“Did you find her?” I was afraid I already knew the answer.
“I found her corpse. Myrddin had ripped the child from her womb and left her to bleed to death on the ground.” Mab rocked back and forth, moaning softly, as if she’d just this minute discovered her sister’s mutilated body. But then she straightened. “I vowed to make him pay for what he’d done.”
Mab lifted her chin, and a defiant pride showed in her face. “I shifted my shape to become the exact image of Nimuë. Not as she died, but as she looked when Myrddin first saw her. In that shape, I entered Myrddin’s dreams. Do you know what happens when a beautiful young girl enters a man’s dreams?” She smiled. “She gets whatever she wants.”
“So that’s why the legends say Nimuë stole Myrddin’s magic.”
“Yes, but it was I, in Nimuë’s image. Myrddin gave Nimuë his secrets—and gladly—but it was Viviane who took them. Only one thing did he withhold: the location of his son. Whenever I mentioned the child, Myrddin would remember that Nimuë was dead and banish her image from his dreamscape. I tried entering his dreams in other guises, but it didn’t work. He refused to divulge that secret.”
“But he taught you the spell you needed?”
“He did, and I used it.” Again, her eyes looked into the past. “One night, Myrddin slept in his forest under a yew tree. I sent an avatar of Nimuë into his dreams to distract him. As Viviane, I stood beside his sleeping body and wove the binding spell. When the spell was too far advanced to resist, I woke him. I didn’t want that bastard spending eternity in happy dreams of Nimuë; I wanted him to suffer. He saw me, felt the binding spell, knew I’d trapped him—and why. I made certain he knew why. The tree began to absorb him. He struggled, but I told him it was no use. I told him I’d find his demon spawn and kill it. He laughed at me then, said I’d never find the boy. Just before the tree took him, his arm shot out from the trunk. He pointed at me, his face straining forward so he could speak. And Myrddin cursed me.”
I shuddered. “What was the curse?”
“That I’d remember. No matter how many lives I lived, I’d remember that one, as vividly as when each moment was new. When he returned to take his revenge, he wanted to be sure I knew why.”
It was a terrible curse. To experience that trauma, lifetime after lifetime, the pain never dimming. Even if he never returned, Myrddin had taken his revenge.
“I never did find Pryce,” Mab said. “Not in that lifetime, though I searched far and wide. Myrddin had fostered the boy with a human family. After several years and many rumors, I discovered the family’s name. But when I traveled to them, I learned that Pryce had murdered them all and run away. The boy wasn’t yet ten years old. And so it went for many years. Pryce left a long trail of death and destruction, but I was always a step or two behind him.”
“So how did we get so lucky to have him in our lives?”
“Eventually, he found me. He came to Maenllyd, called me ‘auntie,’ and told me he wouldn’t rest until he’d destroyed everything I love—and finally me.”
I WANTED TO LET MAB REST, BUT SHE INSISTED SHE HAD more to say. “Let me speak now, child, while my memories give me strength. I know how you can kill Myrddin.”
I sat up and paid attention at that. After what he’d done to Mab, I wanted to kill him three times over—a triple death for real this time.
“Myrddin is not immortal. We know that.”
“But he might as well be, the way he can zip in and out of the demon plane.”
“There is no ‘might as well be’ when it comes to immortality.” She rubbed the withered flesh of her arm. “Think back to last night, child. How did Myrddin react when you shot him?”
“He shifted to his demon form.”
“Yes. Why did he not simply exit to the demon plane and return, as he did when he fooled Colwyn with the triple death?”
I pictured last night’s scene. I remembered firing, the black blood flowing from the wounds, the demon growing. “Because the bullets were bronze?”
“Precisely. The bronze prevented Myrddin from entering the demon plane in his human form to heal. Before he could slip away into that plane, he had to take on his demon form. Only in that state could he exit to the demon plane and heal his wounds there.”
“Why?”
“I believe it’s because of the way he merged those two forms: demon within the human and human within the demon. It’s made his human form vulnerable to bronze in a way other demi-demons are not.”
I thought about the legend of the triple death. None of those fake deaths—falling, impalement, and drowning—had involved any bronze implements. “So I can use bronze to force Myrddin to change to his demon form . . .”
“And then you can kill the demon, just as you did with Pryce. With his demon half dead, Myrddin will be as mortal as any human.”
I stood up. “I’ll need the Sword of Saint Michael.” Saint Michael was the enemy of all demons, and the bronze-bladed sword bearing his name, a weapon my family had owned for centuries, would shimmer with celestial flame in battle. It was the surest way to kill a powerful demon. And I couldn’t wait to for Myrddin Wyllt to feel its bite.
29
I WANTED TO DO A TRIAL RUN, SLIPPING OUT OF DEADTOWN and getting into position at Boylston Street, before we had to do it for real. The sun had set on Deadtown an hour ago, so the containment order was now in force. We still had several hours left before curfew. Now was the time to give our plan a try.
I called Tina and asked her to come over and stay with Mab. She let out a whoop of excitement before she cleared her throat and tallied up another favor I owed her, so I didn’t think I was inconveniencing her too much. Then I called Clyde and told him I was expecting her, so he wouldn’t get too apoplectic when she breezed past his desk.
Next, weapons. To make the trial run as close to the real thing as possible, I needed to arm myself the way I planned to be armed tomorrow night. I unlocked my weapons cabinet and made my selections. I strapped on a double shoulder holster and filled it with pistols: bronze bullets on the right, silver on the left. Two thigh sheaths held daggers: I stuck with the pattern of bronze on the right and silver on the left. I slid a silver throwing knife into each boot. Last, I strapped on a vertical back sheath designed for the Sword of Saint Michael. It held the sword straight up-and-down, the hilt behind my neck. To draw it, I just had to reach back, grab the hilt, and pull the sword up and out in an arc, I practiced a couple of times.
A knock sounded on the door. “Just a minute!” I called. I took a coat from my closet—the coat was leather and midcalf length, with a hood—and pulled it on. I flipped up the hood to hide the hilt of my sword. Then I answered the door.
Tina came in, carrying a thermos. “Chicken soup,” she said. “For your aunt. My mom used to make it for me when I got sick.”
I took the thermos. “Feels kind of light.”
“I only had a little, to make sure it tasted okay.” I set the thermos on the coffee table as she made a beeline for the kitchen. “Did you get a chance to buy more ice cream? Because—” She stopped and spun on her heel, gawking at me. “What are you wearing?”
“My coat. I’m taking Killer out again.”
“No, no, no. You can’t wear that. You look like Little Goth Riding Hood.” She came over, examining me.
“The coat is fine. I’m going—”
“Well, at least don’t pull the hood up like that. Here . . .” She yanked on the hood, pulling it down and exposing the hilt of my sword. Her eyes grew wider. “You’re carrying a sword to walk your dog?” Her hand flashed out, and she pulled my coat half off my shoulder. “Oh my God, you are totally armed. Where are you really going? To fight some demons?”