhere near Nicholas Myra's biological anything. “Nick? He's not my boyfriend. We haven't ... I mean ... uh ... Nick's just a friend.” She rubbed her head, barely listening as the guys argued over pizza toppings while she gathered her things.
"What kind of man opens a reindeer ranch in Texas? The emu and ostrich craze is over. I know someone with a couple of llamas. But reindeer?” Frank huffed out a breath. The deep timbre of his voice rose as Frank's overprotective nature kicked into overdrive. His strong features bunched with the disapproval in his brown eyes. He threw his hands up in frustration, dark muscles shifting under the tidy gold polo shirt. “And he's so frigging cheerful, it's psychotic. Face it, Gennie. That Nick Myra is one weird bozo."
She could almost feel the overprotective tension radiating from her co-worker as he followed her to the door that led into the garage. Frank's eyes never left her face, the worry in their chocolate depths that would normally have made her feel the warmth of friendship, made her irritable and hunted. Why did everyone feel like they had a say in her personal life? Her head throbbed. The compulsion pulled at her to turn and leave. She'd leave alright. Then she'd go straight home and take a hot bath.
Stevie and Ben crowded close behind Frank. Gennie's hand gripped the knob tight. They practically danced on their toes craning to see around her while she stood in the open doorway facing down Frank. Since her leaving never caused such a stir, she imagined they were just waiting for the moment to call for pizza delivery. Her hanging around in the doorway was slowing them down.
Stevie leaned out to peer around her. “Holy cow, Mister! What happened to your clothes?” Ben's mouth formed an almost perfect circle before he slapped his one good hand over his shocked eyes. The twisted hand didn't reach that far. He settled for waving it in her direction.
Frank's mouth dropped as he stared behind her. “What the hell?"
Frowning, Gennie turned. She sucked in a breath, coming face to chest with the most incredible expanse of male pectorals she'd ever been presented with. An intricate dragon tattoo stretched over the sculpted planes, drawing her eyes over the smooth fair skin. She swallowed, her fingers twitched with the urge to trace the twin dragon heads that sloped up the tight curve of his male breast. With effort, Gennie dragged her eyes upward, over the solid column of his neck, past the strong cleft chin, meeting the sapphire bright eyes that seemed to reflect the her own inner turmoil. Behind and around her, commotion reigned.
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Chapter Two
Cal stared around the odd room, caught in a storm of feeling. Weapons, even magical constructs such as him, did not feel the intense assault of sensation within and without. The familiar calm reasoning that had always dictated his existence deserted him. Rising panic threatened to overwhelm him. Struggling for a measure of control, he catalogued the situation.
In recasting the sword Excalibur, the Lady of the Lake imbued the weapon with the ability to merge with its owner. Through its human wielder, the sword was able to ‘feel’ some of its owner's emotions, aiding it in monitoring the wielder's health. This was so much more.
He was blind. Or very near so. His field of vision was now cut short. A human's barely dimensional vision replaced the sword's vibrant spectrum of sight. No creature snuck up on Excalibur. The sword could pinpoint magic, heat, and movement. He turned in a small circle, trying to remedy the problem. The task proved futile. No matter which way he twisted, there would always be a place behind him that he could not see. The very bottom of him, where his soles joined with the earth, he ached with a sharpness, drawing his skin tight in a cold shiver. The pounding drum inside him sped up. Every part of part of him felt alive. Vulnerable. Human.
Out of the corner of his vision, he noticed the door. Hinges, knob, and a large slab of something to barricade a threshold. Doors were the same in any century. Somewhere behind this one, his wielder waited. The one he'd waited for since his internment in Merlin's wall. His already unstable emotions flamed. In the end, magic always won out. Cal moved towards the door, compelled by the magic that bound him. As a thing of magical origin, he trusted the power to guide him.
He reached for the knob. The dark glass set into the door drew his gaze. The familiar face staring back at him made him take an unsteady step backwards. Not any face, Arthur's face. Cal's vision blurred. The inside of his torso burned. Sound roared into his head. Breathe, the magic told him. The face blurred again and the pain in his chest increased. He sucked in a great swath of air. The human in the reflection did the same.
No.
Both he and Arthur blew out a breath, pulling in another lungful. His sight cleared. Not Arthur, but his own visage stared back from the darkened glass. Denial raced through him. How can this be? Excalibur the Kingmaker, could not be human.
This time, he ignored the emotional turmoil, taking serious note of his surroundings. This place bore no resemblance to the wizard's basement workshop. No sarcastic grimoire waited to tell Cal of the changes in the world. He calmed enough to listen to the magic that whispered through him. Magic supplied the words for the objects in this place, this garage. A van occupied the centre of the chamber. A lawnmower sat like a tiny carriage near one wall.
Where was Merlin the wizard?
The door opened, drawing him back to the problem of his missing wielder. He stopped breathing again, his entire being focused on the human woman framed in the doorway. The plain man's tunic and breeches in no way hid the generous curves they covered. A golden halo of curls framed a softly feminine face that slowly tilted up to face him. Eyes the colour of aged gold met his, her expression soft, with a burgeoning heat that he felt clearly.
Her gaze sharpened. “Who are you?” The beguiling curve of her lips flattened. Her warmth flared into sharp anger. The muted emotion matched her rising tone of voice. “And what are you doing in the garage?"
Like a dim dream between waking, he ‘saw’ the human child again. Standing in the wizard's workshop, she faced Merlin, weighed down by both guilt and the sword she'd accidentally freed from its prison. "I'm sorry Grampa Merle. I was pretending I was a knight. I didn't mean to pull it out." Like her ancestors, her innocent aura was gilded with both the promise of great power and honour. Of selflessness. Too young to manage their combined power the child had nearly died. The wizard cast him back into sleep. The inevitable had only been delayed. Fate demanded her dues.
The woman's essence, already tuned to his, sang with power. With purpose.
The Pendragon heir.
Excalibur's breath lodged i
n his chest again. This time with what he'd only glimpsed through his previous wielders. Pure human male possessiveness.
* * * *
Gennie stared at the man blocking the garage door. The zing of attraction hit her hard. He stood straight, towering over her, unashamed of his nakedness. In her mind's eye, Gennie saw a weapon. Lean and strong, he would not break easily. Adversity and a life of hard work, not pumping iron, forged muscles of steel from his body. His blue eyes, framed by lush lashes, practically glowed with an inner fire. His hair fell in a soft silvery-grey fall to his waist, inviting her fingers to play. The shining double-headed dragon curled over each plane of his chest. A washboard stomach, rippled down to...
Hello! Mr. Tall-Sexy-And-Confused had a very Merry Christmas present, all unwrapped and ready to go. He definitely came with batteries included.
Catching herself mid-ogle, Gennie flushed red. Her embarrassment warmed to anger. “Who are you?” He tripped her inner alarms, sexually and magically, putting her on the defensive. “And what are you doing in the garage?"
Startled surprise flashed across the stranger's face followed by a storm of conflict in his blue eyes. His anger flared and he knocked away the hand she unknowingly raised to touch him. “Woman. I am no trinket for play.” His tall frame leaned away while he looked haughtily down his imperious nose. A king addressing the lowest peasant, regal in spite of his nakedness. “No. You are a woman. You cannot be the one. I will not allow it."
Frank snorted behind her. “Just what we need. Another weirdo,” he muttered with derision as he tried to pull her aside. “Let me take care of this, Gennie."
"Hey Gennie? I don't think that man's right in the head. We can still call 911 for him.” Ben's statement brought choking laughter from Frank. Poor Ben still wanted to ride in the ambulance.
Conjuring Cal Page 2
