He's A Magic Man (The Children of Merlin)

by Susan Squires

  “I will,” he heard Brian say. And then the tunnel closed.

  *****

  Drew woke up, feeling like she had cotton between her ears, and earplugs in them. But the candy-colored hallucinations were gone. She wasn’t wet. People were talking. Men. She heard Rhiannon. But their voices were just a distant buzz. She couldn’t make out any words. She chanced lifting her head. Not as bad as before.

  Oh, no.

  She lay back down and tried to catch her breath. She was in the big room she’d seen in her vision. There were the couches (she was lying on one of them), the big dining table. Except in her vision it had been bathed in blue light. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. High. Maybe twelve or thirteen feet. And farther back—glass. She quietly worked herself around so she could see. One entire wall was glass in a big curve up to the glass ceiling. Like an observatory or a greenhouse or something. She could see an ocean and some parks and public-looking buildings. Off to either side were buildings even taller than this one.

  And more modern. The floors in this place were white marble with gray striations. Foot-wide stripes of green marble lined with inlaid brass ran around the edges about two feet in from the walls. Maybe built in the twenties? The furniture was overstuffed and comfortable, the carpets expensive and oriental. A kitchen, open to the big room, was sleek and modern, but the elevator doors were ornate brass with oval fans of sculptured scenes above them. Unique.

  Her heart sank. She’d seen those elevators in her vision too. She’d been afraid of what or who might come out of those elevators. If only she knew what happened next!

  She’d never felt so alone. Her two brothers and her father ... probably dead, according to Rhiannon. Sorrow seemed to sit on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Her mind darted from one unpleasant image to another, some past, some probably not real, or not yet real. Wreckage floating in the water, raining down from the sodden sky. Her mother’s face collapsing as someone told her the news. Who would it be? Some unknown government agency? Would anyone ever even find the bodies? Did anyone even know they’d been out in the middle of the Caribbean looking for an uncharted island? Maybe her mother would never know what happened. Drew probably wouldn’t survive to tell the tale. She had a feeling she and Rhiannon weren’t going to be BFFs.

  She’d never missed the connection to Michael so much. If she felt that connection at least she’d know he was alive. Things weren’t going to work out for them. She knew that. But she wanted the comfort/pain of his presence, even if he wanted Alice.

  She tried to steady herself. She didn’t know for sure her brothers and her father were dead. She was alive, wasn’t she? And Michael might be alive too. She gave him better odds than her family. He’d been alive when The Purgatory left. Rhiannon had said so.

  “Well, look who’s awake.” Rhiannon sashayed out of the cluster of men to stand over Drew. “Our little fortune teller.” She turned to the cluster of men. “Brandon, get over here and tie up Madame Zostra. We’ve got to get over to the hospital with the sword, pronto.”

  “How long have I been out?” Drew asked, feeling like a cliché. Didn’t people always ask that when they woke up? “And where am I?”

  “No time for twenty questions, Coed,” Rhiannon sneered. “Brandon, see she stays put while we get the Talisman over to Northwestern Memorial.” She turned away. “Jason says Morgan doesn’t have much time.”

  “Why do I have to stay?” St. Claire whined. How had Drew ever thought he was the one in charge? He looked out of place in his sport coat and loafers, since everyone else except Rhiannon was dressed in jeans or cargo pants and tee shirt.

  “Because Morgan wasn’t happy that you arranged a Goddamned television shoot about the Finder who was going after her secret weapon, idiot,” Rhiannon snapped. Drew could practically smell the smoke as she fumed. “I’m doing you a favor keeping you away from her.”

  One of the guys heaved up a long white box that looked rather like it contained a very long-stemmed flower bouquet. Drew could see his muscles bunch as he cradled it like he was Miss America or something. Rhiannon was already on her way to the elevator. St. Claire pointedly turned his back on her. He was a little too old for his pout.

  “Ta-ta.” Rhiannon waved to Drew as the group got in. “Be ready with some fabulous visions when we get back here with Morgan. You’ll want to try really hard to prove you’re useful.” She chuckled and the elevator doors closed.

  St. Claire had already rustled up some cotton cord from a duffel bag and was tying Drew’s wrists together behind her back. She was dressed in loose-fitting cotton drawstring pants and a tee shirt that said “Welcome to Jamaica” on it. She looked like a tourist with cheap taste.

  “Shit. Why doesn’t she keep handcuffs around?” St. Claire muttered. “She’s lucky I tie a good knot.” Drew swallowed. Her mouth was dry, as much from fear as from the drugs.

  Well, she wasn’t going to be afraid. Her family could have made it to shore. Michael would be waiting for them. She knew the coordinates of the island. And she was going to get out of here and send help. Her mother wouldn’t be waiting forever for four dead Tremaines missing in action. She just needed a weakness to exploit. That looked to be St. Claire.

  “So, you’re low man on the totem pole,” she said.

  That touched a nerve. “Not as low as you, bitch,” St. Claire bit out. He pulled her up roughly by one arm and sat her at a small table next to the wall of windows that curved up into the glass ceiling. He began tying her feet to the chair.

  Now Drew could see the distinctive twin towers rising in the midst of other behemoths. She didn’t need to ask twenty questions. That was Willis Tower. So this was Chicago. And that was Lake Michigan, not an ocean. She should have known. No waves—just a lot of boats bobbing in a marina. Between her building and the lake was a big park with paths and a huge fountain. Those ornate low buildings down the street must be the Art Institute. Her father had taken the family there when she was younger and he was here on business.

  She looked up at the glass ceiling. The buildings around her were much higher. This must be the penthouse. It took up the whole floor, since she could see windows on three sides. From out here at the edge of the huge room, she could look up at a stair-step construction that made a pyramid with her floor as the base. Huge buffalo head sculptures that glared out over the cityscape from each corner of the building. And above them at the apex of a pyramid was a behemoth glass beehive of a light. It must be twenty feet tall if it was an inch. It was blue. That sent a shudder through her.

  Well, she didn’t know the particular building, but if she could get a message out, she could sure as hell describe it so no one would mistake where she was.

  “What, no twenty questions?” St. Claire asked, sneering at her.

  “No need.” She shrugged, mustering her best Drew nonchalance.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s right. You’re psychic or something.”

  “I think one would call it prescient. I can tell the future. But there’s no need for that. The skyline tells me where I am. And this is a pretty distinctive building.”

  He finished tightening the knots at her ankles and stood up. He examined her. “Rhiannon said you could tell the future. She called it being a Seer.”

  “And the lightning round goes to ... Brandon St. Claire.”

  Annoyance, almost anger, rushed across his expression. He must know he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Rhiannon was upset with him. Not good for his health. He bit his lip and mastered himself. “Maybe you and I could get to know each other a little better while they’re gone. What d’ya think?” He rubbed the back of his index finger up and down her upper arm beneath the tee shirt. Cheap revenge, trying to frighten her.

  “I think Rhiannon won’t be happy if you screw up her Seer, figuratively or literally. And you dance to that girl’s tune, don’t you?”

  St. Claire glowered, but he moved away and leaned his butt against the back of the couch. “So, Seer, what do
you see about me?”

  She was about to say it didn’t work like that, when it occurred to her that she could use his curiosity. “Bring me a bowl of water, and I’ll tell you.”

  He looked suspicious.

  “I see the future in water.”

  He nodded slowly. “You better not be kidding with me.”

  Her smile was grim. “I’m not in a position to kid.”

  “True.” He smirked. He went to the kitchen, got out a big crystal salad bowl, and filled it with water. Sloshing a little, he set it in front of her on the table.

  “Scoot me up so I can see it,” she ordered.

  St. Claire did as he was told. The need to know his future had to be a really powerful thing. She leaned over the bowl. Time to sow the seeds of discord.

  “I see....” She gasped in what she hoped was horror and looked up. “No ... no!”

  “Tell me.” He sat down opposite her, fear in his face.

  “I ... I can’t.” She managed to put a tremble in her voice.

  “You better tell me right now.” There was a tremble in his voice too. “What do you see?”

  “I see....” She swallowed, and stared back into the bowl. “I see you. And you have a sword in your abdomen.”

  The water in the bowl shimmered in the sunlight. Suddenly, Drew felt very distant from herself. Uh-oh. A vision, a real vision was coming on. Michael—maybe she’d see Michael. That sent a flutter of hope through her. Or her father ... Tris or Kemble ... this was important.

  “What? Do I live?” St. Claire was shouting, but it seemed far away.

  “Be quiet,” she whispered. Or maybe she shouted back.

  The room she was in disappeared around her and reappeared in the water as the shimmering cleared. Only this time the room was not only bathed in blue light but flickering with orange flames. Smoke was everywhere. She saw Michael and her brothers, and Rhiannon and the men, all staring at her. She looked up and a channel of incredible brightness almost blinded her. She blinked against the light. Glass came crashing down. She knew she would die and strangely enough, that was okay.

  The water faded back into a shimmer, leaving Drew gasping for breath. Slowly she realized St. Claire was waving a hand in front of her eyes.

  “Who killed me?” he choked.

  Drew blinked for a moment, the disaster of her own impending death still with her.

  “Who killed me?” St. Claire shouted. He had spittle on his lower lip.

  She heaved in a breath. But maybe she didn’t die. Maybe she could change the future. Who said this was what had to be? To fix it, she had to stay alive now and follow her plan, no matter how puny it was. “Rhiannon,” she said. “Who else would it be?”

  “I knew it,” he said, whirling up out of his chair. “That bitch has it in for me. When?”

  “Visions don’t come with a date stamp,” Drew said. How she wished they did.

  “What kind of a fucking lame power is that?” St. Claire said, pacing in a frenzy. Drew said nothing. Let him pace. “Look again,” he ordered, coming to stand over her.

  “It’s not like reading a comic book,” she said. “I’ve only got so much in me.” That felt true. “And even if I wasn’t saving my talents for Morgan, I probably wouldn’t see you if I tried again. I’d just get another random look at the future.” Was that true? She didn’t know. Powers ought to come with instruction manuals.

  “Damn,” St. Claire swore and continued pacing. “I have to get her before she gets me.” Another round across the floor of the penthouse. “But she’ll have all her fucking hired hands around her when she comes back. And probably that Cloaker guy and the old lady too.”

  He continued to mutter. Finally he sat down on the couch, apparently using all his precious brain power to figure out what to do about this horrible knowledge.

  The afternoon passed. St. Claire called a couple of people, but apparently was having difficulty putting together his murder-prevention army. Drew’s hands and feet went numb. But she didn’t want to attract St. Claire’s attention. As dusk fell the room was suddenly bathed in blue light. Drew looked up and saw that the big glass beehive had piercing blue lights in it. Her vision was coming true. Wait. She’d seen pictures of the Chicago skyline that had this blue light in them. This was some kind of famous building or something.

  She was still racking her brain about how to use St. Claire’s new animosity toward his employer to best purpose when the elevator in the center of the floor dinged. Her heart leaped into her throat. But it couldn’t be her vision coming true. There were no clusters of men around the big room. She needn’t be afraid of what was stepping out of that elevator door.

  Rhiannon burst into the room.

  Maybe Drew did need to be afraid.

  “Who knew hospitals have security these days?” she fumed, throwing a skimpy wrap onto the nearest couch.

  “Rent-a-Cops,” one of Rhiannon’s men said derisively. “They’re no match for us. We could take ’em.”

  “Like we can just kill a bunch of hospital security guards without attracting attention. Don’t be stupid.” Rhiannon turned on her followers. “The ceremony takes time. And we need to have peace and quiet. We can’t be fighting off the authorities. And Morgan wants secrecy.”

  “Cops would be all over us,” another one said. He laid the white box carefully on a dining room table as big as the one at home at the Breakers.

  Rhiannon let out a frustrated half screech. “If Jason could cloak the sword....”

  “He says he can’t, but how do we know that’s true?” The guy who seemed to be second in charge was one of those men who wore skin-tight black tee shirts to show their biceps and baggy camo cargo pants over Doc Martens. He looked like he was on loan from the Mossad.

  “Even if it were cloaked it’d set off any security alarm within fifty feet,” Rhiannon fumed. “So we can’t get it through security at the hospital.” She tapped a finger against her chin and looked around the apartment. Her gaze skimmed Drew and St. Claire, but she was too busy thinking to register St. Claire’s barely suppressed fury. “Okay,” she announced. “We’ll bring Morgan here.”

  Her announcement was met with silence. “She’s on a respirator,” Mossad guy finally ventured. “Might kill her to take her off.”

  “So find me a respirator we can bring in here, and start calling ambulance companies and figure out how we transport her without killing her.”

  They stood blinking at her for a minute. Mossad guy was the first to surface. “You locate some medical supply companies, Eric. Call and ask if they have respirators. Nick, call ambulance services. And Duane, find out from the hospital what their policy is for checking out AMA.”

  They scattered. In the ensuing bustle, Drew noticed St. Claire making his way to the dining room table.

  Mossad-guy turned to Rhiannon. “We won’t get far with all these arrangements this late. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow to coordinate something on this scale.”

  “I hope to God she lasts until we can get her the sword.” Rhiannon was shaken. “She’s gone downhill fast since I last saw her.”

  This wasn’t all bad, Drew thought. If their leader was on a respirator, it was only a matter of time until the group fell apart, right? If only Drew could last until that happened, maybe....

  “I don’t trust Jason. He looked like he was the one in control there.”

  “Not nearly worried enough about her, was he?” Rhiannon looked out at the glistening bright city and the last fading light to the west. “She has something on him. I don’t know what. Maybe it would be really convenient for him if she didn’t get the Talisman in time.”

  “Do you think he has enough power to wield it?”

  She shook her head derisively. “I’m the only one I know who can. And Morgan, of course, but not in her current state.” Rhiannon poured herself a hefty scotch from the cut crystal decanter on the sideboard. When she turned back she caught St. Claire fumbling at the box for the sword. Before either R
hiannon or Mossad-guy could lunge for him, he had it out. It was so heavy he had to use both hands to point it.

  Stupid, stupid man, Drew thought.

  “You definitely haven’t got enough power,” Rhiannon said calmly, sipping her drink.

  “It works fine as just a sword,” St. Claire panted.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Rhiannon’s eyes were steady on St. Claire’s face even as Mossad-guy moved soundlessly up behind him.

  “Ounce of prevention,” St. Claire said. It was the last thing he’d ever say.

  Mossad-guy slipped his arm around St. Claire’s throat and squeezed. “Drop it,” he ordered. “Or I’ll break your windpipe.”

  St. Claire held on to the sword until his eyes rolled up in his head. It clattered to the ground. At which point, Rhiannon picked it up with both hands and ran it through St. Claire’s paunchy stomach and up into his chest. Drew shrieked in surprise and horror. She’d never seen anyone killed. Just like it was nothing. Like it happened every day.

  “You’re right,” Rhiannon said, pulling the sword out. “Works just fine as a sword.”

  Drew was having trouble breathing. Her stomach churned. She’d gotten St. Claire killed in some clumsy attempt to foment discord. He wasn’t a good guy. But he was human. And now he was dead. She wanted to take back all she’d said to St. Claire, start the afternoon over. Tears rose to her eyes. Mossad-guy tossed St. Claire to the floor. Rhiannon wiped the sword. The burly man slumped in a growing pool of blood on the marble tile floor. Drew had unleashed something she had no control over, and now she couldn’t fix this.

  My God…. Did she have some power to make visions come true, even if she made them up? Had she literally caused St. Claire’s death by making it into a vision? She didn’t want this damned power anymore, when she didn’t know how it worked, and couldn’t control it.

  Rhiannon glanced over to where Drew was tied to her chair. She carefully put the sword back in its box and came to stand over Drew. “Why do I think you had something to do with this? Little Brandon was not smart enough to challenge me for leadership. What did he mean, ‘ounce of prevention’?”