The Welsh Knight: Knight Magick 2

by Sams, Candace

  On the bright side, more and more humans engaged immortals who obeyed the laws. There was something to be said for a growing attitude of societal inclusion. But there were, and always would be, haters. Even if immortals like her were the only policing agents who could take out rogues, where regular human law enforcement groups could not, nobody thanked her for her efforts. Nobody. That being the case, and to cover her covert missions, she pretended to be human when and as she could. She moved a lot. Changed names when appropriate. Re-made herself.

  Sadly, other immortal agents didn’t have that advantage.

  British immortal agents took hell.

  Their government outed them to the public to fend off any inference of collusion. The Brits’ ridiculous Immortal Registry Law had got an awful lot of English immortals killed by zealots. Furthermore, the Brits had insanely assigned humans known as clavigers to watch the country’s immortals. Ostensibly, this was to assure the legally registered immortals maintained compliance with regulations. This utterly dangerous practice had recently got a whole lot of British human clavigers killed by rogues. Rogues often went after immortals and their clavigers, who complied with any country’s registration laws. They hated the idea of their own kind bowing to authority. Many rogues even claimed that they were the next evolutional step of mankind, and as far above humanity as humans were above insects. This was yet one more reason for most normal human beings to fear anyone with the capacity to heal, grow very strong, and live for eternity.

  She’d been briefed about the terrifying situation in England months ago, a situation where many human clavigers had been slaughtered and their immortal counterparts beheaded. But the British were adamantly clinging to their outdated, millennia-old promise to reveal all immortals to the public, when and as any immortal souls came into being. They even put photographs of the new immortals all over the internet, after some human, working at some desk, decreed the poor souls were trained to defend themselves against rogues.

  “What a damned, fucking mess!” she muttered.

  Nobody ever asked to become immortal.

  She certainly hadn’t though she didn’t have a gripe as to her highly paid existence. In fact, given her life up to the point of becoming what she was, Frankie felt damned lucky.

  Too bad the British handled things so differently. Their immortals simply had no rights to privacy at all.

  Now she had to work with them, and prayed the bureaucrats there would do as they had during WWII — maintain American immortals’ anonymity. That was the agreement and always had been: US immortal identities would remain secret whilst working with British immortal agents, on any matter of world security.

  She seriously doubted Merlin would let anyone out her to the public. He’d protected her aliases during WWII and would, hopefully, do so now.

  With the contents of her private briefing packet finally spread out before her, she carefully perused every single syllable in the files.

  These documents would have to be destroyed in the plane’s shredder before landing in Heathrow. No one must ever see them again. She must never speak about them to anyone but Merlin, or anyone Merlin designated as trustworthy. Those were her instructions. That was the measure of confidence the British wizard had with not only the queen and Parliament representatives, but with the United States covert ops units.

  What she read didn’t make her feel any better about the situation as she knew it. Indeed, for the first time since WWII, she felt fear for the world’s citizens once again.

  * * *

  Mac stood beside Merlin. They waited for the ultra-expensive jet to pull up to the hangar. Because of the importance of this situation, authorities wouldn’t inconvenience them by going through usual security measures all other travelers endured. All they’d had to do was drive through a perimeter gate, coast their big sedan right up to where they’d meet the American plane, and wait. This was the way British governmental immortals, and Ethereals, handled business of a highly secretive nature. As an Ethereal, Merlin was unknown to the world. The conjurer looked human enough and was no one special to the public at large. This was not the case when speaking of him.

  Because the laws required him to become a public entity, his face had been posted everywhere. And had been for the decades it’d taken computers and phones to interlink the planet. Mac understood that it was vital he keep hidden since every sixteen-year-old immortal groupie had a poster of him on his or her wall. He kept the hood of his jacket up, his face hidden, and his frame slumped. He’d recently let his beard grow, as well as his hair. This new physical change wasn’t much of a disguise, but it was all he had without professional makeup. Merlin hadn’t given him time to access that degree of covert disguise.

  In this instance, covertly meeting on the airport apron became deadly important, when an unknown American immortal—who’d never had to publicly register—would be seen with him.

  As with any mission where Americans were involved, their privacy was always sacrosanct. It always helped diplomacy by making sure the allied agent knew they’d be treated with utmost regard to their safety. Still, if this agent had any experience at all, there’d be a certain amount of wariness involved when working with any British immortal. Just as Merlin didn’t want to walk around in public with him, neither would this American.

  “We should use our own people,” Mac groused. “Their photographs are already plastered on all the social media sites. This woman’s anonymity could be compromised, even though we’re already taking extraordinary measures to keep that from happening.

  “I’ve told you before. We need allies before the worst happens,” Merlin countered, as he glanced away from the approaching jet. “Certainly, we desperately need American allies. We need their information. We cannot afford to wait until Morgan makes her move. Once that happens, American political history dictates that it could take years before they’ll jump into the fray. You remember what happened before 1941.”

  “I remember,” he agreed. “But what makes anyone think that bringing one American immortal here is going to change those politics?”

  “When the reports come back from this agent, Washington and all its ancillary power whores will sit up and take notice. Trust me.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. You know this agent. You’d better be right, Merlin, or some of our best kept plans might go straight to some foreign government’s congress, where no one’s mouth is ever shut. Hell…Americans can’t keep a thirty-thousand-dollar toilet seat aboard their president’s airplane a secret. Never mind what we’re about to divulge!” Mac complained.

  “You’re about to meet one of the best agents the Americans ever had, or likely will have,” Merlin told him. “She knows what she does because I trusted her almost eight decades ago. She’s managed to keep those secrets to this day, despite multiple debriefings by very skilled United States interrogation personnel who are long dead and gone. She knows the value of a promise. I trust her implicitly. You will too, once you know her. At any rate, you will treat her with the respect she deserves, as a visiting immortal agent to this country; one whose best reports back to Washington are desperately needed.”

  “Thanks for the lecture on how to act around a foreign agent. Didn’t know I needed one.”

  “Your attitude of late is a bit off-putting. Do try to add the word congeniality to your vocabulary, Macsen. And, for the love of Herne…try to occasionally force a smile. Will you?”

  Mac raised his left brow in disdain. People changed. Their motivations and values changed, and so did the times. Merlin had no idea what this woman had been offered. She might be here to report back on the low number of immortals in Britain. Merlin seemed willing to spill his guts on any substantial matter, especially where this agent was concerned.

  He slowly shook his head. This was not a good idea. Anything could happen to this woman and Britain would be held responsible by the powers that be in Washington. The meant the monarchy would be held responsible by the British people. Des
pite Merlin’s friendship with this American—a friendship formed so many decades ago—he meant to play his hand close to his chest.

  Whoever this person was, one wrong move could reveal a lot to the world, and to an enemy who’d successfully hidden since the fourth or fifth century. Even now, Morgan LeFey could be using magic to scry this entire scene. That Merlin had her same powers, and was continually trying to block what she might see in some crystal ball or some bowl filled with water, made no difference. Sooner or later, Morgan would find out everything they were up to. She’d fulfill prophecy from the night of her evil sons’ death, and she’d come for all of them. The battle between her and the forces of light would take place on this island, not in America. And it wouldn’t just be fought with swords. It’d be far, far worse. Magic would be employed. Magic from the very bowels of hell itself; the same magic that the sorceress was using to keep herself alive.

  There was no incentive for election-seeking American politicians to get involved with British problems any more than there had been during those first years in WWII — when they’d steadfastly stayed out of the fight in Europe. Only the bombing of Pearl Harbor had changed that. Had the US fleet not been attacked in Hawaii, he often wondered if the British would all be wearing swastikas.

  This agent — this friend of Merlin’s from decades ago — was part of that same American culture that had talked peace and isolationism until their entire Pacific Fleet had almost been destroyed. He doubted she’d report back events as Merlin wished them to be conveyed. But, who was he to inject an opinion? He was a public figure in Britain — an immortal who, despite very long service to the crown, had no rights to privacy whatsoever. Lately, he’d been relegated to finding, arresting, or beheading rogues in remote areas of the UK, since he still had that same repugnant group of sixteen-year-olds making a game of finding where he was, and posting his status all over the internet. They’d even begun a fan site where they could gossip about his supposed latest love interest. The agency had notified him of that site’s existence only to keep him on his toes concerning his privacy. Apparently, the powers that be would do that on his behalf, owning their responsibility in outing his immortality in the first place. Agency employees always took down posts that were too invasive or bordered on fantasy porn, with him as the main character, but idiots put it all back up on the internet within a few hours.

  He simply shook his head at the puerile commentary, and kept his peace. It was either endure the status quo or go rogue — which would result in his head coming off sooner or later. This was life as he knew it. All the bitching in the world wasn’t going to change facts. He couldn’t even defect to another country, where immortal status was less scrutinized. Treaties existed that would have him sent back to Britain — under guard.

  He wouldn’t defect at any rate. He was a Welshman and an immortal. Honor dictated that he must consider duty above all else. Besides, it was too late to try and build any semblance of a normal life. Worldwide, as with many very old immortals, he was a celebrity. Running was pointless. He suddenly envied the coming American’s freedom.

  When the American jet’s air stair was finally lowered, and a small figure appeared, he didn’t want to notice or look remotely interested. He did his best to paste on an expression of utter boredom. But then this woman — this upstart that had suddenly been forced in his life — looked straight at him.

  Their gazes locked.

  Despite all his efforts and centuries of experience, he couldn’t have looked away from that bright gray gaze any more than he could have kicked the queen in the shins. If beauty had a definition, it was exemplified by this woman’s face. Her features were delicate, even and perfect.

  He automatically moved forward when Merlin did, knowing that in that brief span of seconds, something had dramatically changed. He no longer cared about affecting some temperamental, aloof air.

  Even from this distance, he sensed her immortality as she surely sensed his. That was part of the power all immortals gained after their first year of having been changed.

  As she was still staring, he did the same.

  Suddenly, he found himself interested beyond measure. Everything about this dulcet, sweet-looking creature, wearing a deep blue jacket and matching pencil skirt, captured his imagination. Her light brown hair was pulled up, on top of her head. The makeup she’d used was perfect. It neither hid or belied her perfect skin.

  If goddesses from Greek mythology could come alive, here was one of them. For some odd reason, he imagined her on a beach, wearing some diaphanous Caribbean green gown dipped in glitter, trimmed with seashells.

  How could anyone that stunning take off a rogue’s head?

  Merlin called out a greeting and rushed forward. The angel with a long, perfectly coiffed, thick brown hair glided down the air stairs like a graceful dancer.

  He stood like a statue, waiting to be introduced.

  So. This was his new partner. She’d be there for however long the powers in both countries decided her presence was necessary.

  Things could be worse. I just hope she can fight as good as she looks.

  Chapter 3

  Frankie finally turned her attention away from the colossus of a man in front of her. Instead, she put it on the reason for her being in the UK in the first place. It was disconcerting to think that something akin to a pheromone rush, for the big blond man, could distract her in such a way.

  “Jon Merdwyn!” she shouted as she exited the plane and rushed forward with great exuberance. When in any public place, she’d never use the wizard’s real moniker. They’d worked together for too long for some old habits to change.

  She hugged her old WWII comrade with great glee. It felt like old times when he laughingly hugged her back. Then, she backed slightly away. “You haven’t changed a bit, Jon. Still that long, white wizardly beard and hair; still wearing tweed jackets and smelling of good tobacco and fine whiskey. I remember everything.”

  “Francesca Radcliffe,” Jon gaily returned, “maintaining my anonymity affords certain luxuries. I still love my Irish pipe and my drink but, all that aside, how have you been, my girl! You’re certainly just as lovely. Changed your hair, you did!”

  She put her hand to her locks and grinned. “Black short curls were great in WWII. I’ve decided to go natural these days. First, you need to just call me Frankie. Second, how are things at POSI?” she asked.

  “Frankie. The new name so suits you. As to your question, the Paranormal Office for the Surveillance of Immortals is still plugging away. I’d have preferred a better name for our organization. Something quick, clean and elegant. Like Division 52,” he admitted, referencing the American name for her country’s immortal agency. “Alas, what can I do about it now? I gave humans the right to pick a designator. POSI is what they devised.”

  “It’s not really so bad. Every time someone uses the abbreviation, I think of daffodils in the spring,” she smilingly responded. Then, looked him over once more. “God! It’s good to see you again,” she reaffirmed as she clasped his hands in hers.

  “I hope you don’t mind a leisurely drive, my girl. I can fill you in on details as we go. This larger-than-life wall next to me is Macsen Rhys, or just Mac.” Merlin said as he glanced at the only other man present. “Mac, this is Frankie Radcliffe. She and I have business to discuss. Do make yourself useful and get her luggage, will you?”

  Frankie noted the annoyed glance the big, blond immortal shot at her and Merlin. Whoever this Mac guy was, he was most certainly immortal. As all immortals did when around one another, she sensed an electric-like current pegging his powers immediately. Where Merlin was concerned, the wise conjurer from antiquity was Ethereal which meant he could use his magical abilities to mask his immortality. That he didn’t do so know was because there was no need. He trusted her as much as she trusted him.

  As the blond titan moved away to get her bags, she briefly gazed after him and noted the strong stride of someone who was quite muscular, despit
e having all the brawn hidden by the black leather duster, dark jeans and riding boots. As the stranger moved somewhat begrudgingly toward the plane to get her bags, she took her voice down to the barest whisper. “Who’s the six-feet, five-inches of thunder god?”

  “Macsen Rhys was undercover in the Baltic area during the war so your paths wouldn’t have crossed. Obviously, he’d have used a different name back then.”

  “As we all did,” she agreed, then offhandedly added, “I like my current name better than the one in those days.” She then moved closer to her temporary supervisor. “Is he…” she let words trail meaningfully away.

  “Yes, Frankie. He’ll be your partner though he thinks bringing in an American is a mistake. He simply doesn’t understand how much you know, and have known, since the war years. He can be a bit aloof, but don’t let his attitude bother you. He’s a very good agent. You’ll see.”

  “I’m used to working around men who doubt me.” She quickly looped her arm through her older friend’s. “It really is so good to see you again, and to hear your voice.”

  “Quite reciprocated, my dear. Now…let’s get in the sedan. There’s rain coming.”

  As they got into the back of a large black car parked nearby — a perk likely provided for her convenience and for the importance of this meeting — thunder rolled in the distance. Once she was seated, Frankie glanced out her window, and caught quite an angry expression on the big blond man’s face. As it so often did in England, sheets of rain came unexpectedly pouring down. The crew of her plane waved at her from the open hatch in its side, before they closed it. This left the Macsen Rhys fellow alone, putting her luggage into the trunk of the car even while he was thoroughly soaked from the sudden downpour. When he got behind the wheel to drive, with a jaw so clenched that she heard the grinding of his teeth, Jon nudged her while trying not to laugh. He cleared his throat then spoke commandingly.