Bonnie’s grip tightened on Billy’s fingers, and the sword grew as light as a plastic baseball bat. Billy felt himself being absorbed into the window, his body stretching out, morphing every sight and sound into a chaotic swirl.
Seconds later, the bending world straightened out, snapping back into shape like a tightened blanket. Billy knelt in the middle of a forest, the very same stand of trees he had seen through the window of the compass room. He glanced at his right hand. Excalibur was still there, a residual glow casting faint light all around. He jerked his head to his other side. Bonnie was gone!
Chapter 6
P
atrick raised both arms, shielding his eyes. Billy and Bonnie dissolved in an eruption of sparkling light, each of their bodies crystallizing and melding with Excalibur’s pulsing halo. The radiance swallowed the sword itself as glittering shards swirled around, forming a horizontal tornado that rushed into the window like a whirlpool of luminescence.
The banging on the door grew louder. Each boom shook the floor and sent a shower of crumbling debris from the ceiling.
As soon as every sparkle vanished, Patrick turned toward the door, crossed his arms over his chest, and shouted, “Morgan, I suggest you take your foul vapors to the dung heap where they belong. You are not welcome here.”
Silence descended on the chamber, followed by a low, feminine voice streaming past the door. “Patrick, I am not welcome in many places, yet I walk in them unhindered. Will you let me in, or must I display a bit of unsavory force?”
Patrick drew the curtain across the window and hustled to the center of the room. “Do your worst, Witch!”
A thin, black vapor oozed under the door and spread upward across its inner face. It hugged the door as if painting over the knotted wood with smoky dust. When it finally covered every inch of ancient oak, the door shimmered, and vibrations rattled the latch, the jambs, and even the locking bar and brackets until splinters popped out all across the surface.
With a sudden burst, the door exploded into the inner chamber. Needle-sharp spears of wood catapulted in every direction. Patrick dove to the floor, covering his head with his arms. Dozens of wood fragments pelted his body, but nothing pierced his clothes or skin.
When the tapping of falling debris ceased, Patrick looked up. The black smoke collected into a column under the doorway’s arch, fashioning into the curves of a slender woman. A smile bent back her pale cheeks. “Security is a fleeting fantasy, don’t you think?” She leaned over and picked up one of the door’s broken locking brackets, then tossed it back to the floor. When the metallic clatter faded, she continued. “I appreciate your prostrate position, Patrick, but it’s a bit premature, isn’t it?”
Patrick jumped to his feet, brushing the dust from the front of his shirt. “It’s your thinking that’s premature, Morgan. Mastering vapor resonance will not defeat the dragons.”
She turned her head, acting surprised at seeing the spears of wood protruding from the demolished jamb. “Oh, that?” She pulled out a wood fragment and flipped it to the ground with an air of nonchalance. “That was just for show, an impressive little talent, but too slow for battle.”
“Well, the show is over. I’m duly impressed.” He extended a rigid arm, aiming his finger toward the doorway. “Now get out.”
Morgan walked to the wall and picked up one of the black cloaks. She held it up, her nostrils flaring. “How could you send them in without the cloaks? I’m sure you figured out how to track them, didn’t you?”
“No one who is covered by Excalibur’s light needs a cloak. They were sufficiently protected. And I know your malice well enough not to trust what wearing them might do to their minds.”
She threw the cloak back to the floor. “But I notice that you still wear yours when you venture into the circles. Have you lost your fear of its influence on you?”
“Those who recognize your arts are equipped to fight them, so you have no power over me. You might as well change to that black chicken costume and fly the coop.”
Morgan glided toward Patrick with long, graceful strides. She passed her fingers along his outstretched arm and teasingly caressed his face. “My dear Patrick, you know that I hold the ultimate dagger over your head. Don’t you think you should offer me just a wee bit more graciousness?”
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her arm down. “Cut the pretense, Morgan. What do you want?”
Morgan’s wrist dissolved into vapor and slipped from his grasp. The dark mist floated to her side, rematerializing into a thin, pale arm. Her smile faded, stretching into a tight line across her face. “I want to negotiate a trade.”
Patrick crossed his arms and scowled. “What kind of trade?”
Morgan walked around Patrick in a slow, graceful circle. Patrick swiveled his head, keeping an eye on her as she spoke in a firm, matter-of-fact tone. “You know what the members of the New Table really want, don’t you?”
“Of course. Dead dragons and worldwide domination. It’s such a small request.” Patrick raised his eyebrows and smirked. “I think the world’s leaders should just agree to your demands and give up all authority, don’t you?”
Morgan stopped and brushed a wood chip from his shoulder. “Sarcasm doesn’t flatter you, Patrick.” She continued her slow orbit, now in a tighter circle. “But you’re right. Those are the goals of my little underlings. But you also know what I want for myself, isn’t that true?”
Patrick swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice from trembling. “Yes. Yes, I’m afraid I do.”
“As we speak, my knights are entering the circles. You know their power. You know their craft. Young Arthur and his princess cannot possibly defeat them unless I lend a hand of protection.”
Patrick broke from Morgan’s stalking circle and strode toward his kneeling bench. He stood firm and grasped the top of the cross. “How did you find so many entries to the circles? I know of only one, and it leads to the rocky vestibule, not to the land of the dead.”
Morgan followed, gliding on silent steps, but she stopped several feet short of the bench. “You only know what Merlin taught you. And what is Merlin?” She waved the back of her hand at the cross. “A weak prophet for a weak god. Merlin floats about like shining pixie dust and leaves pathetic doggerel on ancient walls.”
Patrick bent over and extended his arms toward the altar as if inviting her to kneel. “If God is so weak, then why do you keep your distance?” He straightened his frame and squared his shoulders. “Does the presence of the cross remind you of your greatest defeat?”
She let out a spiteful snort. “Hardly! Since your dead messiah took his dirty little lambs away, the other world has been mine. Young Arthur’s mission to rescue prisoners is a fool’s errand. It’s nothing but Merlin’s misguided dream and the folly of dragons who shouldn’t have trusted him fifteen hundred years ago. Their dry bones testify against the singing prophet to this day, and some dragons still have never learned.”
Patrick ground his teeth. “State your business plainly. Then get out.”
Morgan took a step back. “Very well, Patrick. But beware of what you ask for. My plain speech may sizzle your ears.” She raised her arms, allowing her loose sleeves to fall to her elbows. Her bare limbs looked more like whitewashed bones than human flesh. With sweeping motions, she gathered darkness from the air and molded it into a black sphere. She cradled the gloomy mass as though it were a nursing infant. “Look, Patrick, if you dare. See the fate that awaits young Arthur and his betrothed.”
Patrick turned his back to her and crossed his arms over his chest. “Your arts tell lies. I’d rather look at a bloated skunk.”
Morgan laughed. “Who is the liar? The one who spins dark oracles, or the one who tells tales? You know what is required for her to escape, yet you led Arthur to believe he could rescue your lost little waif.”
Patrick clenched his fists. “No! I never mentioned her. The mission is about the other captives.” He lowered his gaze, and his voice weakened. “I can’t expect William to forfeit his life.”
Morgan repeated his words in a mocking tone. “I can’t expect William to forfeit his life.” She laughed again, louder and longer. “Let me guess. You sent him wandering into Hades in search of unnamed prisoners with only Merlin’s songs to guide him, because if you gave him too much information he would retreat before the battle ever began. And if he just happened to come across a certain girl, maybe, just maybe he would give his life to save her, a noble sacrifice that would be immortalized in song by inane bards for all eternity. Is that pretty close to the mark?”
Patrick scowled as her acidic words burned into his brain. “Your accusations spew from the pits of hell, you venomous vulture. You’re fishing for secrets, and I will reveal none.”
“Oh, please forgive me!” she continued. “Certainly such a selfish scheme never entered your mind. You plan to rescue the girl yourself when William returns, because you’ve found your own way into the circle that holds her captive.”
Patrick whirled around and faced her again. “As if you didn’t know! I’ve tried to enter the upper circles ever since you stole her from me. I’ve followed every rabbit trail in that forsaken pit, I’ve quoted every ancient prayer, I’ve tried every recipe in a thousand old wives’ tales. There’s no way to cross the bridge over the valley of bones! None!”
Morgan flashed an evil smile, still caressing her black, swirling bundle. “Yes, I know it appears that way, and your torture has been delicious. Yet, I know how to enter the sixth circle, Patrick, and I offer passage to you if you will simply deliver what I want.”
Patrick kept his gaze averted from the dark sphere in Morgan’s arms. “What do you want from me?” he asked, crossing his arms again. “I hold no seats of power.”
Morgan’s smile vanished. “Perhaps not, but your circle was able to hide a valuable secret for centuries. Fortunately, one of your members finally succumbed to one of my favorite instruments of torture. He revealed that the young dragon you call Bonnie Silver is a legal heir to the king. All I ask is that you deliver her to me. Dead or alive, it matters not.”
Patrick tightened his fingers into a fist. “Have you been drinking your witch’s brew again? You can’t use her body. Without Billy’s permission, she is impenetrable to your black arts.”
Morgan frowned and spat out her reply. “Your naïveté concerning my arts is laughable.” She continued to stroke her “baby” and slowly regained a smile. “Until young Arthur completes his mission, your authority surpasses his, so you can do what I ask. My knights will make sure that Bonnie Silver is in no shape to give you any trouble. Simply deliver her body to me, and I will show you where and how to enter the circles.”
“You’re mad!” Patrick shouted. “I would never hand her over to you!”
Morgan lowered her eyelids, covering half of her blazing orbs. “Shall we discuss why you’ve never told anyone in your circle of seven about your past and what happened to your wife and daughter? Do you think I am incapable of bringing the same fate to your precious orphans?”
Patrick glared at her. Her cunning smile froze his heart, and when his gaze wandered to the bundle in her arms, pain knifed through him. Within the black sphere a girl lay motionless in the middle of a valley filled with bones. A boy knelt at her side, weeping.
He jerked his head to the side. “Leave me now, Morgan.”
Morgan spread out her arms, and the black swirl evaporated. “Very well. You have some time to consider my offer. But when Arthur and his bride meet their doom, it will be too late to reconsider. I need her body intact, either alive or freshly dead.”
The professor hustled into the terminal building, his long legs striding across the flat carpet of the seemingly endless hall. A tune played in his head, and he marched to its lively beat. After a minute or two, syllables began mixing into the melody, combining with notes until they strung themselves together into rhythmic sentences to match the tune’s iambic meter.
Once the song completed its self-composition, it replayed until it seemed to come from the airport speakers and float around his ears. But he didn’t mind. The words created a mysterious poem, something for his brain to chew on while he watched for Ashley and Walter.
A sign in the distance announced his journey’s end—British Airways baggage claim. He pulled out his pocket watch, took a reading, and searched the arriving flights display.
Ah! Flight fifty-six. On time.
He glanced at his watch again.
I’m two minutes late.
As he approached the baggage conveyor, he surveyed the sea of rushing passengers. Sidestepping a man barreling down the hall with a suitcase in each hand, the professor bumped into a lady standing next to the luggage queue. He pivoted and bowed his head. “I beg your pardon. Please forgive—”
“Professor Hamilton?” the lady interrupted.
The professor lifted his head. “Marilyn?” He brushed back his unruly hair. “I didn’t expect to see you. Were you able to hire another vehicle after all?”
“Another vehicle? What are you talking about?”
The professor put a hand on his cell phone, his arm shaking. “You called me. Your rental car broke down and—”
“I called you?” Marilyn furrowed her brow. “Professor, are you all right?”
The professor took a heavy step, dizziness overtaking his balance. Suddenly, a strong hand gripped his arm and supported his body. “Steady there, my good fellow. Your legs are as limp as wet noodles.”
The professor pulled himself up on his helper’s sweater sleeve and grasped his beefy biceps. “Sir Barlow!” With a gentle touch, he laid his palm over the bump on his scalp. “I took quite a blow to the head this morning, and it seems that the shock of seeing you has triggered a fainting spell.”
Marilyn stood on tiptoes and peeled the professor’s hand away from his wound. “Oooh! That
is nasty!
”
The professor flinched at her touch. “No worse than the injury to my dignity, Marilyn. It is clear that I have been hoodwinked by one of the scoundrels of the New Table. Someone imitated your voice—quite well, obviously—and sent me to collect Walter and Miss Stalworth.”
“But why?” Marilyn asked. “Are Billy and Bonnie okay?”
The professor smoothed his hair back again with a gentle stroke. “They are. Sir Patrick is with them. I think they’re safe.”
“You
think
they’re safe?”
“I’m not as sure as I used to be. Patrick keeps many secrets, more than I ever realized before.” The professor leaned over and whispered. “And now that Clefspeare is a prisoner of the New Table, my confidence in Patrick is waning.”
Marilyn’s eyes lit up with alarm. “A prisoner! How?”
The professor glanced down the corridor and pulled Sir Barlow into their huddle. “It’s a long story, and I prefer to give the details in private after Walter and Miss Stalworth arrive.” He swung his head back and forth. “A song keeps going through my mind, perhaps something Merlin left with me. I’ll reveal its words soon, but the bottom line is simple. Clefspeare is in the hands of the enemy, and William and Miss Silver may also be walking into her lair.”