Knight Life (11 page)

    
Morgan pursed her lips. Amateurs dabbling in love spells. This was the sort of tripe she'd been unearthing in her searches these past weeks. Still … there was no reason she couldn't have a bit of fun at that.

    
She sent an eldritch wave back along the ley line, and many miles away, the girl's candle suddenly flared. The girl fell back, gasping in surprise, and Morgan's image appeared in the flickering flame of the candle.

    
“I am Hecate, goddess of witches,” murmured Morgan, delighting in the way the would-be witch's eyes went wide. “Hear me, novice. I have seen your future, and it does not include this boy. He is using you, toying with your affections, but he does not and never will love you.
He will bring you hurt and pain and misery, and he will do it to others of your spiritual sisters as well, unless you stop him. Have you the heart to do so, my child ... ?”

    
The girl's mouth moved, but no words came out. She managed a terrified nod.

    
“Now listen carefully. Here is what you must do,” said Morgan, and she quickly outlined a spell that would cause eruptions and boils all over the boy's skin, scarring him for life. The girl nodded eagerly, clearly taken by the notion of having that kind of power over someone that was destined to cause her so much grief.

    
“And never forget what you have learned here this night. Now go, my child … go, and do as you are bidden.” Then she laughed in a satisfyingly demented manner and broke the connection. She wondered in an offhand manner if the girl's original spell would have worked, or whether the boy really did love the girl after all, or would ever have. Ah well. No use concerning herself about it any further. On to more important matters: Where the devil was Merlin? Where—

    
The screen suddenly went black, and Morgan jumped slightly, startled. At the same time she knew instinctively what had caused it. And so she waited, and eventually it came.

    
Within moments the image of an office with antique furniture appeared on the screen, and there, seated in a large easy chair, was a boy who looked far too old for his skin. His feet dangled several inches above the ground; his hands were interlaced behind his head. He had a smile on his lips that was not mirrored in his eyes. He looked straight at her as he said, “Hello, Morgan. You're looking well-preserved these days.”

    
She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Merlin. You're too kind.”

    
“I know.” He studied her for a moment. “You're not surprised to see me?”

    
In truth she was very disconcerted. It had not occurred
to her that Merlin's power would be so great that he would detect her attempts to find him; that he would turn the tables back on her, apparently without effort. He did not seem to have undertaken any conjuration. He had simply commandeered her equipment. Could his power really have grown so? Was everything so effortless for him now? If it were true, he would be far more than formidable. He would be invincible.

    
All of this passed through her mind in a moment, and then she said, “No. I'm not at all surprised. Your overwhelming ego would only allow you to perform some such stunt as this.”

    
“Ah, how well you know me,” sighed Merlin, sounding almost pleased by it.

    
“I knew Merlin the man, not Merlin the tot,” she said airily. “I had thought the legends exaggerated. I see now they were not. You do indeed age backward.”

    
He nodded. “Just so. And, intriguingly enough, I become more powerful as well. It's quite a combination, Morgan: the energy and drive of youth combined with the wisdom and skill of an older man. An unbeatable combination, wouldn't you say?”

    
She leaned back, uncaring of her nudity. Her long hair hung discreetly over her breasts. “You would certainly say so, Merlin. Then again, there's always the chance that you will wind up being tripped up by your staggering sense of overconfidence. I will admit I'm impressed. Magic wards were placed all around the cave in which you were imprisoned long centuries ago. How did you get through them? Even at the height of your power—”

    
“Remember what I taught you, Morgan. Wards are nothing more than mystic prison bars. These were small enough to contain any man. However, sliding between the ward bars in a child's body was quite simple, really.”

    
“So you simply allowed time to take its course. Since you're long lived, it took centuries for you to reach this point … but ultimately, reach it you did.”

    
“Quite true.” Merlin slid forward, alighting on his feet, and came “closer” to the screen. “And I'm sure you realize that I subsequently arranged for Arthur's release.”

    
“Time off for good behavior, no doubt.”

    
This time Merlin did not even try to smile. “Now listen carefully, Morgan. I did not have to contact you this way. I can assure you that mystically you would never have found us. However, before too long Arthur is going to be in the newspapers. Rather than give you the satisfaction of locating us, I decided to expend the smallest aspect of my power to issue you a warning.”

    
She raised an arched eyebrow. “Warning, is it?”

    
“It is. Arthur will be running for mayor of New York City. As I said, you would undoubtedly read of this in the newspapers, for Arthur is destined to be quite a controversial candidate. I would not wish you to think for even a moment that we were living in fear of your discovering us. So I give you our city of operations ahead of time, secure in the knowledge that there is not a damned thing you can do to deter us.”

    
She frowned. “Arthur? Mayor? I would think that president would be more appropriate.”

    
Merlin shook his head and his image flickered on the screen. “You and Arthur, half brother and half sister, thinking alike. That was Arthur's first inclination. But he has too much he has yet to learn, including,” he said ruefully, “the name of this country. But that is neither here nor there. A complete unknown cannot come sweeping into the greatest office in the land from nowhere. He has to establish a political track record. New York is a highly visible city. And they could really use him. So,” he concluded, “mayor of New York it is. It's inevitable, so don't even think about averting it. You do not have anyone to aid you any more, Morgan. Modred is long-gone bones. You command no legions of hell—human, mystic, or otherwise. It is just you, rusty in the use of your powers,
versus me at the height of mine. You might say I've been working out.”

    
“Are you trying to scare me, Merlin?”

    
Instead of replying, Merlin merely smiled. Suddenly Morgan heard a low humming, as if power was building up from somewhere. She realized immediately that the television was the source of it, and an instant after that realization, sparks began to fly from the set. She dove for cover as heavy crackling and smoke followed the sparks. An instant later the TV screen blew outward, spraying glass all over the motel room. It flew with enough velocity to embed itself in the wall, in the carpet, and if Morgan had presented a target, in Morgan herself. She, however, had moved quickly enough to knock over and hide behind a coffee table, and so was spared the inconvenience of having her skin ripped to shreds.

    
And Merlin's fading voice floating from the still-sparking speaker. “Trying? No. I believe I've succeeded. Stay out of my way, Morgan, or prepare to suffer dearly.” And then there was silence.

    
She waited until she was certain that the violence was over. Slowly she raised her head, picking a few shards of glass out of her hair. She looked around. Gray smoke was rising from the now silent television. There was faint crackling in the air, and her nose wrinkled at the acrid odor. She stood fully and then slowly, daintily, picked her way across the floor. She stood in front of the television and, somewhat unnecessarily, turned it off. Then she padded across to the telephone, picked it up, and waited impatiently for an outside line.

    
When it came she dialed a long-distance number quickly, efficiently. Her face was grim, but her spirits were soaring. She felt the blood pulsing in her veins for the first time in centuries. There was almost a sexual thrill, matching wits and powers with Merlin. She had been little better than dead all these decades.

    
The phone on the other end was picked up and a slightly whiny male voice said, “Yeah?”

    
Her eyes sparkled as she said, “He's contacted me. They're in New York.”

    
“They're in New York?!” The voice was incredulous. “But
I'm
in New York! How could I not have known?”

    
“Because you're a great bloody twit. I'm on my way up there now.” She paused, frowning. “We have only one thing going for us. Merlin is not as all-knowing as he believes himself to be. He thinks you do not exist, Mod-red. He thinks I am on my own. It may prove to be his fatal mistake.”

    
“Fatal?” There was an audible gulp. “You mean like dead?”

    
She sighed, and hung up without another word. Then she leaned back on the bed, brushed away pieces of glass, and closed her eyes.

    
“Great bloody twit,” she muttered. “This is going to be tougher than I thought.”

“
Y
OU
'
RE LATE.”

    
Gwen stopped in the doorway, openly surprised. Lance was seated at the kitchen table, his chair tilted back against the wall. He looked impatient, even huffy. And she realized with a shock that it had been ages since she'd really taken a look at him, so rarely had he been both around and conscious these days.

    
He pushed his thick glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. The unhealthy pallor he'd acquired had not improved. In addition his lips were dry and cracked. The blue check shirt he'd worn for four days straight was taking on a life of its own. His jeans were threadbare at the knees, and his socks were standing over in the corner, retaining the shape of his feet as if from memory.

    
Not too long ago, such appearance on his part seemed almost romantic to her. Now it just seemed … creepy
somehow. But then she promptly scolded herself. She was not about to lose faith in him. He was a creative type, and much smarter than she was, and besides, she had known going into the relationship that writers were creative types. That they had to be indulged, not pressured, their imaginations permitted to run wild without having to worry about trivial matters like hygiene and … and …

    
God, was that smell him?

    
“Lance,” she managed to get out. She glanced at her watch. “Am I really that late? It's only a little after six.”

    
He tapped a bony forefinger on the tabletop. “I expect dinner by six
P.M
. sharp.”

    
She looked askance at him as she removed her coat and hung it on a hook near the door. “Since when, Lance?”

    
“Since when what?”

    
“Since when do you expect your dinner at six
P.M
. sharp,” she said patiently. “You're usually not home then. And even if you are, you might be asleep, like as not.”

    
“Are you criticizing me?” He'd spoken in a tone that was guaranteed to make her back down, to force her into a sniveling apology. But as she crossed the room and sat down across from him, his face registered with a distant sort of surprise that such an apology was not to be forthcoming.

    
“I am not criticizing you,” she said slowly, thoughtfully. She took his hand and held it gently, affectionately, trying not to flinch from how clammy it felt. “If you have a regular schedule you'd like to maintain, I'll be more than happy to aid in maintaining it. But don't try to change things on me and then get mad because I can't read your mind.”

    
His eyes narrowed. He had tilted the chair forward, and now tilted it back, interlacing his fingers in a gesture he imagined made him look very authoritative. “I think you should give up your job.”

    
Her eyes widened. “Stop working for Art? Are you nuts?” Her voice went up an octave. “He's the best thing
that's ever happened to me! The past weeks I've been working for him have been—”

    
His body stiffened, suddenly not listening to anything else she was saying. “Wait a minute. Best thing? What about me? I thought I was the best thing that's ever happened to you.”

    
Gwen huffed in irritation. It was so annoying. She'd come home in such a good mood, and suddenly she felt as if she was being sandbagged by Lance. When he'd acted this way in the past, she'd always chalked it up to his being in one of his moods. Suddenly, though, that explanation felt … inadequate. “Well, of course you are, Lance. I'm talking about two different things.”

    
“Two different best things.”

    
She shifted uncomfortably in the seat. “Kind of. Ow.” That last came from the fact that he was squeezing her hand more tightly than she liked.

    
“Best thing means best thing,” he informed her. “It doesn't mean anything else.” Releasing her hand in what amounted to disgust, he stood up, swaying slightly, and it was only then that Gwen realized he had a few drinks in him. The alcohol was easily discernible in the air now. “I should know. I'm a writer.”