Arthur’s eyebrows rose in question.
“Perhaps this is not the place to discuss them,” Merlin suggested. “It would be helpful to have the queen present and a few of your closest advisers.”
“What of Clary?”
Merlin pulled the door closed behind him, letting the lock click into place. “She is safely confined for the moment. Tamsin and I leashed her magic as a precaution.”
Arthur visibly relaxed. “Good.”
“None of this is her fault, you know,” Merlin said.
“You don’t need to defend her.”
“I do.” Merlin’s voice was flat.
“I realize she’s your student.”
“She is also Tamsin’s sister, your dedicated employee and a faithful member of your court.” Merlin struggled to keep his tone quiet, but it was a losing battle. All at once, he’d lost the capacity to hide what he felt.
Arthur held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Fair enough. She’s Gwen’s friend, too, but after what I saw today, I want assurances it’s safe to let her near my wife.”
That much, Merlin could accept. After literally centuries of waiting, the queen carried Camelot’s heir. Her term was near, and everyone was on baby watch.
“Where shall we go?” Merlin asked, mostly to change the topic.
“My place, if you care to take us there,” Arthur suggested. “Perceval drove me here, but I sent him on his way. The lad cannot distinguish city traffic from a battlefield melee.”
“No wonder you look green.”
“He attempted to parallel park. Please return me to my home, where I can pour myself a drink.”
Merlin allowed himself a smile. With one hand, he sketched an arc in the air before them. White light trailed behind his fingers, showing the gesture’s path and the outline of a door in space and time. The glow brightened, rays of blue and green flowing into the arc’s center. When it was filled, the light growing almost solid, the brightness changed course and began to dissipate like a morning mist. What was left behind was a window into Arthur’s apartment. The two men stepped through and Merlin closed the portal with a wave of his hand. The spell allowed them to enter silently and unobserved, and for a moment he paused to take in the scene.
Queen Guinevere sat in an easy chair with her feet propped on a stool. Her hands rested protectively over her burgeoning stomach, but she’d lost none of the lively energy that made the queen the beating heart of Camelot’s court. Beaumains, his arm in a sling, sat next to Gawain on the couch. All three were watching baseball.
“Where did you come from?” Gwen asked.
“Just passing by,” Merlin returned with a smile. “How are you feeling?”
She grinned. “Like a beached whale. Cheer me up.”
He summoned a carnation from thin air and presented it to her with a flourish. The queen took it and held it to her nose. “Thank you. You are gallant as always. Have some birthday cake. Tamsin brought it over for Beaumains. I think he’s finally reached drinking age.”
That brought a general laugh. Gawain’s youngest brother was in his early twenties, but had a melting smile that would make him look boyish forever. Merlin accepted a slice of cake, which was chocolate and very good.
“How fares Palomedes?” Merlin asked.
“Resting,” Gawain replied as he switched off the TV. “He will fight again, but he will carry the scars from that encounter with the lions.”
Merlin heard the edge in the knight’s words and didn’t blame him. As one of the senior knights, Gawain’s job was to protect his own.
Arthur sat on the stool and gathered the queen’s feet in his lap. He set about gently massaging them. “Merlin says he has news.”
Gwen’s blue eyes turned his way. “About Clary?”
“In part.”
Her gaze grew troubled. “I’m counting on you to look after her.”
Merlin gave her a nod, not able to find the right words. He had failed Clary the moment Vivian put one demonic toe in this world. He put down his plate of cake, his appetite gone. “There are rumors that the hellspawn are in league with the fae.”
“Which hellspawn?” asked Gawain.
“Tenebrius, for one,” Merlin replied.
“That makes no sense,” Arthur said. “When LaFaye challenged us to a tourney just before she was imprisoned, Tenebrius clearly disliked her. He judged in our favor and awarded the prize to me.”
“You never claimed the prize,” said Gawain. “Can you use that to your advantage?”
“If it were only that simple,” Arthur muttered under his breath. “We are speaking of hellspawn.”
The knights fell deathly silent, their faces drawn. These men had fought in the first demon wars, and all remembered the horrors. But as little as he wanted to darken the shadows already gathering around them, Merlin had to tell the truth. So he did, relaying everything he’d learned from the ritual to the discovery of an unexpected cure to the information Laren had provided. The only thing he glossed over was the growing heat between himself and Clary. That was nobody’s business but theirs.
Beaumains was the first to speak. “Of all of this, the news of Morgan LaFaye’s involvement worries me the most.”
“If there is a danger she might escape,” Arthur replied, “we should send word to the goblins to gather their armies.”
“And the Charmed Beasts of the Forest Sauvage,” Gwen added. “They are our eyes and ears.”
Merlin listened with growing unease. All the suggestions were sensible, but no countermeasure would be enough if Morgan truly slipped her leash. Merlin’s spell to bring the Round Table forward in time hadn’t worked as well as he’d hoped, and only a handful of knights had awakened from their stone effigies. Modern humans didn’t believe in magic, and even if they did, there was no reason to believe they’d follow a king who earned his living in an amusement park. And if that was not discouraging enough, every accord with the hidden world, including the goblins, pixies, witches and even the fae who still retained their souls agreed that the magical realm had to stay hidden. Humans had a bad habit of burning things and people they didn’t understand, and breaking the accords meant war with the few allies Camelot had left.
The only real answer was to turn the fae armies against Morgan, and that meant a widespread cure that would restore their souls. But although he had found the beginnings of a solution, Merlin—even with Clary’s help—had a long way to go.
“I have a question.” Gwen’s soft voice interrupted his thoughts. “Who is more powerful—the demons or LaFaye?”
“In the magical realms, demons are the darkness where fae are the light,” Merlin said. “They should be in balance, except LaFaye has changed the equilibrium of magic by bargaining with the hellspawn. She risks much by trusting in that pact.”
“Good riddance,” Beaumains said hopefully.
Merlin frowned. “Don’t be so quick to hope she is the loser. Once the demons demanded all earthly powers to kneel before them.”
“We would not,” Arthur said simply. “But that refusal began the war.”
Merlin remembered how it had started. He’d been standing on the balcony of his tower at Camelot, a shiver up his spine telling him magic was afoot. The morning had taken on an unearthly quiet as if the land held its breath. The first visible sign of what was to come was his pet raven flapping against the iron-gray sky. The bird had been arrowing toward him, its panicked caw a warning of approaching doom.
Then Merlin had caught the scent of rain. That would have been innocent enough, but the cold March sky had seemed to crumple, going from the flat gray of early spring to billowing charcoal clouds in the span of a heartbeat. Thunder ground through the heavens like an avalanche, and then the deluge had begun. Suddenly, rain danced on the edge of the stone balcony, on the slate roofs and the cobbled courtyard. In an instant Merlin was drenched, with the sodden raven landing in a heap in his arms. No birds flew in that rain—the force of it was too hard.
It churned the fields and the forest for months on end, and then the summer came with brutal heat. No crops were harvested that year. The winter took what supplies remained. Disease and hunger cut like twin scythes. The mortals had to surrender, or they had to fight and win. Failure would mean the certain death of thousands upon thousands of innocents. That was when Arthur had asked Merlin to lend his battle magic, whatever the cost.
In the face of the destruction of the land and its people, what could Merlin do but agree?
* * *
Vivian opened her eyes and then squinted as a bright light flared in her face.
“Ah, you’re awake,” said Tenebrius, allowing the flame at his fingertip to go out. “I was beginning to wonder if you were already snuffed.”
His goat-slitted eyes were impatient as if she’d delayed mealtime. Vivian frowned and sat up, taking in her own opulent bedchamber. Demons might be made of energy, but they all chose a physical form and concrete environment to dwell in. This month she’d chosen the Hollywood interpretation of an exotic pleasure palace just in case she got the chance to drag Merlin back to her lair. For all his cool swagger, he could be flustered if one knew how.
She swung her legs over the edge of her scarlet silk bed. “How did you bring me back? I was stuck inside that pathetically incompetent witch, and then Merlin knocked me cold.”
“I know,” Tenebrius said drily. “As demonic possessions go, that was a poor effort. You barely qualified as a guilty conscience.”
Vivian rose, her feline tail swishing with temper. “I was injured. It was a dreadful experience, trapped in all those complicated human emotions.” She drew the last word out for effect.
She stomped to and fro for a moment. “I felt like a spider swimming in syrup. I was about to come down with a case of stomach ulcers. Or poetry.”
“My, but you had a narrow escape.”
She ignored his sarcasm, focusing on that ridiculous fae, Laren. She’d been paralyzed inside Clary, but she’d heard every weepy word of his tale. She turned to the other demon. “Is it true some of our leaders are working with LaFaye? Are you?”
His smile was sly, which was as good as an emphatic yes. “If I told you, I would have to kill you.”
Her hands fisted. “I thought you hated LaFaye.”
“Arthur and your ex-lover cast us out of the mortal realms.”
“So? Everyone would have, given half a chance.”
“The Queen of Faery is willing to help us return to our former glory.”
“And you believe her?”
He waggled a hand in a so-so gesture.
“How will she do it from inside a prison?”
“A plan of Gorm’s. I’m not sure if it will work yet, though from what I hear the modern age offers some interesting opportunities. It will release us from the Abyss.”
Vivian rolled her eyes. “If you’d mentioned this before, I might have kept my eyes open while I was in the mortal realms. Now I’m back here, as stuck as I was before.”
There was a beat of uncomfortable silence that raised the hair on her neck. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Tenebrius was embarrassed.
“You’re still trapped,” he finally said. “You’re there, and you’re here. You split when Merlin broke his scrying ball.”
“What?” Vivian stilled, only the tip of her tail tap-tapping against the floor. “How do you know?”
“I saw it happen.”
“I feel fine.”
“You’re numb. You can’t feel it because the energetic bond between your two halves is nearly severed.”
“How? That should not have happened. The bond should be strong.”
He shrugged. “An accident, I suppose. You won’t last like this, Vivian.”
She slumped down on the edge of the bed, her normal grace lost. Horror crawled through her, bushing her tail. She looked up at the other demon’s pinched expression. “But I’m immortal.”
“Not like this, you aren’t.” Sadness filled his eyes, but like everything else with demons, it was hardly trustworthy. “The only thing keeping you alive is the witch’s natural strength.”
It was a death sentence. It was impossible. It was unfair.
“Then get the rest of me back,” she said, her voice quiet. “Make me whole.”
Once upon a time, Merlin would have hugged her and tried to soothe her distress. Even Clary seemed to weep for her would-be assassins. Why was no one here for her? Vivian slammed down on her sudden yearning to return to the mortal world. She didn’t need mortal sympathy. Weakness wasn’t the demon way.
“I can’t make you whole again,” said Tenebrius. “The most I could do was to summon your consciousness for a brief period. You will wake up inside your witch. There is no coming home, Vivian.”
Her chin jerked up. Her mind scrambled with the idea of a finite life, of actually dying.
“Is that the truth?” she whispered. “Do not play tricks with me. Not about this.”
“I am sorry.” This time he did look genuinely regretful.
The first shock past, her temper flared. “So, you brought me here to pronounce my death sentence. Anything else?”
“Help me wreak havoc on his precious Camelot. Make the most of the time you have left.”
“How?” Vivian narrowed her eyes.
“Be my informant. You have a front-row seat to Arthur’s court.”
Vivian considered. “I want vengeance on Merlin.”
“You can’t kill him yet. He’s your source of information.”
“Your source, you mean.” She watched Tenebrius’s goat-slitted eyes go cold and knew she was courting trouble.
“LaFaye ordered me to kill you. I told her you’d work for her instead.”
That would happen about the same time Vivian took up crochet. “Very well,” she lied. “I’ll be your spy. Then I’ll kill him.”
“A good choice. I’ll be in touch.” Tenebrius reached out one clawed hand and touched her forehead.
* * *
Vivian woke for a second time, but in a different bed. She had a fuzzy recollection of lying down for a nap when Merlin left with Arthur, and then a bizarre dream about...
That wasn’t a dream.
Groggy, Vivian pushed herself upright and dragged a hand through her hair—short, fair hair and not her thick cascade of blue-black locks. She was back in Clary’s body, but their positions had been reversed. Now she was completely in control, and the witch’s consciousness was a tiny spark buried deep inside. Triumph swelled inside her. Her newfound freedom was undoubtedly Tenebrius’s handiwork. A parting gift, perhaps?
She closed her eyes, shutting out the room around her. Dying? It made no sense. She felt strong, clearheaded and filled with purpose. Could he have been mistaken? She didn’t think so—Tenebrius might lie to her, but not about this. All the same, his information might not be complete. He didn’t say how long her demise would take. Months? Years? A mortal lifetime?
And yet now every second was made precious just because their number could be measured. Tears pricked at the backs of her eyes. Demons didn’t cry, but a death sentence was a good excuse to make an exception.
Vivian rose, in sole control of this body for the first time. She stretched out one arm, then the other, feeling the delicacy of the bones and muscles. By mortal standards, the witch was fit, but Vivian would need to be careful. Such bodies were easily broken.
And now she was stuck in one. Who was responsible for this? Merlin. Always Merlin. She’d shared her treasury of scrolls and grimoires, which was why he knew about that cursed battle spell. She’d shown him the many realms of the known world, from the Crystal Mountains to the grim wonder of the Abyss and its silent, barren lakes. She had unlocked his magic and made him a great enchanter. Most significant, at least to her, they had lain together.
Still, he’d betrayed her. He would pay for that, and she wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip, whatever Tenebrius wanted. What was he going to do, kill her?
The first step in her plan was to clean herself up. The little witch needed a lesson in style. After a long, hot shower, Vivian contemplated her clothing options. She had a vague memory of a suitcase arriving. Once she located it, she undid the zipper and stared inside. A rising sensation of dismay brought heat to her cheeks. Most of the clothes looked as if they belonged on a boy. She’d seen pictures of current fashion—the Abyss was far away, but advertising had an astonishing reach. Clary could have done so much better, with a splash of red and some body-conscious styling. She knew the girl was savvy about clothes and had all but dressed Queen Guinevere during her first weeks in the modern age. She was just too self-conscious to take her own advice.
Vivian snorted and tipped the suitcase upside down, rummaging through the piles Tamsin had carefully folded. A handful of dog-eared paperbacks fell out, and she pushed them out of the way to better see the fashion options. She finally selected slim-legged black slacks and a spaghetti-strapped top in white. It had a low-cut back that showed off a bit of skin. Vivian dressed and stood in front of the mirror on the back of the bedroom door. Clary’s figure was far less dramatic than what she was used to, but she could work with it.
Vivian reached out, touching her reflection fingertip to fingertip. For an instant the image in the glass wavered, showing her own dark-haired features before breaking apart like a mirage. Vivian gave a superstitious shudder and turned back to Clary’s clothes.
The only interesting shoes were high-heeled sandals, but walking in them would take practice. The girl had no tail, and that ruined Vivian’s sense of balance. She opted instead to paint Clary’s toenails a vivid scarlet called The Devil Made Me Do It. Who said demons had no sense of humor?
With her toes still wet, she padded to Merlin’s expansive kitchen to see what she could cook up. For a man who lived alone—and ate a lot of home delivery, judging by the menus on top of the microwave—he had a lot of pots and pans. Vivian quickly figured out why. One set was for cooking food, the nicer one with copper bottoms was for cooking spells. She selected a double boiler and set it on the stove.
A trip to the pantry revealed row upon row of glass jars filled with herbs, ground minerals and dried bits of things most humans would never willingly touch. She gathered what she wanted and began to measure out ingredients. It was a painstaking, exacting process but she only needed enough to make a single dose.
Once everything was measured and sifted, she added a generous splash of Chardonnay she found in the fridge. Then she began heating it all gently, stirring as she began a lilting chant. The trick was never to let the mixture overheat.
As Vivian had told Clary, she had to take Merlin by surprise. He had to be vulnerable, unguarded and unsuspecting—essentially opposite to his default mood. This potion would put him in the right condition for her plan to work.
As the chant ended, she lifted the mixture from the heat and poured it into a mug to cool. For the final ingredient, Vivian pricked her finger with a kitchen knife and let a drop fall into the brew. She stirred it in, wrinkling her nose at the scent of the steam. Love potions were powerful, but they tasted like swamp water. How was she going to get him to drink it?
Vivian’s gaze fell on the unwashed dishes in the sink. Among the usual mugs and plates were the cast metal pieces of the wheatgrass juicer. A tray of the bright green grass sat on the wide windowsill, looking like a misplaced fragment of a meadow. Vivian found Clary’s memory of the pungent juice Merlin had been drinking. That would cover the smell and taste of just about anything.
She rinsed off the juicer and, after a few false starts, reassembled it. It was a hand-cranked model that clamped to the wooden butcher’s block that topped the island counter. A few minutes later the apartment smelled of freshly mown lawn. Now all she needed was to make it appealing to someone besides a sheep.
Fortunately, there was a fully stocked bar and a cupboard dedicated to organic juices. She mixed a selection in a glass pitcher, added the wheat grass and poured herself a glass. Then she added her love potion to what remained and mixed it thoroughly with a wooden spoon. By the time Merlin had unlocked the front door, she was washing the dishes while sipping the frothy green concoction.
“I didn’t mean to take so long,” he said, leaning against the archway that led to the kitchen. “What do you have there?”
Vivian leaned on the counter, careful to mimic the way Clary moved—a little bit awkward, a little bit defiant. The mortal had a way of leading with her chin as if expecting a fight. “I got bored waiting. I’ve been experimenting to see if there’s a way to make that stuff drinkable.”
She nodded at the flat of grass, which was missing a few more tufts than it had been twenty minutes ago. Merlin followed her gaze, oblivious to who she truly was. He was thinking like a mortal, mistaking the physical body for the person who lived inside it. Unless she made an obvious blunder, he’d never guess that she wasn’t Clary.
Merlin picked up the glass pitcher and sniffed it. “What’s in this?”
“Call it a smoothie,” she said lightly. “There’s strawberry and apple juice, coconut milk, a few other things. Try it if you like.”
She sipped her glass as he poured an inch into another tumbler and tasted it with the air of someone being polite. Then he paused, glass at his lips. Vivian tensed when he raised his eyebrows.
Then he smiled. “This is actually pretty good.”
“Then help yourself,” she said, turning back to the sink and rinsing plates. It was good to keep her hands busy and her face hidden so she didn’t accidentally give herself away. She heard him top up his glass as she scrubbed the last of the cereal bowls. “So, what did Arthur have to say?”
He told her, eventually grabbing a towel to dry. Vivian’s chest tightened as she listened, imagining the war that would devastate the mortal realms. It was not as if she had a fondness for humans, much less for Arthur and his court. It was just that it was nice in the kitchen, with the soap suds and companionable conversation. She’d missed having Merlin around and wanted the moment to last a little while longer.
“Is that everything that needs a wash?” she asked, looking around.
“Don’t forget this,” he said, holding up the empty pitcher. There was nothing left in it but green scum.
“You drank all that?” she asked in genuine surprise. The drink was okay, but not exactly ambrosia.
“Arguing with Arthur is thirsty work. Sorry, I didn’t mean to hog it.”
“That’s okay.” She sank the pitcher in the dishpan, doing a quick mental calculation. The normal dose of that potion was a few spoonfuls, not the whole batch. How long would it be before it took effect?