The Morrigan's Curse

by Dianne K. Salerni

  However, the severity of the crisis convinced Transitioners that a concerted effort was needed to stand against the Llyrs. They’d have to put aside their rivalries and work together.

  “How are we going to find these Kin when they could be anywhere?” Jax asked Riley.

  “Sheila will have a strategy for locating them,” Riley replied. “Guaranteed.”

  On Saturday, the phones of Riley, Mrs. Crandall, and Jax buzzed with identical texts.

  Sheila Morgan: Monday. Table Meeting. 1pm. Bedivere’s mountain house. Be there.

  “This is it,” Riley said grimly. “I’m officially coming back from the dead.”

  A.J. checked his phone. “I didn’t get anything.”

  “She only sent it to the people attending,” Mrs. Crandall said. “Me for the Kaye seat; Riley for Pendragon.”

  “Why’d she text me?” Jax asked, staring at his phone. “I can’t go.” The Table was a council of the highest Transitioner lords—ones who could claim a direct ancestor present at the casting of the Eighth Day Spell. Branch-off lines weren’t included, and Jax’s line was a branch-off in the newest possible way. He was the first of a bloodline that came from the Ambroses—who were, in turn, only a diverted branch from one of the knights of the Round Table.

  “Gloria and I had a great idea, and we warned Sheila in advance out of courtesy. This is going to shake up a few people.” Riley grinned at Mrs. Crandall.

  But Mrs. Crandall was staring at Riley in horror. “I can’t take you to the Table like that.”

  “Like what?” Riley stared back at her.

  She turned on Jax next. “Both you boys in the car. Now!”

  Mrs. Crandall said she wasn’t going to let her liege lord claim Philip Pendragon’s chair at the Table wearing a biker jacket and cowboy boots. That was why, on the following Monday, Riley came downstairs dressed in a navy-blue suit with a red tie and black polished dress shoes. Mrs. Crandall had even made him get his hair cut—short.

  Jax fell down on the sofa laughing. “Shut up,” Riley said, tugging on his collar like he was being strangled.

  “You look like you’re going to a job interview,” Jax said. “At a bank. To be an accountant.”

  “Next time,” Riley growled, “I’ll let them buzz you.”

  Riley had scored a reprieve for Jax at the Hair Cuttery on Saturday by convincing Mrs. Crandall that they needed to leave him looking like himself—“a dumb kid.”

  “Hey!” Jax had exclaimed.

  “That way they’ll underestimate him,” Riley had finished. “Like we all did.”

  Jax had gotten away with just a new shirt and a half-inch trim on his wavy mop, but he still had to pass inspection before they left for the meeting. Mrs. Crandall straightened his collar and smoothed a loose lock of hair off his forehead. Then she turned to Riley and picked lint off his collar. “You look like your father,” she said.

  “Then I should be wearing jeans.” Riley spoke quietly, not meeting her eyes. He wiggled a finger into the knot of his tie to loosen it.

  Mrs. Crandall swatted his hand away. “Philip could get away with that. You can’t.” Riley winced at the mention of his father’s name, and by the expression on his face, it looked like taking his dad’s place at the Table made Riley a lot more uncomfortable than the clothes did. Mrs. Crandall put her hand on his arm and spoke gently. “You can’t walk in there and try to fill his shoes. Just be yourself, and they’ll see the similarity for themselves.”

  “But this isn’t the real me.” Riley waved a hand at his attire.

  “Trust me on this. Ten years from now, if you want to ride in there on his motorcycle, you can. But today you’re wearing a suit and tie.”

  Jax groaned. For someone who was supposed to have a talent for information, he sure did miss a lot of obvious stuff. The motorcycle. It was his dad’s. No wonder Riley spent so much time working on it. No wonder A.J. had taken the time to securely stow it in the truck before fleeing a hurricane. Jax got it now.

  “So, Sir Bedivere,” Jax said as Riley drove the Land Rover along a scenic highway through the mountains. “I looked him up. He had one hand, and he was the knight who returned Excalibur to Niviane after King Arthur died. He’s not going to be mad that Riley took it back, is he? Well, not him. He’s dead. I mean this Bedivere.”

  “I didn’t steal the blade off Niviane’s body,” Riley said indignantly. “Wylit did that. I took it from Wylit. Spoils of war. It’s mine.”

  “Sir Bedivere didn’t have one hand,” Mrs. Crandall added. “That’s a mistranslation in the legends. He had the hand of power. It’s the Bedivere talent.”

  “And what is that, exactly?”

  “Anything they do with that hand, whether it’s wield a sword or a tennis racket or sign a business contract, is magically enhanced.” Riley glanced at Jax in the rearview mirror. “He’ll use a handshake to evaluate you, and be careful what you say while doing it, because you might find yourself bound to an agreement.”

  “Is he not trustworthy?” Jax asked.

  “Philip thought Calvin Bedivere was a fair man,” Mrs. Crandall replied. “But most members of the Table will look out for their own interests above anything else. Be wary of all of them.”

  “Is Bedivere the leader of the Table?”

  “Why would you think that?” Riley asked. “The whole point of Arthur’s Round Table was that everyone was equal. No one’s vote counted more than anyone else’s, no matter if you were a king or a knight or a noblewoman. This one runs the same way. Gloria’s my vassal, but she can vote against me if she wants to.”

  “Not that I will,” Mrs. Crandall said. “If I disagree with you, I’ll tell you privately.”

  And probably smack him in the back of the head besides, from what Jax had observed. “Well, the meeting’s at Bedivere’s house,” Jax pointed out. “I just thought . . .”

  “The Table usually meets at a neutral location in Manhattan,” Mrs. Crandall said. “But the city’s still recovering from the storm, and Bedivere’s house is a favorite alternative. You’ll see why when we get there.”

  The first thing Jax saw from the highway was a little town in the valley, tucked into a bend in the Lehigh River. Once they left the main road, he spotted the house on the mountainside overlooking the town. Maybe castle would’ve been a better word, because it seemed to guard the town from above. It had turrets and balconies and other architectural stuff Jax had no words for. He figured Bedivere must’ve signed a lot of contracts with that hand of power to afford this. “Does a whole clan live here?” Jax asked. “Like at the Dulac building?”

  “Calvin’s a widower,” Mrs. Crandall said. “He has three daughters, several grandchildren, and vassals with families of their own. They might stay with him from time to time, but I believe they all have their own residences, and only Calvin lives here year round.”

  They took a narrow, switchback road to the house, where they were stopped at an ornate gate by three guards who ordered them to get out of the car and show their marks. When they did, two of the men betrayed no reaction, but the youngest one whistled in surprise over the Pendragon family crest.

  “We’re here to claim our seats,” Riley said.

  “You and Kaye, perhaps,” the head guard said. “But the boy stays outside.”

  “No, he’s coming with us.” And then Riley explained why.

  The inside of the mansion was as impressive as the outside, but Jax didn’t have a lot of time to admire it. A guard marched them to a set of double doors, knocked briskly, and waved them into a banquet room. The table inside wasn’t round, which disappointed Jax. It was a regular rectangular dining table with four men and three women seated around it. One of the women was Deidre’s mother, Sheila Morgan, and another was Jax’s cousin Sloane Dulac.

  Jax stiffened at the sight of her. The last time he’d seen Sloane, he’d been fighting to keep himself out of her clan and Evangeline safe from her malicious plans.

  A gray-haired gentleman ro
se from his chair at the head of the table. His smile seemed genuinely welcoming. “Gloria Kaye. Have you come to claim your brother’s seat at last?” He offered her his hand, not by showing his mark in the Transitioner fashion, but in the Normal way.

  “Good to see you again, Calvin.” Mrs. Crandall accepted his handshake. Her maiden name was Kaye, and she was descended from the Sir Kay of legend. Her family had served the Pendragons for centuries, but like Riley, she was the last of her line. Her only child, A.J., had inherited his father’s talent, not hers.

  Calvin Bedivere turned to Riley, who solemnly showed his mark. “No need, young man,” said Bedivere, offering a warm handshake to him as well. “I recognize you. Philip’s boy. I’m glad to see you alive and well.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Riley said.

  Jax detected a surprised reaction from some of the people in the room—but not many. Sheila Morgan and Sloane already knew Riley had survived the assassination attempt five years ago, and it looked as if word had leaked out to other Table members as well. Too many people had seen Riley at the pyramid in Mexico and at the Dulac building for it to remain a secret much longer.

  Bedivere smiled at Jax next. “You, son, I don’t know.”

  Jax showed his mark. “Jax Aubrey, sir.”

  “Indeed.” Bedivere shook Jax’s hand with a friendly smile. “Now, Gloria and—Riley, is that right? You’re both welcome to take the seats of your ancestors at our Table. And your young friend can wait outside.”

  It was politely stated but firm. Jax was not welcome in the room.

  “Jax isn’t tagging along,” Riley said. “He’s serving as proxy to someone who can’t attend the meeting.”

  “Ah,” Bedivere said. “Owens? Is he finally claiming his seat, too?”

  “No.” Riley’s voice was quiet. “The Owens line is deceased.”

  “I can confirm that,” said Sheila Morgan. “Miller Owens died fighting Wylit’s vassals in Mexico.”

  “Another bloodline of the Table lost,” grumbled a bearded man, shaking his head. “While the branch-off talents increase like rabbits, snuffing us out.”

  “Get over yourself, Pellinore,” said a wispy-thin, elderly lady with snow-white hair. “Branch-off talents aren’t inferior to ours. Back before the spell, nobody cared about such things. It’s only an accident of history that our families ended up earning a seat here—and an extra day, as well.”

  Jax perked up his ears, suddenly wondering how many people with magic talents had not become Transitioners because they hadn’t been present at the casting of the spell. He was pondering that when Bedivere cleared his throat to catch Jax’s attention. “Who are you here to represent then, Aubrey?”

  Jax snapped his thoughts back to the task at hand and said what Riley had told him to say. “I’m here as a proxy for my liege lady, and on her behalf I claim the Emrys seat at the Table.”

  A number of voices called out at once.

  “What?”

  “That’s nonsense!”

  “There are no Kin at the Table!”

  Sloane leaned over and whispered to the man sitting next to her.

  “The Table is a Transitioner council,” Bedivere said to Riley.

  “With all due respect, sir,” Riley replied, “seats at the Table are owed to clan leaders descended from the people who cast the Eighth Day Spell, which included one Kin lord.”

  “He’s right,” said the woman with the white hair. “There used to be an Emrys seat at the Table, although I don’t believe it’s been filled since the seventeenth century.”

  “You would know,” muttered the bearded Pellinore, who seemed to be stinging from the Get over yourself remark.

  “We can’t invite an enemy to join us,” Sloane said loudly. “We’re at war with the Kin, and the Emrys line conspired against us in the past. There’s an Emrys consorting with the Llyrs right now.” The man beside her nodded.

  “A child,” said Mrs. Crandall. “Who was driven to seek refuge with the Llyrs after being held against her will by the Dulacs.”

  “It was protective custody,” Sloane corrected.

  “It was a jail cell,” Jax snapped. He looked at everyone else. “My liege lady wants to get her sister away from the Llyrs.”

  A narrow-faced man with a cross-eyed gaze waved his hand for Jax to be quiet. “You don’t have a right to speak here, boy.”

  “If the Emrys leader wants to cooperate,” Sheila Morgan said, “it would be foolish to refuse her. Let’s put it to a vote.”

  “There’s no reason for a vote,” the elderly woman said firmly. “An Emrys cast the Eighth Day Spell. The Emrys bloodline is owed a seat.”

  But they voted anyway. Sheila Morgan and the white-haired woman voted in favor, and so did Riley and Mrs. Crandall, who hadn’t even had a chance to sit down yet. Sloane voted against, along with the man beside her, the cross-eyed man, and Pellinore.

  The deciding vote fell to Calvin Bedivere, who smiled wryly. “I find myself swayed by historic precedence. The Emrys family is welcome to our council.” He looked at Jax. “By proxy.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Jax tried not to look as nervous as he felt. Riley clapped a hand on his shoulder, and together they moved toward the Table to find a seat.

  8

  INTRODUCTIONS WERE MADE FOR Jax’s benefit. The elderly woman was Carlotta Lyonnesse. Ash Pellinore was the name of the bearded guy. Roger Sagramore was the cross-eyed man, and the man seated next to Sloane was Oliver Bors.

  Bors. Jax recognized the name, but his visit to the Dulac clan was hazy in his mind, thanks to the fix Tegan had arranged for his memory. It wasn’t until Sloane whispered in Bors’s ear again that Jax remembered Ursula Dulac had been married to a Bors and some of her sons had inherited her husband’s talent. Oliver Bors must be Sloane’s uncle.

  Jax had expected more people to be here. According to Melinda Farrow, his tutor in all things magical, most of Arthur’s knights and a lot of lords and ladies had participated in the casting of the Eighth Day Spell. But, as Pellinore had pointed out, families died out over fifteen centuries—or diverged into new talents in a magical version of evolution. Jax wondered how much further this elite group could dwindle before the branch-off Transitioners stopped allowing them to make decisions for everyone—and whether that might be a good thing. After all, as Carlotta had said, their only qualification was having a direct ancestor present at a specific historic (and magic) event.

  I’ll bet Mr. Crandall would be a better leader than Sloane Dulac!

  The nine Transitioner bloodlines represented here today were the only ancient ones left in the U.S., but there was apparently another group operating independently in the U.K. “They’ve promised support in the way of money and resources,” Bedivere said of the British version of the Table. “None of them have offered to come in person.”

  “In other words,” muttered Roger Sagramore, “‘Better you than us and good luck.’ They must feel like they dodged a bullet, having the Llyrs come here instead of wreaking havoc there.”

  “I hardly think they ‘dodged a bullet.’ Scores of men were killed defending Oeth-Anoeth,” Bedivere said.

  “Our first task is finding the Llyrs,” Sheila Morgan said. “To that end, we need to identify the Kin responsible for breaking them out and transporting them across the ocean—and locate their base of operations.”

  “I can’t believe you missed them in New York!” interjected Roger Sagramore. “You had seven days to prepare a dragnet to catch them when we knew where they were!”

  “We didn’t miss them,” Sheila said, her face stiff. “I lost two teams confronting the Llyrs. It was only by chance that my daughter wasn’t aboard one of those crafts. What did you risk in the search, Roger?”

  When Roger Sagramore clamped his thin lips together and said nothing, Sheila looked away with disdain. “From our previous meeting, you already have the specs on the military aircraft that assaulted Oeth-Anoeth.” Everyone nodded, including Riley—which made it cl
ear to all the Table members, if they hadn’t already figured it out, that Riley had been secretly receiving information from the Morgans while the rest of them presumed he was dead. “We found a hangar in Greenland that served as their intermediate stop before they arrived in North America. I have a squadron stationed there, in case they return to it. Now, this is what we saw them leaving New York with.”

  Sheila Morgan passed out images she’d printed from Google. “They used a twin-engine prop plane, possibly a de Havilland. We’re currently scouring the U.S. for this plane, which must be resting somewhere during the seven days they can’t use it, but a de Havilland doesn’t need a big runway, and it could be hidden somewhere as small as a barn.”

  While Jax pondered the immensity of searching for a plane that could be stashed almost anywhere, Sheila continued, “These Kin clearly have a small fleet of aircraft, and there’s no telling if we’ve seen them all. So, if any of you intend to fly on the eighth day, file your plans with me. My people will shoot down unidentified planes and ask questions later.”

  Jax sat up in alarm, but Sagramore beat him to a protest. “You can’t do that!”

  Ash Pellinore grunted in amusement. “There go your drug-smuggling runs, Roger.”

  “Ash, you mangy dog—”

  “Go ahead. Deny it in front of Gloria Kaye,” Pellinore dared him.

  Sagramore shot Mrs. Crandall a wary glance. For the first time since Mrs. Crandall’s brother had died, they had a truth teller among them.

  “It would make me very, very sad to shoot down fellow Table members by accident,” Sheila said, sounding like she meant the exact opposite. “For everyone’s safety, notify me if you plan to travel by air.”

  “What about my liege lady’s sister? What if—” Jax began.

  “They have more than just planes,” Sloane interrupted him. “My clan had a run-in with Kin teenagers in a Hummer the week before the breakout. We tracked them down after they set fire to a number of cars over several eighth days. One of them was the Emrys girl, which is why we’re convinced she’s in league with the enemy.” She shot Jax a triumphant look.