Shades of Avalon (18 page)

I squinted, not believing my eyes and questioning if the effects of the cave hadn’t fully worn off. “I think it’s a dog.”

A huge, steel-gray beast stood frozen and alert at the front of the car, as if waiting for us. Its massive pink tongue lolled from a shaggy muzzle, and black eyes watched us approach. I’d never seen anything like it in real life. The animal had to be over one hundred and sixty pounds and would easily stand as tall as me on its hind legs.

“I don’t believe it,” Guinevere gasped, coming from behind us.

Merlin walked faster to keep up with her. Unlike the rest of us, who reverted to our normal selves, Merlin’s wide, crazy eyes scanned everything around him. He appeared to have a tentative grip on reality at best. He shifted from lumbering like an old man with jerking movements and jittery expressions, to lithe grace. In those moments, it almost appeared as though he floated on a cushion of air, at odds with gravity. He’d picked any blooming bluebells he could find along the way and waved the small bunch around, admiring them with a full, toothy grin.

“It’s a wolfhound,” I said. “It must come from around here somewhere.”

Amanda hesitated. In my experience she wasn’t afraid of dogs, but this creature would give anyone pause.

“It’s a war hound,” Guinevere corrected me. “They are exceedingly gentle beasts most of the time but fiercely loyal and protective.”

The dog began to move about, its hot pants puffing vapor into the cool night.

“Archú,” Merlin boomed, coming up beside us and flinging the flowers to the ground.

The gigantic dog reacted to his voice immediately. Its ears twitched, and it bounded toward us, yelping with enthusiasm.

I edged Amanda out of Archú’s path, not that the dog had the slightest interest in us. It reared back on its hind legs, swelling like the tide to a massive height, and crashed into Merlin. Much to my surprise, Merlin didn’t collapse to the ground when the giant opened its jaw, revealing dangerously sharp fangs, and proceeded to lap at his face. Merlin laughed and wound his fingers into the dog’s shaggy coat, greeting it like an old friend.

I glanced at Guinevere several feet away. Conflicting emotions flickered across her expression. I saw both joy and sadness in her smile. She wiped a tear from her cheek and met my eyes before looking away quickly.

“I don’t suppose his name means ‘Tiny,’” Amanda joked.

Guinevere raised an eyebrow. “Not quite. ‘Hound of Slaughter.’”

I frowned.

“Well, this is weird.” Amanda gave a resigned shrug. “I suppose he’s coming with us.”

When we emerged from the Never, two and a half days had passed, and Triona, along with everyone else we knew, was frantic with worry. It hardly seemed possible we had been gone for more than several hours. On the other hand, “possible” existed as a relative term of late. Eila and Joshua had confirmed Guinevere’s suspicion that Zeal wanted the Philosopher’s Stone. Merlin had spent time in Alexandria, and Eila believed Zeal had been looking for any traces of his work there, just as Guinevere had said.

Archú barked, and Merlin tossed him another beef patty. Fortunately John drove a hatchback. Archú squeezed into the trunk area, although the good-natured animal didn’t seem to mind at all. Especially since we’d stopped at almost every large town between Somerset in the south of the island and Northumberland, near the border to Scotland. We soon discovered Merlin and his pet enjoyed twenty-first century fast foot. Merlin especially had a sweet tooth and a taste for deep-fried apple pies and milkshakes.

Despite it taking us longer to reach our destination, it was worth it to keep him happy. After all, we still needed the location of the Philosopher’s Stone.

“You haven’t told us how Archú just happened to show up when we released Merlin,” Amanda said, shooting me a sideways look. Her lips curved up into a lovely smile.

“Is that a question?” Guinevere asked.

“Answering questions with more questions? Way to avoid, Gwen.”

“You must always ask the right questions,” Merlin added unhelpfully.

Amanda rolled her eyes, completely ready and willing to indulge these people in a way that irked me down to my bones. “Okay then. Can you please explain how Archú, a dog from the sixth century, turns up in the twenty-first century, please?”

“For you, of course.” I caught sight of Guinevere in the rearview mirror, smiling humorlessly in my direction.

She inched forward in her seat and hooked her hands over the back of Amanda’s headrest. Amanda twisted in her seat to listen.

“Have you ever noticed the way in which animals sometimes sense things humans can’t see? They can sniff out illness, fear, death, and even those who mean them harm.”

“Well, yeah. Some of that’s down to their heightened senses isn’t it?”

Guinevere smiled. Unlike the one directed at me earlier, her smile for Amanda was open and sincere. I might go as far as friendly, except that I didn’t altogether trust Guinevere yet.

“That’s only part of it,” Guinevere explained.

Archú yapped, and I checked the mirror to see Merlin with his palms pressed to the window as we left a truck stop behind.

Guinevere went on, not paying attention to him. “Animals have a sense of the Otherworld, of Tír na nÓg, in a way most humans don’t. They have a unique ability to cross back and forth at their choosing—”

“But they don’t,” Amanda cut her off. “I mean, if they did, there would be animals disappearing and showing up all over the place.”

“No, they generally don’t. Some will wander over. Only to return months later after their owners have plastered every nearby lamppost with ‘lost’ posters. For the most part, they’re usually happiest where they belong. I believe this is what happened with Archú.”

“Archú is special, and he has been waiting for the cruel lady to set me free, have you not, my old friend?” Merlin said to the animal. Archú lapped at his face in response, slobbering dog spittle over his mouth and cheeks. I grimaced.

Guinevere flattened her lips and shook her head. “If I’d known you were going to be this ungrateful, I’d have left you in there,” she fired back at him dryly and crossed her arms over her chest.

My fingers tightened on the steering wheel, bleaching white across my knuckles. My irritation levels seethed dangerously high. I needed sleep and some space from our new
friends
.

Merlin snorted a laugh. “If you did not require my help, you would have.”

“Oh for the love of all the Gods, stop it!” I scolded them both in the mirror. “You’re like a pair of bickering children, and you’re treading on my last nerve.”

Merlin huffed. “I remember when the royal court hunted and trained for battle every day…warrior kings and queens. Now, a modicum of trivial banter twists your tunic.”

Guinevere handed him a white pill, which he popped in his mouth dramatically.

Blood pounded in my temple. I grunted to let off some steam. Amanda reached over and curled her fingers around mine, squeezing gently.

“We’re almost there. We can get some sleep, and everything will seem much brighter.”

My eyebrows drew down. I wasn’t so sure. Maybe Merlin wouldn’t be able to recall where he left the stone; perhaps we’d never get Caleb back. Surely disposing of Zeal was nothing more than cutting off a head and waiting for another to spring up in its place. There would always be those who saw Triona’s relationship with Caleb, or even mine with Amanda, as an abomination.

“A child of darkness and light,” I whispered, looking out the window as the distance between the houses around us grew. They were becoming more and more infrequent, replaced by trees and low shrubs lightly dusted with morning frost. Amanda flinched at my use of the term from the prophecy, referring to a child of a Guardian and a human and the destruction of Atlantis.

Darkness represented Guardians, banished to live in a subterranean world beneath the hills of their homeland when humans overthrew them, and their perfect society came crashing down around their ears. Humans claimed the right to stay above ground in the light and the warmth, beginning the legend of Atlantis sinking.

Amanda’s eyes settled on my fingers, tightening around the steering wheel a second time. I made a concerted effort to loosen my grip so I wouldn’t accidently snap it in two.

“Sorry.” She reached over and placed her hand on top of mine again until my death grip eased.

“There are still some out there who believe light and dark
can’t
coexist,” I reminded her.

As always, she sensed the pain this crippling fear of losing her caused me, and she automatically glanced away. “Our family is proof that’s not true, Ben,” she stated with an air of conviction and her expression resolute when she turned back.

I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. We’d had this conversation before, and Amanda had told me her theory many times over the last months. She loved nothing more than a good theory, and she had one for every situation. We talked about having kids one day, the implications and the dangers.

We had plenty of time and there was no need to rush. If anything, the shenanigans in the backseat proved I lacked the patience or maturity I needed before I became responsible for a tiny, helpless child. Parenting was something neither of us wanted to take lightly.

Everything that had happened forced us to grow up quickly, or so I had thought until now—sometimes I already felt ancient. Amanda wanted children. I supposed I did too in the future, and it scared the life out of me that I wouldn’t be able to protect them.

“I know. I know. Light and dark exist in the shade.”

“Shade
needs
light and darkness to exist at all,” she pointed out once again.

I smiled indulgently at her. She was very proud of herself the day she came up with that particular observation.

“And shade gives us—”

“Protection. It keeps us safe,” I broke in, finishing the sentence I had heard a hundred times, with another smile.

She beamed back at me, her eyes lighting with love and a small blush gracing the flawless skin over her high cheekbones. My heart fluttered inside my chest.

“Absolutely,” she agreed, peering out the window to check the dull sky.

“But shade can also keep you in the dark,” I added in a groan. I hated to burst her happy little bubble. I wanted Amanda to feel secure, and I wanted to be the man that could give that to her. The reality we faced meant we both had to accept there was a very real possibility I could fail.

“What a pessimist you are, mountain,” Merlin observed in a singsong voice.

I used to be such a glass-half-full person.

Amanda arched an eyebrow, absently skimming her fingers over the healing rash on her neck.

The GPS led us off a main road onto a smaller one, past a road sign for a dead end. This stretch wasn’t wide enough for two cars to pass without one pulling aside onto the grassy shoulder. Thankfully, we didn’t encounter any other cars and soon passed through a set of stone pillars set into a hedgerow. Each had the words “The Brier” carved inside a plain border. On top of each pillar, an eerie bird-like creature with a hooked beak and massive wings watched over the entrance to the property.

“Dragons,” I said. Massive talons curled into carved, tangled branches. On closer inspection, muscled legs extended out from the rear of the birds.

“Gryphons,” Guinevere corrected. “Part eagle, part lion. There are magical creatures of myth, said to watch over great treasures.”

“I knew that,” I said, only half-lying. “I’ve seen creatures like it before on television, video games, and other places. I just couldn’t put my finger on the name.”

Her lips curled smugly, and I narrowed my eyes, watching her in the mirror.

“Not a gryphon, a hippogryph.” Merlin sounded vaguely offended at the confusion. “The hind is equine. A hippogryph is the offspring of a gryphon and a mare. Magic and mortal blood together as one, the symbol of an impossible union.”

Amanda giggled. “Ah, Ben, you’re a hippogryph.”

“How romantic,” Guinevere said, chuckling too.

Blood rushed into my cheeks. I searched my brain for a clever retort but came up empty. I gritted my teeth and focused back on the curving road. Beyond the entrance, a small gatehouse with arched, leaded windows and a low slate roof came straight from a child’s fairy-tale story. I frowned and glanced at Amanda from the corner of my eye. She gave a resigned shrug.