Spellbinder (Moonshadow #2)

“Up to you,” Morgan said, losing interest in the creature. Having bought himself more time, he could always find someone else to hire for the deed.

“’Ey now, I didn’t say I wouldn’t.” Calculation glittered in the ghoul’s eyes. “But I’m thinkin’ there may be a price hike for me services. I could use a little danger money as a bit o’ insurance.”

Morgan coughed out an unamused laugh and didn’t bother to reply. He had already paid the ghoul more than enough. Limping out of the alley, he took a careful look around. It was the early hours of the morning, and the London street was deserted.

Walking carefully to his parked Audi, he eased behind the wheel and drove to the rooms he had rented. The small furnished flat was quiet and private, tucked at the end of a mews in a comfortable neighborhood.

When he had initially walked the streets of the neighborhood, he had found no hint of any major Power nearby, and the scents he picked up were mostly human. The location was perfect for his purposes, unremarkable in every way.

As his magical abilities had gradually returned, he had cast subtle cloaking spells around the area that would repel all but the most intelligent and determined eyes from noticing the red front door that led to the flat.

Then he began to gather any texts that were reputed to make mention of Azrael’s Athame, even if only in passing. Late one night, he drove to Oxford to slip into the Bodleian Library. One of the oldest libraries in Europe, the Bodleian had an extensive wing devoted to the history, politics, folklore, religions, and magic systems of the Elder Races.

The library was guarded by gargoyles and shrouded in magical protections, but none of the protections were a match for Morgan’s skills. He took everything related to Azrael, Lord Death, along with the books that focused on the most ancient magic items.

Between long hours of research, he built an arsenal for himself—casting spells of blindness, creating shields strong enough to hold against a dragon’s fire, death curses, flesh corrosion, deadly fireballs called morningstars, charms of confusion, and incantations of havoc that could make armies lose control and fight each other.

He had set them all into magic-quality jewels so when the new injury dampened his magic ability, he would still have ways to defend himself. When he was finished, he had a wealth of weapons at hand, and they all fit into a velvet pouch spelled to conceal the deadly Power it contained.

He had created healing potions too, pouring the precious liquid into small stoppered vials. The healing potions wouldn’t work on wounds made of silver, but in his experience, it was always handy to have a healing potion on hand. One never knew when one would need it.

He had also stocked the kitchen with high-protein foods and alcohol, and plenty of medicinal supplies—more antibiotics, bandages, a variety of pain medications, IV supplies, and a metal stand, a double-sided makeup mirror with magnification, and a suturing kit. This time he’d had the luxury to plan ahead to deal properly with this latest injury.

When he arrived back at the flat, he limped to the kitchen, where he had laid out on the table everything he would need after meeting with the ghoul. Easing into a chair, he opened the nearby bottle of scotch, took a stiff drink, then set to work.

The first step was to give himself a shot to numb the area of the wound. After that, things got easier.

With access to the right supplies, and having the ability to treat the wound immediately instead of suffering from blood loss, he could stitch himself up. He had done it before.

He detached from the chore, watching himself clinically as he tilted the makeup mirror so the magnified side reflected the point of entry where the knife had slid in.

Carefully he sutured himself, and when he was finished, he bandaged the wound. Even though he hated narcotics, he shook out a couple of the strongest pain pills from a bottle and swallowed them with another long pull from the scotch bottle.

Then he slid an IV needle into the vein at his wrist, attached a bag of saline solution, and carried it into the bedroom, where he hung it off the metal stand he’d placed by the bed. Carefully he eased onto the mattress.

As he rested his head back onto the pillow, he smiled in grim triumph.

He had just gained weeks more of freedom. Weeks more of not having to look into Isabeau’s eyes or look upon Modred’s handsome, hated face. Weeks more to search for possible ways to either break the geas’s hold or to find ways to act around it.

Not that long ago, he had longed for just such an opportunity, but he hadn’t dared hope for it. Now it was his.

One by one, his muscles relaxed as the medication kicked in.

In a few days, he could even go to Paris. There was an Elven tome on the seven Primal Powers in the Louvre that was reputed to explore in depth each of the Elder Races gods’ many aspects. He needed to examine the book to see if it mentioned Azrael’s Athame.

He could walk along the Avenue des Champs-élysées and breakfast in a café along the Seine. He could attend another one of Sidonie Martel’s concerts.

The memory of her impassioned music was like another knife to his middle, filling him with a sweet, piercing pain. With steady focus, he breathed through it.

Life was full of pain. He could handle it.

The narcotics and the scotch did their work. He didn’t fall asleep so much as slide into unconsciousness where dreams and memories twisted together like the dark, bare limbs of trees in winter.

“How’s this, Morgan? Is this right?” The boy’s voice cracked, a harbinger of the man he would become.

“Not like that. Here, let me show you.” He adjusted the boy’s grip on the sword. “Like this. You’re too kind. If you have to pull your sword, then grip it like you’re prepared to use it. You don’t want to slap your enemy with the flat of the blade. Not unless you want to make him laugh while he kills you.”

The boy’s grin was bright and abashed. When he smiled, he lit everything around him. “That’s what Kay and I do when we fight each other.”

“Kay is your brother.” Morgan smiled. “Of course you don’t want to really hurt each other.”

Then something had happened to interrupt their sparring lesson. Morgan could never remember what. Maybe someone had called the boy’s name, and he had sprinted off to handle yet another issue that had arisen with the mantle of new kingship that had settled on his too-young shoulders.

Even as Morgan tried to hold on to the conversation, it faded into the distant past, to be replaced by another dream of an event that had happened much later.

The day had started so auspiciously. The jangle of horse harnesses and the stamp of hooves mingled with dogs’ eager barking. The crisp, cold air bit the skin on his cheeks.