Uh-oh. Quiz time. “Myrddin was a prophet who worked for a chieftain named, um . . .”
“Gwenddoleu.”
“I knew that. Give me a chance, Mab.” I hated feeling like my knowledge was spotty in front of my aunt. But I did know this legend. “They lived in the sixth century.” Nearly fifteen hundred years ago, around the time the Old Ones were weakening as vampires and trying to extend their life span. “Myrddin went insane after his chieftain’s entire army was killed in battle. He ran off to the woods and lived as a wild man. Later, he prophesied his own triple death.”
The triple death was how Myrddin Wyllt’s story always ended. He predicted he’d die three times: by falling, by stabbing, and by drowning. And he did. A crowd of thugs, jeering at the madman, drove him off a cliff high above a river. He landed on a stake, which impaled him, and drowned with his head underwater. Three deaths for the price of one.
Mab nodded, and I felt a rush of relief at passing her pop quiz. “That’s the gist of the recorded legends, yes. But the legends tell only part of the real story. Myrddin served as Gwenddoleu’s bard, but he was actually working for Colwyn, who’d promised the wizard vast rewards if he could deliver the secret to eternal life. Myrddin believed he’d found it. He experimented on Gwenddoleu and his men and, thinking he’d made them invulnerable, summoned Colwyn to watch the battle. When Myrddin’s magic failed and the army fell, Colwyn was livid. Myrddin fled for his own life.
“He went into hiding in the woods. There, he learned the languages of animals and gained power over them. He also began to give more and more control to his demon half. As you know, most demi-demons have a human form and a shadow demon that exists primarily in the demon plane. Myrddin merged his two sides into a single entity. That’s where the name Myrddin Wyllt comes from. Wyllt is the name of his shadow demon; it means ‘wild.’ When he called Wyllt forth into himself, he added its name to his own.”
“What does that mean, that he merged them?”
“Part of Wyllt is always present in Myrddin’s human form, and part of Myrddin always dwells in the demon plane. As far as I know, no other demi-demon has achieved this feat, although Myrddin hasn’t been around to teach anyone.”
“The triple death.” Myrddin Wyllt couldn’t have died that way, not if he was running around Boston now. “So that part of the legend is untrue?”
“Myrddin Wyllt was indeed driven off a cliff, impaled, and drowned. But none of those things killed him. The so-called triple death was nothing more than a demi-demon’s parlor trick.”
“What for?” Killing yourself in three different ways didn’t sound like a fun way to liven up a dull afternoon.
“He wanted to convince Colwyn he’d finally achieved immortality. For the reward. But Myrddin’s means of surviving those injuries was nothing Colwyn could use. Merging with his demon half allowed Myrddin to enter and exit the demon plane almost simultaneously. For each injury Myrddin sustained, he blinked into the demon plane, healed there, and returned—too fast for the eye to perceive. Colwyn believed him.”
“And Myrddin got rich by tricking him.”
Mab shook her head. “He never had the chance. As you know, the character of Merlin is made up of many legends. What other ways did a wizard called Myrddin or Merlin come to his end?”
I searched my memory. “He was imprisoned in a tree or a cave by Nimuë.” According to the legend, Nimuë was a beautiful young nymph who seduced Myrddin, stole his magic, and locked him up forever. According to my family history, she was Cerddorion. Not surprising that she’d tangle with a demi-demon.
“It was a tree,” Mab said. She wrapped her hands around her empty mug and stared past me, her eyes unfocused, her face sad. Then she shook it off. She stood up and carried the mug to the sink. “And there Myrddin stayed. Until Colwyn undid the spell and released him.” Her voice took on a hard edge. “But I wish by all that’s holy he’d stayed there forever.”
17
I WANTED TO ASK MAB MORE QUESTIONS, BUT SHE SAID she wanted to rest. I couldn��t blame her. Crossing the collective unconscious had to leave a worse hangover than transatlantic jet lag. So I changed the sheets on my bed and made it up neatly—gotta get that character nice and shiny for my aunt—and redistributed clothes into the hamper or the closet.
When Mab was settled, I went to make some phone calls. Kane was again absorbed in the news, so I went into the kitchen to use the phone. When I picked up the handset, a stutter tone indicated voice mail was waiting. I punched in the numbers to retrieve my messages. The first call had come in just after seven a.m.
“Hi, Vicky, it’s Gwen. Maria’s been having more dreams.” My sister’s voice sounded slightly embarrassed. “She woke up this morning absolutely convinced that you were in danger, and I promised I’d call and make sure you’re okay. So that’s what I’m doing. Give me a call when you get this, okay?”
A computerized voice announced that the next message was from the same number, recorded a few minutes later. This one was from Maria herself. “Um, hi, Aunt Vicky,” she said, almost whispering. “It’s Maria. Your niece. Sorry, that sounded dumb. I know you know who I am. You, um, said I could talk to you if I had any more weird dreams. And I did, but this one was really weird. There was this lady who said she was my aunt, and . . .” Maria paused, and her voice got so quiet and hurried I could barely hear her words. “I’ve gotta go. Don’t call me back, okay? I’ll call you later.” The message ended, and there was no more voice mail.
Mab hadn’t erased her presence from Maria’s dreamscape as completely as she’d thought. I felt bad that Maria had worried about me all morning, but she’d be fine once she knew I was okay. The memory of the dream would fade—it probably had already.
I checked the clock. It was a little after one; Gwen would be at Justin’s playgroup. I dialed her home number and left a chirpy message that I was just calling to say hi and would try again later. That should put Maria’s mind at rest.
Next I called Creature Comforts, not expecting an answer since it was the middle of the norm workday—and that meant sleepy time for most paranormals. I figured I’d try, and then go over and let myself in to check on Juliet. Axel surprised me by picking up the phone.
“Yeah?”
“Axel, hi. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Nope. Deliveries.” Talking with Axel was always an exercise in minimalism. Talking to him on the phone felt positively skeletal.
“Okay, well, I’ll let you get back to work. I’m just calling to check on, um, your guest. How’s she doing?”
“Holding steady.”
“So the wound hasn’t healed yet?” Damn. I was hoping to hear the salve had cured her.
“Hasn’t gotten worse.”
Huh. Somehow I’d never figured Axel for an optimist. Next he’d be telling me that Juliet’s bottle of blood was half-full.
“So you’ve been using the salve?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, good. I’ll be in to see her tonight.”
We hung up without any further chitchat.
I also needed to check in with Daniel, so I dialed his number at work. He answered right away.
“Any developments?” I asked.
“Not yet. The lab is swamped, as usual. No, worse than usual. But my friend there did say he’d look at it when he had a spare minute.” Okay. I was a little less worried about poison now, since Juliet’s wound had stabilized. “Did you get a chance to talk to your aunt?” he asked.
“She agrees that the Reaper is Morfran-possessed.” I knew that from my own experience, but I didn’t want to place myself at the most recent murder scene. Daniel would want me to come in to the precinct, and the questioning would last for hours. If the cops even believed me. I had no wounds to show for my run-in with the Reaper. “But she says the murderer has to be present for a Morfran exorcism to work.”
“So there’s no way to call it out, make the murderer come to us.”
“I’m afraid not. But I think the Reaper is being controlled by someone else.”
“You do? Who?”
A fifteen-hundred-year-old, half-demon wizard who’d spent most of his life sealed up in a tree. Maybe I wouldn’t phrase it quite that way. I told Daniel about Myrddin, describing his appearance and explaining that Myrddin was using the Reaper in a ritual to harvest victims’ life forces and resuscitate Pryce.
“How did you learn all this?”
Good question. For Daniel’s sake, I wished I could answer it. “Can we make this an anonymous tip for now? Just follow up and see if there’s anything to it. I promise there will be.”
Daniel was silent for a minute. I could almost hear his reluctance over the phone; he didn’t like going off the record. “Okay” he said finally. “Tell me where I can find this Myrddin Wyllt.”
“I wish I knew, Daniel. I really wish I knew.”
KANE WAS ASLEEP ON THE SOFA, THE NEWS CHANNEL STILL on. I muted the TV and watched him. His wolf form was beautiful, with a thick, silver coat, supple muscles, and intelligent features. As he lay on the sofa, his ribs gently expanding and contracting with each breath, the long, lean lines of his body defined animal grace.
But I missed talking with him. And I missed the feel of his arms around me, his hands on my skin. I wanted Kane, my Kane, back. And I didn’t want to wait until the next full moon.
Maybe there was another option. I went back into the kitchen and picked up the phone.
Roxana Jade was one of Boston’s leading witches. I’d met her last fall, when she helped me prevent a Hellion from destroying the city. She was beautiful—with long silky black hair and the kind of figure that makes men look not twice but five or six times—and also smart and accomplished. To tell the truth, I was a little envious of her. But she was an expert in magic, and she might have some ideas about getting a stuck werewolf unstuck.
