The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(52)

“Don’t know what’s gotten into the lad these last few days,” she said. “He’s been acting mighty odd.” She cast a glance at her husband. “Well, then. Go on.”

Mr. Spencer bowed his head over his folded hands. Mrs. Spencer and Jack did the same. Halfheartedly, Cybele mimicked them. Arthur didn’t even try. She hoped their hosts wouldn’t notice.

“Dear Lord, we thank you for this food...”

Mr. Spencer’s prayer was a quickly mumbled affair. Thank the ancestors for that. Cybele didn’t want to know what effect a more heartfelt offering would have had on Arthur. As it was, he was gripping the edge of the table so tightly, his knuckles had turned as white as the cloth. A few sparks erupted. Quietly, she laid a hand atop his. When the prayer concluded and Arthur’s clenched muscles relaxed, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Mrs. Spencer uncovered the pot, revealing a hearty lamb and barley soup. While the others ate, she bustled back and forth to the kitchen, ferrying sliced beef, potatoes and buttered beans to the table.

Cybele was famished. She ate a bit of everything. Arthur, she noted, ate nothing but meat. No doubt he would’ve preferred it bloody and raw. He had to settle for rubbery and overcooked. Still, when Mrs. Spencer offered a second helping, he didn’t turn it down. Jack, by contrast, ate little. He kept darting glances at Arthur.

Cybele frowned at the boy. A faint but unmistakable glow clung to his head and shoulders. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light. Or a migraine coming on. She rubbed the space between her eyes. Her head was beginning to throb. They should have walked back to the village for dinner.

“Come looking for Merlin, have you?” Mr. Spencer asked.

Cybele’s chin jerked up. “What?”

Mr. Spencer laid his knife and fork on his plate. “Merlin. The sorcerer. He’s the only reason tourists visit this part of Wales. I suspect that’s why you’re here.”

“Yes,” Cybele said, a bit shakily. “That’s true.” Faced with her host’s expectant expression, she added, “I understand he was born nearby?”

“Aye.” The farmer pushed his empty plate toward the middle of the table. “The sorcerer’s birth is the subject of any number of tales.” Leaning back in his chair, he folded his hands over an ample belly. “Merlin’s mother, it’s said, was the daughter of a local clergyman. The girl was a troublesome lass, shunning the church and her Bible. Some even called her a witch. They claimed she fled into the hills in the night, to practice the dark arts under the stars. Perhaps that was true, because when she fell pregnant, she told her Da she’d been ravished by a demon.”

Mrs. Spencer snorted. “Diddling a local boy in a hayloft, rather, and didn’t want to confess to the sin.”

“That’s as may be,” her husband allowed. “Her father, however, chose to believe her. Or perhaps he simply wished to err on the side of caution. Merlin was baptized a bare three minutes after his birth, even before the cord was cut. ’Tis said the babe screamed like the devil hisself when the holy water splashed. Didn’t quiet down until he was wiped dry. The child was raised a pious Christian, but blood will tell in the end. At any rate, it did with Merlin.”

Arthur cleared his throat. He picked up his knife and turned it over in his hand, contemplating the blade. Cybele kicked him under the table. He glanced over at her and put the utensil down.

Would this meal never end? “What happened then?”

“Merlin came of age and studied for the priesthood. One night, as he walked from church to rectory, a sudden storm rose. He was struck by lightning.”

“Was he injured?”

“Most assuredly. He lay near death for two days and nights. On the third day, he suddenly sat up in his bed, as alive as could be. His burns, which just the night before had been festering, were healed. Might’a been considered a miracle, if not for what happened a few months later.”

“George,” his wife interrupted. “I don’t think—”

To Cybele’s surprise, Mr. Spencer tucked his chin and glared at his wife. “Quiet, Gladys. I’m speaking.”

Mrs. Spencer flushed. She rose and began clearing the table with jerky movements, muttering under her breath about sin and damnation as she collected plates and bowls. Jack paled. He slid down even further in his chair and hunched his shoulders.

Mr. Spencer leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Weel, then. This is what happened. Young Merlin, returned as he was from near-death, rose from his bed three months later. Stark naked. Without pausing to don a stitch, he left the rectory, passed in front of the church, and disappeared into the countryside. He came to this very hill.”

He swept an arm toward the window, though with night fully descended, all that was visible was the room’s reflection in the glass. “For three nights, terrible screams rang out. For three mornings, cattle and sheep were found mutilated in the fields and barns, heads torn from their bodies, flesh chewed clean through. Three persons—two men and a woman disappeared. They were never seen again. And in the sky—”

He paused. Jack began to hum under his breath.

Cybele knew well enough where the tale was going. She sighed and played along. “What was in the sky?”

Jack clapped his hands over his ears and hummed louder.

His grandfather sent him a frown, and then turned back to his audience. “Many swore to seeing a fearsome creature flying overhead. A winged demon. They said Merlin had sold his soul to his father’s kind. In return, he gained dark powers such as mere humanfolk cannot comprehend.”