Stranger (16 page)

Astrid’s eyes shone, revealing the raw pain of separation. No one knew when or how she and Lesperance would see each other again. The last time they had been apart for more than a few hours, she had been abducted by the Heirs and barely escaped torture and death.

With a nod, Catullus turned away. He and Gemma walked several yards, and they both scrupulously tried not to eavesdrop when Lesperance, in human form, spoke to Astrid in a low, urgent voice that resonated with need. Nor did Catullus and Gemma listen to Astrid’s impassioned response. Then there was silence, which Catullus concluded had to be Astrid and Lesperance kissing.

He refused to look and corroborate that theory. Instead, feeling the agony his old friend must be experiencing, he reached down and took hold of Gemma’s hand as if to confirm that she stood next to him, and would not be leaving his side for some time. The feel of her skin against his sped his heart, heated his blood. Unable to stop himself, he raised her hand to his lips. She made a soft hum of pleasure.

The skin of her hand felt so soft, supple as a zephyr. He wondered what her skin would taste like.

Now was not the time to be entertaining such thoughts.

Reluctantly, he lowered her hand from his mouth, but kept her fingers interlaced with his, feeling her strength, her living self, whole and safe. The thought of her being hurt
shook him even more than the fact that he’d been chased and nearly cleaved in two by King Arthur.

“That was an unwise thing to do,” he said, careful to keep his voice level, rather than growl, which was what he felt like doing. “Coming back for me.”

She looked both exasperated and affectionate. “But sacrificing yourself on my behalf was the height of brilliance.” When he started to object, she gripped his hand tighter. “Who’s to say what’s wise and what’s foolish, where the heart’s concerned?” She tilted her head toward where Astrid and Lesperance were taking their farewells.

Catullus nodded, understanding, amazed that this forthright American woman possessed so great an insight. He reckoned himself to be at least ten years older than her—but she could lead him down paths he’d never ventured before.

Together, they looked out at the dark, peaceful fields. The moon shone down placidly, and faint sounds of life began to stir farther beyond, in Glastonbury. Whatever magic thrall had been cast during Arthur’s summoning, it was nearly gone now, a veil drawn back.

“I still cannot believe it.” Catullus heard the amazement in his own voice. “That was truly King Arthur. I never thought to look upon him with my own eyes.”

“Incredible,” Gemma agreed. Wonder lit her face. “A legend, made real.”

“Glad it was you,” he said before he could stop himself.

She looked at him, questioning.

“I’m glad that … of anyone … it was you … sharing it with … with me.” An awkward necklace of words strung together, and he hated how fragmentary and ungainly he became whenever he tried to express something meaningful to her.

Yet, she seemed to understand. Even in the moonlight, she blushed rosily. Then lost her blush as she darkened. “But, God, that sword. Swinging at you. That was the worst
sight I’ve ever seen.” She scowled. “It made me so damned angry. I had to do something, had to help you.”

Simple words from her, but they shook him deeply. Blades made friends with one another, and always watched each other’s backs in the field. All too often, the dark news would reach headquarters that a Blade didn’t survive their mission, and a heavy pall fell. But there was a certain fatalism to it. Each and every Blade knew that when they or their comrades set off on another mission, the odds were strong that they might not return. Astrid’s grief over Michael’s death hit her harder—he was her husband. Five years she’d hidden herself away. Only the force of Lesperance had been able to pry her from her self-imposed exile. Yet her devastating pain remained the exception to how Blades faced loss.

Gemma’s unrestrained concern for him filled Catullus with a kind of agonizing warmth, like long-frozen limbs thawing before a fire. No one had ever felt that way about him before. He was awed, humbled, and, if he wanted to be honest with himself, pleased beyond measure. He didn’t want to cause her any pain, but, by God, it felt good to have someone—especially Gemma—care about him.

He wanted to write sonnets. Instead, words struggled to form, and the best he could offer was a rasped, “Thank you.” He grimaced at his own verbal ineptitude.

But Gemma stepped in front of him, placed one warm, slim hand on his face, and smiled, as if she understood exactly what he had wanted to say but could not verbalize. “You’re most welcome.”

They both turned at the sound of flapping wings. They saw Lesperance, back in his hawk form, take to the air. The note was secured to his leg. Astrid followed with her eyes, turning her body like a compass needle finding true north, as he wheeled overhead, then headed southeast. She watched him, her face a stone mask, for a long time. Until the night sky swallowed him.

Only when Astrid faced Catullus did he see the silver tracks of tears staining her face. Otherwise, stoicism hardened her to marble.

His heart ached for her. She’d held Michael as he had died, which had been terrible. But now she was forced to part from Lesperance—and the love she had for him was fierce, deeply rooted in the fibers of her soul. If anything happened to either of them, they would be far apart. The apprehension could devastate. And if the worst news ever came … Astrid might survive if Lesperance was hurt or, God forbid, killed, but she would be ruined beyond repair, only a shell.

And if anything happened to Astrid, Catullus had not a shred of doubt that Lesperance would hunt down and slaughter anyone remotely connected to her death. Including Catullus.

“You’ll see him again.” Gemma did not patronize, but spoke simply, and with conviction. For that alone, Catullus felt her penetrate further the protective mechanisms surrounding his heart.

Astrid dragged her sleeve across her face, wiping away the signs of her heartbreak. She straightened her shoulders.

“Let’s go,” she growled. “We’ve a king to catch.”

Life had indeed returned to normal in Glastonbury. The dinner hour concluded. People walked the streets, men congregated in taprooms, and a stable was open to provide three horses for Catullus, Gemma, and Astrid.

“Though I don’t know where you plan on going,” the stablemaster noted, cinching a saddle. “The moon’s out, but the hour is growing late.”

“Going to see an old friend,” Catullus answered. Which was something like the truth.

The stablemaster shrugged at the peculiar ways of strangers, but continued to get their horses ready, casting
a wary glance at the short-muzzled shotgun slung over Catullus’s shoulder. Yes, in civilized England, men didn’t walk the streets armed. But civilized England no longer existed, whether its citizens knew it or not.

Catullus paced over to a sheltered spot in the stable yard, where Gemma and Astrid waited quietly.

“Shouldn’t be much longer.”

Astrid only nodded, nearly ossified from her separation from Lesperance.

As usual, Gemma overflowed with questions, a ready contrast to Astrid’s taciturnity. “What are we planning on doing? Talking with Arthur nearly cost you your head. If we can’t speak with him, how do we know what he or the Heirs mean to accomplish? Can Arthur be stopped from … whatever it is he plans on doing?”

Catullus held up his hands, but couldn’t fight his smile. He adored her relentless pursuit of knowledge. “Slowly, Madame Query.”

She pressed her lips together in an attempt to curb her barrage of questions. He struggled against the impulse to cover her mouth with his own, stopping her questions with a much more pleasant activity.

“We need to stay as near to Arthur as we can manage without him becoming aware of us.” Catullus ran through scenarios and solutions in his mind, seeking answers. “He sees us as his enemies—doubtless he is influenced by the will of the Heirs. Whether the Heirs know that Arthur has been summoned, we do not know. Nor do we know where Arthur is headed. The best we can do is keep close to him, track his movements.” A large trench already marred the base of Glastonbury Tor from a partially manifested Excalibur. The amount of destruction the completely embodied sword could accomplish chilled Catullus’s blood.

“And then?” Gemma pressed.

“And then …” He stuffed his hands into his pockets to
keep from reaching for, and polishing, his spectacles. “We see what happens next.”

Gemma frowned. “You Blades of the Rose are supposed to be prepared, to have plans.”

Even Astrid chuckled at this, though it sounded more like a rusty hinge than a laugh.

“Plans,” she snorted.

“My dearest lady,” Catullus said, “Blades are reckless fools who traverse the globe seeking more and more exotic ways of killing ourselves. Surely you understood that by now?” When Gemma only scowled at him, he amended, “In truth, we can plan and strategize all we like, but experience in the field has taught us elasticity. Whatever we prepare for almost never comes to pass, and something entirely unexpected often arises.”

“Couldn’t you—”

A crash and shout cut off Gemma’s suggestion.

They swung around to see the stablemaster yelling, waving his arms and pulling at his hair. At first glance, Catullus thought the man suffered some kind of fit. Looking closer Catullus saw tiny creatures resembling human children clinging to the stablemaster’s clothes and gripping the man’s hair and beard. The creatures had burnished bronze skin, and though some wore minuscule caps fashioned of leaves, almost all were naked. Their ears came to little points, their features sharp.

Pixies. Dozens of them.

They shrieked with glee, golden eyes glittering, as they pinched and tormented the stablemaster.

Horses’ frightened whinnying drew Catullus’s attention. More pixies, clambering through the horses’ manes, swinging from their tails. The stable itself crawled with pixies as they cavorted amongst the tack and threw handfuls of dung at one another.

Yells and screeches in the streets. Catullus, with Gemma
and Astrid right behind him, dashed out of the stable yard and into the road to investigate.

“Someone please tell me I’m drunk,” Gemma muttered.

“We are all, unfortunately, sober,” Catullus said.

Glastonbury swarmed with pixies. Everywhere Catullus looked resembled bedlam. The tiny fairy creatures ran amok, torturing anyone unlucky enough to be out in the street. Just as they did with the stablemaster, the pixies pinched, pulled, and bedeviled whomever they could get their minuscule, tormenting hands on. They tugged on hair, compelling men to run up and down the streets like wild horses. They scratched faces and shredded clothes. Even dogs snapped at pixies clinging to their tails.

Those inside had no reprieve. Women and children fled their homes as pixies scrabbled up their clothes or chased them outside.

Pixies smashed lamps and windows, threw rocks, broke furniture. Some swung from shop signs, dropping onto anyone unfortunate enough to pass below. The constabulary offered no help, since they were suffering just as much as the civilians, and one poor constable was chased through the streets by pixies wielding his own club.

It was the worst scene of chaos Catullus had ever witnessed. And he’d been to university.

“Where did these things come from?” Gemma swatted at pixies trying to climb up her skirts.

“My guess? Arthur.” Catullus flicked away pixies leaping onto the hem of his coat. He managed to grab one, but it slipped from his fist with a laughing squeal. The damned creatures were harder to hold than wet butter.

Gemma pried loose a pixie trying to wriggle between the buttons of her bodice. “Get out of there, little bastard!” Flinging the creature aside, she said, “When Arthur was summoned, he brought other magic with him?”

“Or it was roused by his appearance, and the Primal
Source.” Astrid glared at a clot of pixies swarming toward her, and the fairies shrieked in fear before scampering off.

“You have to teach me how to do that,” Catullus said. He plucked a pixie from Gemma’s hair. “We must leave. Now.”

Gemma stared. “Abandon everyone here to these …
things?.”

“Short of spraying the whole of Glastonbury with pixie repellant—which, alas, I don’t happen to have on me—there isn’t much we can do. And I’ve a suspicion that, wherever Arthur goes, more magical outbreaks like this will follow.” He kicked out, sending pixies clinging to his boots flying in all directions, then strode toward the saddled horses. Methodically, he scoured each animal, finding and tossing away handfuls of the tiny fairies. The horrible creatures giggled as they flew through the air.

Gemma and Astrid assisted, though Gemma stopped her work for a moment to help the stablemaster rid himself of some of the more aggressive pixies. As soon as he could, the man sprinted off, abandoning his business.

Once the horses had been reasonably cleared, Catullus, Astrid, and Gemma mounted up. All three of them trotted out of the stable yard and surveyed the anarchic streets, where pixies had turned what had once been a perfectly respectable, rather pretty English town into a nightmarish scene out of a Brueghel painting.

The clang of a bell summoned the fire brigade to some part of town. Catullus wondered how long it would take before the pixies burnt the whole of Glastonbury to the ground.

“Laugh or scream, can’t decide which,” Gemma said, looking about at the literal pandemonium. Homes and businesses were being destroyed all around. Townsfolk crowded the street as they ran in fear, their shouts and screams echoing down the lanes. Incredible what the diminutive pixies could accomplish. Mayhem embodied in creatures no bigger than an apple.

Catullus tried to imagine what might happen if the totality of Britain was overrun with pixies. “Amusing, perhaps, for about fifteen minutes. And then” —he ducked as a heavy porcelain basin went flying overhead— “hellish.”

He wheeled his horse around, pointing in the direction which Arthur had disappeared. At his signal, he, Gemma, and Astrid all kicked their horses into a run, weaving through the throngs as they sped out of town. And into the dark countryside.