The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(47)

“Holy sh—” Heat flamed into Michael’s face. “Are you saying you’ve been watching me?”

Raphael smiled thinly. “What I’m saying, little brother, is that you’d better watch yourself.”





ELEVEN


They switched trains again in Cardiff. Two hours later, they arrived in Carmarthen. Or Caerfyrddin, as the Welsh called it. The small town was said to be the birthplace of Merlin. It was also one of the many places that claimed to be the location of his death. Arthur had told Cybele he’d been here as a boy, with his father, searching for his ancestor’s grave. Had they been so close, after all?

The journey from Bristol had been awkward. After Arthur’s outburst and subsequent apology at the Bristol station, Cybele had decided to give him some space. Unfortunately, space wasn’t something she was exactly used to giving. She tried, though. She swore to herself that she’d let him be the first to start talking again. As a result, they hadn’t spoken at all. Arthur sat by the window, jaw rigid, watching the landscape.

He wasn’t angry with her, she knew. He was teetering on the edge of panic. She spent a good portion of the train ride berating herself. She shouldn’t have brought up his Ordeal. He clearly hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Would she never learn when to back off?

As they exited the train, Cybele drew a breath. Time to end this silent, moody bullshit. She eyed a sign bearing the town’s Welsh name. Caerfyrddin.

“How do you pronounce it?” she asked.

Arthur glanced up at the sign. “Ki-air—ver-din,” he said. “It means ‘Merlin’s Fort.’ It refers to a fort the Romans built on a rise of land outside the village. Merlin’s cave is said to be under the hill. We might as well start looking there.”

Well. He was a regular Chatty Cathy now. “How far out of town is it?”

“A couple miles, maybe. As far as I recall. Here,” he said, reaching for her backpack. “Give me that.”

She relinquished it and he hitched the strap over one shoulder. She fell into step beside him. He might be talking now, but he was still wound tight as a spring. They left the town center, passing by a cluster of newer buildings before reaching a country road. The fields on either side were dotted with sheep.

“There’s a sign,” Cybele said as they approached a crossroads. “Bryn Myrddin.”

“Merlin’s Hill.”

The hill, surrounded by open fields and the occasional copse of trees, came into view soon after. A historical marker indicated a Roman fort had once occupied the site, its stones now completely gone. Though it was getting on to late afternoon, they hiked a wide arc around the base of the hill, looking for any depression or rock formation that might be the entrance Arthur had seen in Merlin’s memory.

By the time they gave up the effort, it was dark. “It’s been over a thousand years,” Arthur said, surveying the landscape. “Probably a lot has changed.”

“Damn, I’m a mess.” Cybele shoved a limp strand of hair out of her eyes. Her jeans were muddy, her boots soaked from wading through a stream. “We must’ve turned over every rock, circled every tree, and peered into every fox den in a three-mile radius.”

Arthur looked almost as bad as she did, but the dirt and damp didn’t seem to bother him at all. “There are a few places we haven’t looked at yet.”

“No way am I looking at them tonight,” Cybele said. “I want a bath, a meal, and a bed. Immediately, and in that order.” He shot her a look of annoyance, but she held firm. “Look at those clouds. It’ll be pitch black out here soon. You might have adept night vision, but I don’t.”

He sighed. “All right. That farm we passed a while back had a bed and breakfast sign. We’ll get a room.”

At the B&B, their knock was followed by a protracted wait. Finally, a woman with wispy yellow-gray hair opened the door a scant three inches. She took in their grubbiness with a sour expression. “And what might you two vagrants be wanting?”

“A room,” Cybele said. She caught a whiff of something meaty and savory. Her stomach rumbled. Arthur had her backpack slung over his shoulder. She pulled a handful of British pounds from the front pocket. “How much?”

“One room?”

“Yes.”

“Fifty pounds,” the woman sniffed. “Breakfast included.”

“And dinner tonight?”

“Twenty more.”

Highway robbery, but Cybele handed it over without comment. The woman shoved the notes deep in her apron pocket before pulling the door fully open. “I’m Mrs. Spencer.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Cybele said, with a hint of sarcasm.

Mrs. Spencer snorted. “American?”

Cybele nodded. “I am,” she said. She nodded toward Arthur. “He’s British, though.”

Mrs. Spencer remained unimpressed. She eyed the backpack. “And traveling light, I see. Well, come on with you then. This way.”

She showed them up two flights of stairs into a short hall faced by three doors. The door on the right revealed a cramped bedroom under a steeply sloped ceiling. A double bed with a brass headboard and hand-knotted spread was pushed into one corner. A chest of drawers faced it. A framed photograph of a flock of sheep graced the wall above.