The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(53)

“Merlin used his power for the good of mankind,” Cybele felt compelled to point out. “Not for evil.”

“Perhaps that was the result,” Mr. Spencer allowed. “But Merlin’s magic was far from benevolent.” He frowned. “Jack. What’s wrong with you, lad? Stop that blasted noise.”

Jack’s humming dimmed.

“Merlin’s dark magic allowed Uther Pendragon to seduce another man’s wife,” their host continued. “A right dodgy affair that was.”

“But without that illusion, there wouldn’t have been a King Arthur,” Cybele said.

“True enough,” Mr. Spencer conceded. “Still, Merlin couldn’t outrun the devil forever. Ruin caught up with him. He ended up ensorcelled by his own magic, trapped under the Earth by a scheming lover, in the same cave where he’d once sold his soul.”

His wife, exiting the kitchen with a pie in her hands, snorted. “That’s the way of it, innit? A man never sees a woman’s cleverness until it’s too late.”

“Now, you must admit, dear, I’ve never doubted your cleverness. Would’ve been the death of me,” he added under his breath.

His wife cut a generous piece of pie and slid it in front of him. Cybele accepted her slice with murmur of thanks. Arthur declined with a swift shake of his head. When Mrs. Spencer exhaled an offended huff, Cybele gave an apologetic shrug. “Arthur’s not one for desserts.”

“Arthur, eh?” Mr. Spencer leaned over and elbowed Arthur in the ribs. “Just like the king.”

“Not quite,” Arthur mumbled.

Jack opened his mouth as if about to speak. At the last moment he seemed to change his mind. He set down his fork, covered his ears, and began humming. Loudly.

“Jack,” his grandmother said. “Whatever has gotten into you?” She turned on her husband. “Finish your pudding, husband. ’Tis late. Jack wants his rest.”

Cybele very much doubted that he did. The boy looked far too agitated for sleep.

“Gladys. Let the lad be.” Mr. Spencer scraped his last bite of pie onto his fork and pointed it at Cybele. “Some say Merlin didna die at all. They say he’s sleeping, waiting for his faithless lover to return. They say that if you go up onto Merlin’s Hill at midnight, you’ll hear him moaning.”

“Have you heard him?” Arthur asked.

Cybele looked at him sharply. Was he serious?

“Me?” Mr. Spencer snorted. “Midnight finds me in my bed with my eyes shut and my ears closed. A farmer’s up before the sun, you know.”

“There’s nothing to hear.” Mrs. Spencer took Cybele’s plate and stacked it atop her own. “’Tis just a heathen tale. There’s no moaning in the hills.” She rose. She was about to gather another plate when Jack’s fist slammed the table. Chinaware jumped. Cutlery clattered. A water glass overturned.

“Jack!” Mrs. Spencer exclaimed. “That was uncalled for. And you—” She glared at her husband. “Let the lad be, indeed. He must be sickening from something.”

Jack certainly didn’t look well. His spine went ramrod straight. His mouth fell open. Words emerged at a higher pitch and softer than Cybele might have expected.

“I hear the moans. I see the light.” He gestured to the window. “Out there. On the hill.”

His grandparents stared at him, mouths agape. Mr. Spencer recovered first. “Those are more words than the lad’s uttered in a year,” he muttered. “All told.”

“Moaning. In the cave.”

“Cave?” Arthur said sharply. “Where?”

“Oh, no,” Jack said. “Oh, no, oh, no, oh, n—”

“Jack.” His grandmother scowled. “Stop that. You didn’t hear moaning on the hill. You had a dream.”

“No. No dream.” He shoved back his chair. “Moaning. Light. Magic. Out there.” He jumped up and, before anyone could react, ran out of the room. The outer door opened and banged shut. A moment later, Jack ran past the window, heading across the graveled yard.

Cybele looked from Mrs. Spencer to her husband. Neither had moved. “Shouldn’t someone go after him?”

Mr. Spencer sighed and shook his head. “He’s likely gone to check on the kittens. There’s a litter in the barn loft. Jack likes to look in on them before he turns in.”

“He’s a good lad,” his wife said. “Always has been. Never a lick of trouble.”

“Never two words strung together neither,” put in Jack’s grandfather. “Before now.”

Mrs. Spencer looked down at the plates she was stacking. “Lad’s been acting mighty odd these past two days. Ever since that German gent stopped here.” She looked at her husband. “Maybe he’s caught some foreign disease. I’ll have the doctor in tomorrow.”

Mr. Spencer’s expression remained troubled. “Wouldn’t hurt, I reckon.”

***

Maweth was lonely.

He slumped against the curving quicksilver wall, too depressed to even lift his head. He’d wanted to leave the mirror with Lucky and help him out with the assignment Dusek had given him. The angel had no experience with the kind of underhanded task the master had ordered him to perform.

He was sure to feel guilty about it. But would Lucky do the smart thing and turn tail and fly off? Oh, no. Dusek had vowed to take out his anger on Maweth if the angel left. The cherub had solemnly sworn not to.