"She sure zapped you good,” Stevie laughed around a mouthful of food. Cal detected no malice in the man's dancing green eyes. Simple enjoyment of the moment, clear and clean, emanated from the heavyset man. “Just like when Merle put up the Christmas lights."
A dark skinned man stepped out of an alcove with a platter piled high with sweet-smelling circles of flat bread.. He stared hard at Cal before setting the platter in the centre of the table. “Just watch your step,” he rumbled.
Like the dancing deer on his own tunic, Cal tried to fathom the house arms blazoned across the man's chest. While his magic gave him knowledge of basic objects and understanding of his wielder's written and spoken language, he had to navigate her culture blind. Still, both the deer and the wide eyed, smiling yellow character dressed in armour depicted on Sir SpongeBob SquarePants tunic, seemed odd for a coat of arms.
* * * *
Gennie breathed a sigh of relief as Frank and the residents of Camelot House accepted the newcomer's presence. Rory, Stevie, and even Ben, vied for Cal's undivided attention. Which the man, ah, sword-turned-man, gave to the men in spades. The guys could try the patience of a saint with their stories and silly comments. Most people could not relate to grown men who operated at a six to eight-year-old maturity level.
"Alright. Fun's over.” Gennie gathered up her purse and keys, ushering Cal outside in the wake of groans and pleas for him to stay longer.
"Sheesh, Mister Cal. Everybody knows you have to buckle up."
Frank, the traitor, followed them out to the car. He pulled her aside as the guys helped Cal. “I'm not so sure about you being alone with this guy."
"Frank."
"I mean it, Gennie. Weird stuff follows you like stink on a skunk."
Gennie scrunched her nose at the awful imagery. She smacked one huge shoulder. “I'll be careful."
Frank bent, looking in car window to meet Cal's eyes. He looked down his nose at the glowering man, returning the attempted warning with cool disdain. Cal settled back into the seat. Stretching his arm out, his wrist rested on Gennie's headrest. His lips twitched in a smug half-smile.
Gennie glanced from one to the other, nearly rolling her eyes at the testosterone filling the enclosed space. Finally, she craned her neck out the window. “Good-bye, Frank."
Scowling, the other house parent ushered the trio back inside.
Feeling the force of Cal's attention, she steeled herself before meeting his steady blue gaze. “I have to take you to Merle.” It was the responsible thing to do.
Cal nodded.
"He'll probably turn you back.” Gennie's heart squeezed in protest. Did she regret the end of her brief foray into magic or the loss of Cal's company? She didn't know.
He smiled, reaching out to touch a wayward curl, testing the texture with his thumb. Freeing the lock, he trapped another between his thumb and forefinger. “Lady, I am not human. Only a mortal pretender."
Gennie started the car. She wouldn't feel bad. She wouldn't.
He had to go back to Merle. The wiz-, Merle, would decide what had to be done.
"Everything is so alive. The people. The trees."
Distracted with backing out of the garage and juggling the stick shift, she almost missed Cal's quiet observation.
He stared out the side window at the painted plywood Santa and reindeer yard ornaments. One large hand pressed against the glass, while the other gripped the dashboard of her Ford Taurus. The heavy fall of his silver-grey hair hid any glimpse of Cal's expression. “A millennia I have existed. Lived barely a day."
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Chapter Three
"Merle!” Gennie fought the car door open, nearly tripping over an indistinguishable lump. Caution tape and debris marked the spot where Merle's house normally sat. She stared around in horror.
The police and fire department had already come and gone, leaving muddy tracks in their wake.
Gennie's grandfather built the ranch style house sometime in the nineteen fifties and never moved beyond its original décor. For years, she razzed Merle about redecorating, though under the clutter the place looked showplace new. Until now.
The air felt ugly, like the stench drifting from roadkill in the summer. Only, it was December, and though the temperature hovered in the mid-sixties, the scent didn't reach her nose. The scent clung to her inner senses with a dark taste of wrongness. Merle wouldn't allow such a thing near his house.
As usual, Merle had gotten himself into trouble, big time. Exasperation mixed with concern for her grandfather. She'd be lucky to get in touch with him until after he'd dealt with his disaster.
"Come."
Gennie allowed the gentle tug as Cal took her hand.
Somehow, he looked even taller, stronger and more confident as he led her through the rubble. That strength seemed to flow from him into her, steadying the frantic feeling that almost overwhelmed her. The strong angle of his profile took on a dangerous edge as he guided her through the remains of the house. He carried off the holiday shirt, sweat pants and tennis shoes with a regal air.
"What are you looking for?” She tugged at his hand, beginning to clear her thoughts. “I've got to check the hospital. He might have..."
Why hadn't someone contacted her? The police, someone should have tried to find her. And how would they do that? The insidious voice of common sense intruded, reminding her that she'd spent the night away from home. And if the authorities did call her home, they'd have to make a big leap in the phone book from Merle Ambrosius to Gennie Pendragon.
"No, the wizard is well. I can feel that much."
Gennie jerked them to a standstill. “You can feel my grandfather? Where is he?"
Cal looked around, distracted. “Not here. There is something else.” His head cocked to the side. “I've felt this before. It's ... wrong. Do you feel it, sorceress?"
She stared at him, then shook her head. “Don't call me that. I'm not ... I've got to find Merle."
"Father!"
Both Gennie and Cal spun.
A man in his early twenties, cocky and amazingly attractive, strolled casually through the wreckage. In his hand, he held a long sword. Unlike the reproductions she'd seen, this one looked well used. And very sharp too.
His pale blond hair tied back in a severe ponytail at his nape. If not for his colouring and the keen edge of hatred in his light blue eyes, he could be a younger Cal.
All warrior now, Cal pulled Gennie behind him. “Pardon?” Her protector's tone turned icy.
The younger man, in leather from head to toe, opened his arms wide. The long sword dangled negligently.
She wasn't fooled. Merle had dragged her to enough Renaissance fairs over the years to know that a real swordsman could drop the showmanship and whip that sucker around fast. He was the real deal.
"Good evening, Father. Lose something?” The man's handsome smile twisted as he sneered a glance at Gennie. “Do you not recognise me? Your eldest? Your son?"
"Mordred. No, I always recognise your stench.” Cal relaxed, reaching back to draw an arm around her. “Much time has passed."
Mordred's scathing look encompassed them.
The sly little prick set Gennie's teeth on edge, bringing to mind one of Merle's silly nursery rhymes.
Little lightning bolt sitting in my hand.
Bright and hot at my command.
Dart away, straight and true.
Heart dead centre, you'll go to.
Spells her grandfather drilled into her before she'd started school.
The vague dread of failure haunted Gennie. Her own safety did not matter. She didn't want to screw up and hurt Cal.
He squeezed her again, lending her a measure of calm and strength. Cal's laugh rang clear and sharp. Metal on metal. “Why the grand machinations, princeling? Excalibur will never accept you. The sword will drag as dead iron in your hand.” Cal's smug smile laced his words. “I personally guarantee this."
"Damn you! I had you at Camlann.
You were dead. Dead!"
Mordred's face mottled red. Rage flashed in his eyes, his murderous intent barely held in check. He shot his forefinger out, pointing straight at Cal. The tainted taste of the other man's sorcery swirled in the air with the threat of death.
Gennie stirred. Her protest was held still by Cal's hand. She wanted to pull the big guy behind her.
Merle's books, different, but still close to the original tales of Camelot came to mind. The Camelot Readers told a less charitable version of Arthur's relationship with his son. From the books, it was easy to see that Mordred feared his father, with good reason. Arthur Pendragon made his kingdom his first priority. His personal relationships were fraught with absolutes of implicit trust or complete loathing.
Fear of Arthur Pendragon, not Cal, stayed Mordred's hand, even as the hate prodded the bastard prince to attack.
Edging into view, Gennie cleared her throat.
Two sets of eyes, Mordred's piercing pale blue and Cal's mesmerising azure, focused on her.
Gennie couldn't help but interfere. “Mordred, Camelot is long gone. Christmas is in a few days. It's a time to celebrate family and forgiveness."
Mordred flushed red. “Duplicitous witch. When have I or mine been your family?” His arm shot out, fingers stretched towards them. "Ignis fatuus!"
Gennie reacted, shoving Cal out of the way.
The bright bolt of energy slammed into her as she spit out the trigger word to her own lightning spell. "Zap!" Her hand flew wide.
The bolt, keyed to her enemy's heart, hit home.
Gennie's world blurred, the black hole of pain sucking her down into nothingness.
* * * *
Having taken the brunt of the magical blast, Gennie crumpled at Cal's feet. Cal's cool detachment evaporated in a flame of fury.
Across the debris strewn yard, Mordred regained his footing. The prince's sword lay out of reach, twisted and ruined from blocking Gennie's magic lightning bolt.
Cal charged at the other man, barely aware of any obstacles in his path.
Mordred recovered enough to fling his hands out again. "Quake!"
Warned, Cal dodged.
The ground shook, almost unbalancing Cal. Emotion knifed through him. Gennie had sacrificed herself for his sake. He slammed into the sorcerer, fist connecting with Mordred's jaw before he could cast another spell.
No stranger to battlefield tactics, Mordred slammed a fist into the side of Cal's head.
They rolled over broken brick and trash, exchanging blows. A knee to Cal's middle exploded his breath in a rush. Uncaring, he battered his opponent down.
Retribution. Justice.
Genevieve.
Cal sat up, one bloody fist raised over Mordred's weak defence.
Arthur's greatest enemy sucked in a ragged breath. His eyes pleaded for mercy. “Father."
Mordred's type of mercy flashed through Cal's mind. Righteous anger filled him on behalf of the peasants begging for sanctuary in the wake Mordred's uprising.
"I am not your father."
Mordred's wince disappeared under the impact of Cal's fist.
"Cal!"
He pulled back, flinching at the soft touch on one shoulder. Nothing ever looked so beautiful as Gennie, staring down at him. Worry stained her lovely brown eyes. She reached a hand out as if to touch him, but pulled back when Mordred moaned.
Cal wondered what she thought of what he had done. He damn well did not know what to think of his actions, or of what he felt while doing it.
Beneath him, Arthur's whelp lay still. Hurt enough that he wouldn't be spellcasting anytime soon.
"Cal?” Gennie met his eyes. “Are you okay?"
He nodded, getting to his feet, he moved back from Mordred. “He needs to be dealt with. Turning your back on this one will only gain you a blade buried deep."
* * * *
Gennie looked at Cal through new eyes.
Not Cal, but Excalibur, a weapon moulded after the greatest warrior of legend. As a man, he had great courage and passion, and was muddling along, completely out of his depth.
It was time to stop hiding from herself.
Gennie approached Mordred, shaking her head at Cal's protest.
The disgruntled warrior took a step, as if to finish dealing with Mordred himself. That he stopped showed great faith in her abilities.
Gennie did a mental head slap. Her real problem stemmed from fear of the unknown. She might lose control, but the odds stacked far in her favour. If Cal had faith in her, then she should too.
Stretching her hands over the unconscious man, Gennie looked inward, pulling on untouched reserves of magic. “Stay back. I'm only so-so with it. Sometimes the magic backfires."
Assured that Cal wouldn't come any closer, she closed her eyes and smiled. She was Genevieve Pendragon, a many greats-granddaughter of both Merlin Ambrosius and Arthur Pendragon. The blood of legends ran in her veins. Possibly even this poor man's.
"Sorcerer you may be.
Magic you may wield.
All for naught. Your hands are empty.
Out of time, out of place.
Medrawt, I bind you to this field of space.
Blood-kin, I call you.
To your sire I return you."
Gennie brought her hands together, clapping three times before singing out the spell's trigger.
"Good-bye!"
A golden translucent bubble formed around Mordred. The shimmer shrivelled, like heated shrink-wrap packaging, attaching to his form. The shine dimmed into a single point, pulling the man into it. With a final pop, Mordred, son and enemy to King Arthur of Camelot, disappeared.
Cal studied her, pride evident in his gaze. “Where did he go?"
Gennie laughed. The nervous sound came out as a delicate snort.
"Where else would you send bad little boys? All wrapped up, nice and neat, to his daddy."
He stared a moment more. “Back to his own time?"
"Puh-leeze. I cut off his access to magic and locked the jerkoff in the here and now.” Gennie grinned with evil delight. “I know my Arthurian legend. Supposedly, both Arthur and Mordred killed each other at Camlann."
A slow grin of pure wickedness formed across his battered face. On the torn Christmas shirt, the dancing reindeer looked more like a limping reindeer. Yard litter tangled in his hair and still the man was ridiculously sexy. “What more, lady?"
Gennie batted her eyes. She touched a hand to her chest. “Me? My dearly departed relative pointed it out ... you do look a lot like Uncle Art. But then, I haven't seen him since I wore saddle-shoes and bloomers.” She studied him carefully, finally seeing what Mordred had. Gennie shivered. In her mind, Uncle Art was, and always would be, just another eccentric relative. Cal was one of a kind. He made every part of her feel alive and feminine. Uncomfortable, she looked away, fumbling for a less personal topic. “Well, from what I've read, Mordred has to be a real head-case. The Dark Ages weren't very kind to him."
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Chapter Four
The Dark Ages weren't kind to anyone. In King Arthur's time, and for centuries after, might and right were interchangeable. Cal had had a lot of time to watch mankind over the centuries. Unless he languished in the possession of his wielder, or slept in Merlin's stone prison where at least the grimoire shared humanity's progress with Cal.
Gennie's grin of triumph faded.
The uncertainty in her eyes pulled him close. He could not resist touching her, wrapping her up in his arms. “What ails you, my fair Genevieve?"
Her laugh muffled in his chest, but he felt better for hearing it. “It's Merle. I don't think Mordred knew where my grandfather went either."
"No. The coward would not have been hiding, waiting to ambush whoever had the sword otherwise."
She buried her face in his chest, generating a strange and wonderful warmth throughout his body. “I just wish I knew he was okay."
"Merlin is well."
Gennie drew b
ack, eyeing him hard enough to send a shiver of discomfort through him. “How do you know that?"
"Merlin is my original creator. My association with Arthur and The Lady of the Lake brought about much of my self-awareness."
"Cal."
"The magic tells me he is well.” Cal shifted, feeling unaccountably guilty. For what, he should feel guilty over, he had no idea. “Among other things."
"Among other things!" Smacking him on the shoulder, she pulled away. Her ire stung far more than the blow.
Feeling eyes upon him, he glanced around. Curtains twitched in one of the cottages, no, houses nearby. “My lady, we are gaining an audience. Perhaps we should quit this place."
She swung around, pointing a finger in his direction. “Don't you ‘my lady’ me. What else haven't you told me?"
Cal crossed his arms over his chest. He wanted to pick her up, throw the termagant over his shoulder, and possibly administer a smack on her behind, before getting back into her ... he searched for the word ... car. Instead, he made a sound of frustration and started for the machine.
"Did you just growl at me?” Her footsteps sounded behind him as he lifted the latch and opened the door. "Cal!"
Slipping inside the car, he marvelled at the complex engineering used in its design. The horses and carriages of Camelot were long gone. He wrestled with the seatbelt while she got in the car, pushing aside his desire to drive. That task would take more time to master than was left to him.
Glancing at Gennie's irritated profile in the other seat., he squelched the amused grin that threatened to overtake him. She was both delicate and formidable.
His new human emotions ranged from dread that she may die to elation that Arthur's bastard failed to kill her. Her dizzying world fascinated him. He wanted to explore everything he could in the short time he had left.
"Genevieve. Tell me how you celebrate Christmas."
She glanced over, startled.
Cal could practically feel her irritation fading.
"Well, I usually go to my parent's the day after Christmas for our big get together. My dad works for the state, so he doesn't get many holidays off.” The soft happiness she got when speaking of those she cared for lit her from within. “But Frank and I are throwing a party at the home for the guys and their buddies tomorrow night. Merle and Nick usually come bearing a truckload of gifts."
Conjuring Cal Page 4
