Knight Life (41 page)

G
WEN LOOKED UP
, saw the ominous house, and shuddered. She hugged herself tightly against the chill and wiped the pouring rain from her face. Morty was by her side.

    
“This is it?” she said, unimpressed.

    
“You sound disappointed.”

    
“I expected a castle. Where are we?”

    
“New Jersey.”

    
“New Jersey?” she said incredulously. “Christ, I used to live in New Jersey.”

    
“Yeah, well, keep it to yourself,” said Morty. “Well, let's do this. Wouldn't want to be late for our own funeral.”

    
They headed toward the house.

M
ORTY WALKED QUIETLY
in front of Gwen, taking several steps, pausing and listening, then gesturing for her to follow. It was nerve wracking, slow progress. Yet with this method they managed to penetrate
into the hallways of Morgan's house without detection. The demon maneuvered himself and Gwen past the detection wards placed outside, and now, as they crept through hallways, dimly lit by candles along the wall, Gwen started to feel as if the corridor were closing in on her. “Oh, God,” she moaned softly.

    
Morty turned to face her. “What?” he asked anxiously.

    
Her lips tight, Gwen whispered back, “I don't know. I'm starting to feel clammy. I'm sweating. My hands are trembling.”

    
He nodded, his inhuman face etched with very human concern. “We have to get you out of here.”

    
“No. Arthur needs Merlin. That's who I came here to get. Which way?”

    
The demon paused, for they had reached a corridor with a fork. He looked off to the right and to the left, then pointed left and said, “This way.”

    
There was a horrifying crack of thunder, and suddenly lightning illuminated the hallway. To Gwen's immediate right was Morgan's face, and Gwen—nerves frayed to the breaking point—almost let out a horrific shriek. But just before she could, the demon clapped his hand over her mouth, stifling it. Her eyes widened as the thunder subsided, and she saw that it was a painting of Morgan, hanging on the wall. Feeling foolish, she brushed the demon aside and decided that some form of petty revenge had to be taken. She still had the chalk in her pocket from having drawn the pentagram. She pulled it out and, even though she was frightened, defiantly drew a mustache on the painting. Then they continued on their way.

    
They padded noiselessly down the hallway. At the end of the hall Gwen saw a closed door. Morty drew up short, and she bumped into him. Her hand brushed against his scaly rump. He grinned maliciously. “I didn't know you cared.”

    
“Shut up.”

    
“Fine.” He pointed toward the door. “That's Morgan's
inner sanctum. That's where she was keeping Merlin.”

    
She nodded, and the knife was in her hand. Its tip glittered in the dim light. She only wished that she could have wielded Excalibur. Even so, she still felt herself an enemy to reckon with.

    
They got to the end of the corridor, Gwen straining her ears for some indication that Morgan was in the vicinity. And she did hear something. It was a television playing somewhere, and it was tuned to the election returns. Gwen pushed past the demon now and, with boldness she desperately wished she felt, opened the door and walked into Morgan Le Fey's inner sanctum.

    
Morgan wasn't there. Morty came in behind Gwen and peeked over her shoulder. His sigh of relief was audible.

    
Unfortunately, Merlin wasn't there either. The sanctum was dark and foreboding, with a pentagram on the floor that was elaborate and decorated, unlike the amateurish one (she now felt) that Gwen had drawn on the floor of Sheila's apartment. The furniture was elaborate and gothic, books lining the walls, and a window with huge drapes adorned with bat emblems. At the far end was an altar, perfect for sacrificing small animals. Upon it were two tall candles, one white, one black, in elaborate candleholders. The white one was burned further down than the black one. Next to the black candle was a photo of Arthur. Next to the white was Keating's picture.

    
“What the hell—?” whispered Gwen, approaching it.

    
“Sympathetic Spell,” the demon informed her. “She's trying to tilt the probabilities in the favor of Arthur's opponent. White candle burns out first, the other guy wins.”

    
“That's ridiculous,” Gwen retorted.

    
The demon shrugged and said mirthlessly, “Care to place an election bet?”

    
“The votes have already been cast.”

    
“Nothing in this world is ever certain, especially where magic is involved. I know it sounds crazy. ...”

    
“Actually,” Gwen said thoughtfully, “knowing such things exist explains an election or two that come to mind.”

    
Gwen then confidently bent over the candles and blew them out. She smiled briefly, and then her face fell as they both relit. ‘Okay, fine,” she said after a moment's thought. “I'll just switch the pictures.”

    
She reached for them and suddenly a voice from behind her said, “That won't help.”

    
She spun. There in the shadows near the door was Morgan. “The spell is governed by my will, little queen,” she said softly. “It does what I wish. This is my inner sanctum. My place of great magic. And you have no power here.” With a sweep of her cloak, Morgan stepped into the sanctum, sporting a thin mustache that looked like it had been drawn on her face. It matched the one that Gwen had etched on the painting.

    
Gwen and Morty started to laugh. Morgan, confused, picked up a hand mirror, looked at it in annoyance, and wiped away the mustache.

    
“Was that funny to you?” she inquired, sounding solicitous. Suddenly she held the mirror up, and it began to gleam. The demon's reflection was visible within it.

    
“No! Morgan, no!” shrieked Morty, but it was too late. A bolt of light lanced out from the mirror, enveloping the demon, and Gwen could do nothing to stop it except shield her eyes. When the light subsided, Morty was gone.

    
No, not gone. His reflection was still in the mirror. Except it wasn't his reflection, it was
him
, and he was mouthing screams for mercy. Morgan smiled at him for a moment, and then slammed the mirror down, shattering it. Large pieces fell all over the floor.

    
“Seven years bad luck for you, little queen,” she said softly. “It's so hard to get good help nowadays, isn't it, Lance?”

    
Lance, clad in leather and spikes, emerged from the shadows of the hallway nearby, snickering and glaring at
Gwen. Gwen felt ill. Part of her wanted to believe that Morgan had cast some sort of magic spell upon him, but in her heart, she knew it was just him. That he was happy this way.

    
She drew herself up, focused her anger on Morgan. “Where's Merlin?” she demanded.

    
Morgan looked amused that Gwen would take such a tone, considering the circumstances. “Oh, him.” She gestured to one side of the room, and suddenly light flooded a corner of it that Gwen hadn't even realized was there before. There, as if it were a trophy, was a column of crystal with Merlin embedded inside. Her breath caught. “Oh, God,” she murmured, her fingers interlacing as if in prayer. “Oh, God, I'm so sorry.”

    
“Not half as sorry,” Morgan told her, “as you're going to be.”

B
ERNARD KEATING, AT
least, had a sense of drama. He was cloistered away in a hotel room at the Essex while his campaigners milled about downstairs. He and his people were watching the TV fixedly.

    
“And with two percent of the vote counted, and suicidal Democrat Kent Taylor effectively out of the running garnering less than one-tenth of the votes, we are left with Arthur Penn still running behind Republican candidate Bernard Keating. Keating has 51 percent of—”

    
The rest of the comments were drowned out in ragged cheers from Keating's people. Bernie, taking a drag on a cigar, looked around and shouted, “Where the hell is Moe? He should be celebrating here!”

    
“You fired him,” said one woman. “Several times.”

    
“Well, hell, call his place,” Keating said, feeling expansive. “Tell him to get his ass over here, the stupid mother.”

* * *

I
T'S GOING TO
be close,” said Morgan. “Make no mistake, little queen. It will be close. But Arthur shall lose.”

    
Gwen's eyes never left Morgan. The sorceress had not moved from the spot where Gwen had first seen her. But Lance, dressed like something out of a
Matrix
movie was already starting to creep in her direction. “You're wrong, Morgan. You're going to lose. Everything.”

    
“My, oh my.” Morgan looked down her nose at Gwen. “The little queen has become quite the bold one. I haven't forgiven you, you know, for that attack in the park.” Her fingers drifted to her cheek. “I was going to seek you out after the election; let your head, sent care of a demon, be my final calling card to Arthur. But you've become quite the unpredictable enemy, haven't you, little queen. Turned the tables on me, yes you did. I'd never have credited you with the guts to search me out.”

    
Gwen's gaze and, suddenly the point of her knife, momentarily flicked in Lance's direction. He was trying to move around the room toward her, but he froze when he saw the knife. “Don't try it, Lance. I swear I'll kill you.”

    
“Why, Gwen,” said Morgan. “You're positively a woman warrior, aren't you?”

    
“You don't get it, Morgan. All my life I felt like a nothing. Like everyone always stepped on me. Then along came Arthur, and he made me feel like someone. And now I've lost him. Lost him, thanks to you. Without Arthur I don't care what happens to me. I don't care if I live or die. And when you stop caring, it means you can become reckless. That, and I've been using my brains a bit. I've watched what happens. I'm figuring out the limits of your power.”

    
“Have you now?”

    
Lance was creeping up on Gwen's right. Taking small, careful steps, Gwen sidled to her left, keeping a large table between herself and Lance. Still she continued to watch Morgan, Morgan the unmoving. “Yes. For example, I've
figured out that when you are attacked mystically, you defend and counterattack mystically. But when you're attacked physically, the only way to ward it off is by physical means. That's why they burned witches, isn't it?”

    
“Hanging was also popular,” said Morgan dryly.

    
“That's why that demon could take Merlin with his bare hands. That is why I could take you in the park. And that is why,” and her voice rose suddenly, “I'm going to take you now! I'm
not
going to go back to being the way I was!”

    
She drew her hand back, the skull shaped dagger now held by the point, and she hurled the dagger straight at Morgan's chest. The dagger flew unerringly and plunged deep into Morgan's breast, piercing her evil heart and putting an end to her forever.

    
At least that's what Gwen had hoped would happen.

    
Actually she missed by a country mile. The dagger, weighted completely improperly for throwing, spun erratically in its flight and hit the wall behind Morgan a good three feet to her right. It thudded to the ground, way out of Gwen's reach.

    
“Uh-oh,” muttered Gwen.

    
Morgan raised her hand. “Oh, little queen,” she said, “you who are not afraid to die. You who are reckless. I'm going to show you that there are worse things than death. You don't want to go back to being what you were? Easily solved: We'll find something different for you to be.”

A
T THE ROOSEVELT
Hotel Arthur was watching the set intensely now. A mask of gloom had settled over his face, which had spread to the rest of the people in the room. “I don't understand,” he murmured. “Don't they know what's best for them? Look at that.”

    
At that moment, with three percent of the voting in, Keating was at fifty-two percent, Penn at forty-eight. The
newscasters were already intimating that Bernard Keating was the new mayor of New York City.

    
Ronnie Cordoba's cell phone rang. He answered it, then made a face and—turning to Arthur—said quietly, “It's Bernard Keating. Shall I hang up?”

    
Arthur shook his head and, taking the phone, put it to his ear. “Yes?” said Arthur.

    
“Bernie Keating here, Art!” said Keating on the other end. Noisemakers, party music, and such were audible over the phone. Keating was shouting to be heard. “Ready to concede yet?”

    
“Concede?”

    
“Yeah. You know, quit. There's no need to be a sore loser, Art.”