The Old Ones might know how to control vampires, but clearly they didn’t know squat about shapeshifters. Because you can’t keep a shapeshifter captive by strapping her down to a table.
A shift would snap the bonds like thread. But I had to be smart about what I shifted to. I needed something dangerous—and fast. Something that wouldn’t hesitate to attack whatever came through the door, and then could run like hell to get away. A cheetah—that might work. I’d have incisors to rival the Old Ones’ fangs, and nothing can outrun a cheetah. Well, yeah, a vampire could. But I’d have the element of surprise going for me.
I drew my attention inward to begin the shift. I thought of cheetah spots, of speed, of jungle foliage blurring at the edges of my vision as my paws beat the ground. I tensed, feeling for the change to begin, trying to make the images more vivid. Hunting. My teeth tearing into hot flesh. The smell of fresh blood . . . The images faded; I couldn’t hold on to them. They fractured, swirling away like confetti. My mind went blank.
I tried again, but the same thing happened. I pulled up images, focused, tried to make them real. But before my imaginings had any effect on my reality, they dimmed, broke into pieces, and dropped from my mind.
I couldn’t shift.
Now the panic really hit. I struggled and pulled against my bonds, bruising my own flesh but not feeling the slightest give. I bit my tongue to keep from screaming. My heart pounded like it would leap from my body and gallop across the room.
The door opened, and light flowed in. I stopped struggling and listened. Footsteps approached. Two sets, it sounded like, though I couldn’t turn my head to see who they belonged to. All I could see was the stained ceiling panel directly above me. I shifted my eyes right, then left. On my left side, an IV bag hung from a metal frame. A dark head blocked my view of the bag for a moment, as a hand adjusted the drip. Then a face loomed over me. A man who looked to be in his early thirties, with black hair, pale skin, and eyes that seemed to suck in the light.
It couldn’t be.
“Oh, good. You’re awake,” he said. The familiar voice had a strong Welsh accent.
I blinked, I squinted, but the face didn’t change. The only thing different from the last time I’d seen him was that he now wore a beard.
“Pryce?”
He huffed, sending a blast of foul breath across my face. His teeth were rotted, and I realized the face didn’t look like Pryce after all. Not really.
“Close,” he said, “but no. I am not Pryce, though Pryce is of me. The poor lad remains an empty husk, a spiritless shell. Soon he’ll return, but not to you. Of you, yes. To you, no.” He laughed, a high-pitched giggle that made my skin crawl.
So there I was, strapped down in a windowless room, listening to a lunatic spew riddles. My day was definitely not looking up.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I tried to sound defiant, but my voice seemed far away. An echo, not the sound itself. “Who are you? And what the hell do you want from me?”
He seemed delighted with my questions. “My name is Myrddin Wyllt. I’d say, ‘At your service,’ except for the fact that it’s so clearly untrue. If we’re talking about service, you’re indisputably at mine, wouldn’t you say?” Another high-pitched giggle.
I barely listened to his gibberish. I was thinking about the name: Myrddin Wyllt. The name Myrddin is threaded throughout Welsh mythology; several different legendary characters with that name come together in a composite to create Merlin, wizard and adviser to King Arthur, in stories about the Knights of the Round Table. But Myrddin Wyllt was no kindly old man with a long white beard, a pointy hat, and a twinkle in his eye. Myrddin Wyllt was insane.
That Myrddin was a prophet and bard who’d gone mad with grief when a devastating battle slaughtered his lord, along with most of his army. After witnessing the carnage, Myrddin tore off his clothes and ran screaming into the woods, where he lived like a wild animal. Later, he foretold his own triple death: by falling, drowning, and impalement.
Myrddin Wyllt was crazy, wild, and as dangerous as a hungry predator. And my host had picked him as a role model.
“I’m not in any mood for riddles, ‘Myrddin.’ So why don’t you just tell me what you want?”
Another face appeared over me and snarled, revealing vampire fangs. This one was gaunt, with bruise-dark circles under his eyes. “Where’s Juliet?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”
He slapped me, hard. I couldn’t turn my head to dissipate the force of the blow. My cheek burned and throbbed.
“Peace, Piotr, peace.” Myrddin placed a calming hand on the vampire’s shoulder. “We’ll know soon enough. Pryce will give you whatever information you require from this one.”
“Pryce is here?” Juliet had said the Old Ones called him “the sleeper.” This “Myrddin” must be the wizard they’d allied themselves with.
“Here, here—is Pryce here? In a manner of speaking, yes. Although I’d hardly say that half-corpse of a man is ‘here.’ Poor lad can’t even open his eyes and say, ‘Welcome back, Papa.’ ”
Pryce’s father. There was a family resemblance, as long as Myrddin kept his mouth shut to hide his bad teeth.
I searched my memory. Some stories claimed Merlin was the child of a demon father and a human mother. A demi-demon.
“Pryce doesn’t like to admit it,” Myrddin went on, “but there’s a touch of the Cerddorion in him, as well. Of course, there’ll be more soon. Much more.” He rubbed his hands together and giggled again. The sound, plus the stench of his breath, washed over me in a nauseating wave. “You’re going to help wake my sleeping son, you see. By donating your life force to him. I’m eager to see which parts of you will manifest in Pryce. He’ll know the contents of your mind, of course.” He tapped my forehead with a long, thick fingernail. “There may be a useful tidbit or two in there, although I’m not expecting much. He’s already a better swordsman than you, so you’ve nothing to offer him there. But shapeshifting . . . Now, there’s something that could be quite useful to a demi-demon. Our two forms, demon and human, are so limiting, you know.”
He turned to the IV bag. “I need a little more time to prepare for the transfer. Hence this drug. It’s a mild sedative to prevent you from concentrating enough to shapeshift. But doubtless you’ve already discovered that.”
His words extinguished any last glimmer of hope I held. He must have seen the despair in my face, because he smiled.
“Victory. An odd name for one so completely defenseless, is it not? I’ve been watching you for years, you know, even though I couldn’t come out to play. Pryce misread the prophecy, thought you were fated to bear his sons. No, no, no.” He wagged a scolding finger. “You’ll join with him in a different way. In just a few hours, I’ll transfer your life force to my son. You’ll be number three of the required five. Soon Pryce shall walk again, and Victory shall be no more.” His insane giggle ricocheted around the room. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
12
I WASN’T USED TO FEELING AFRAID. UNCERTAINTY, WORRY, anxiety—those were emotions I knew well. But not fear. I didn’t like fear. It tingled under my nails, convulsed my limbs, sent adrenaline charging through my veins. Fight! Flee! Whatever you do, don’t just lie there!