“What does it mean,” she said, “if Merlin’s come here for Excalibur? If he says he’s going to bring him—the one who can pull it from the stone.” Arthur, a voice in her hindbrain said. Say it. “What does it mean if—Arthur—is returning?” When Britain has need of its King again . . .
After the Norman invasion, the Wars of the Roses, Cromwell, Napoléon and the Blitz, how bad would things have to get to bring about the return of Arthur? How bad were they already?
Alex tapped the neck of the bottle against his chin and stared into space. “I wonder if Excalibur could kill me.”
She huffed a frustrated breath and thought of flinging her bottle at him, but it was still half-full, and she didn’t feel nearly tipsy enough yet. This would be easier to take if she were tipsy. Him wanting to die didn’t make any more sense than the rest of it. He was young, in his thirties, strong and intelligent. Not sick like her father. That was what made the situation so horrible—she could almost understand Frank’s wanting to die, wanting to be done with it as quickly as possible without resorting to suicide. It was only her selfishness that wanted him to continue living, no matter what treatment was required, what sacrifices he’d have to make. But Alex—anyone else would relish the invincibility he claimed he had. She
supposed that depended on what curses went along with it.
It wasn’t fair that someone who wanted to die should be invincible, while her father was in the next room dying by inches. It wasn’t fair.
Thoughtful, she straightened, considering. “Why do you want to die?”
“It’s the only thing left. I’m tired of living.”
She wished she’d met him at another time or place, at a bar in L.A. or one of the parties her creative friends were always throwing. She could imagine him as an actor—if he’d get rid of the bulky pea coat and put on a tight T-shirt. He carried himself like he was well built inside his clothing. She wondered if that gleam in his eye would carry onto film. He held her gaze, and her stomach lurched. If she’d met him under normal circumstances, she might actually have liked him.
Maybe she already did. When he said he wanted to die, she wanted to argue with him.
She said, “Who are you? Don’t dodge this time.”
He stared at her for a long time, and she was content to watch him think in silence. Then he stood and went to the bookshelves. After a moment of searching, he chose a volume and handed it to her.
Virgil’s Aeneid. Pausing to give Mab a scratch behind her ears on the way out, he left the room without a word. The kitchen door opened and closed, and Evie and Mab were alone.
______
What about that apple.
Robin huddled on the windowsill outside the living room of the Walker house, tiny and invisible. He had the means to evade the watchdog—he could have run the beast on a merry chase if he’d wanted, but that would only have served to raise suspicions that something was amiss. And he still wouldn’t have been able to get inside the house. He didn’t know how that slave fellow had managed it, except that he’d somehow befriended the girl. As Robin would have done, if he hadn’t interfered.
Never mind. He had news, which was what he’d come spying for. Frank was sick, perhaps even dying. And the Walkers had the apple. If only he could find a chink in the house’s armor. Break through and hold them all in his power.
When he tried to slip under the window or through the crack between the door and the frame, he came against a wall, invisible, impenetrable. On bird’s wings, he circled the house three times, skittered to the eaves and over the roof, searching out ventilation slots and testing the chimney. The house had a barrier, a magical shield that guarded the threshold against any who were not welcomed inside. He might have been able to dig under it, but then simple concrete would keep him out.
The easiest way to get inside would be to convince one of the Walkers to invite him in. Otherwise, the shield would have to be dismantled. He tried attacking it, slashing a magicked dagger across the enchantment like he might cut through it. He tried to slide under it, to find an edge that he could squeak around. But the protection was complete.
It didn’t lash out at him. Passive only, it merely kept him out. It didn’t drive him away. He could stay perched on the windowsill all night if he wanted, and the dog wouldn’t even find him. But he’d accomplish nothing that way.
The house belonged to the Walkers. If the magic was tied to them somehow, and not to the house itself, perhaps if they were got rid of . . . Perhaps then the house would open itself like a blossom to the bee.
On his final circuit, Robin paused to look at Excalibur, driven into the stone. It shone, bright silver against dull granite, winking along the few inches of exposed blade, though the sky was overcast. He’d arrived just in time to see Merlin stalk off in a huff. Robin barely had time to make himself like air and was lucky the old wizard hadn’t caught a whiff of his magic. Not many in this modern day would recognize Robin, but Merlin would. Merlin most likely wouldn’t be pleased to find Robin hanging about, known troublemaker that he was.
That was also a bit of news. Merlin was active again, after all these centuries, and the sword Excalibur was waiting to be claimed. Other forces were at play, beside those Hera was dabbling in. And Robin—shrewd Robin, knavish Robin—must ensure he found himself on the winning side when the dust settled.
Robin stayed until the Greek slave left the Walker house. He followed the man into town, treading soft as thistledown, quiet as midnight. His powers hadn’t diminished over the years, but he’d so seldom had a chance to use them for good purpose. He hadn’t found a cause to serve or a great power to attach himself to in centuries, since back in the Old Country. Then she found him. She was ambitious. She had use for him. And she made such grand promises. It hardly mattered if she could keep them or not. The ride would be entertaining in the meantime.
The Greek wandered, apparently aimlessly, for an hour or so. He seemed to be making a circuit of the town. He kept to the outskirts, the backstreets, where the hyperactive authorities weren’t likely to see him and take note.
Toward nightfall, he reached an empty house at the end of a street overgrown with weeds. The place was boarded up, with a faded FOR RENT sign tucked in the door. It might have been empty for years. The man started to open the back door—the lock was broken, but rigged in such a way that it still appeared secure when the door was in place. He gave a little jerk, and it popped open.
Once he had it open a crack, he looked behind. “You can stop following me now.”
Robin winked to visibility, keeping his expression a bored mask to disguise his annoyance at being discovered. Was the man a magician as well? Hera had called him a slave, but perhaps he was hiding something. Oh, he was definitely hiding something. Robin had only to discover what. Peel the man like a grape, and wouldn’t that be fun?
Robin leaned his back against the wall and crossed his arms. The light was fading; the Greek was little more than a shadow, but Robin’s night vision was excellent. He doubted the Greek could study him half as well.
“Good evening, sir,” Robin said.