And—here, she mentally shied away just a little—they had kissed. She had to face him with her head held high and not reveal how much more she desired. Sometimes attitude was all a person had.
When she saw Merlin, her step slowed so she could take in the sight. He wore long robes of deep blue and carried a tall staff of knobby wood. With his lean face and unusual amber eyes, he carried the fantasy-wizard costume well. Very well, and with the kind of brooding intensity that teased something low in her belly. He was gazing at the tourney ground, a thoughtful frown on his face.
“Hi,” she said.
He looked up, his expression startled for an instant before it settled into his habitual reserve. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” she said, sounding as defensive as she suddenly felt. “I can work.”
A long moment passed in which Merlin studied her, his expression closed. “Do you remember what you’re supposed to do?” he asked.
If he was trying to keep her at a distance, it was working. All at once, Clary felt exposed in her feminine dress, the light breeze tugging and touching in ways that didn’t happen with her usual denim and leather. She wanted to say again how sorry she was for yesterday’s mistake, but the words died under his cool stare. His mood felt like punishment, but whether it was for himself or for her, she couldn’t say. It took a moment to get her lips to move. “Yes, I know what to do.”
“Good.” He turned back to the amphitheater. The packed dirt field had been cleared, ready for the next event. “Keep to the script, regardless of what else you might see. I’m raising the bar a notch for today’s show.”
Clary swallowed. The show would be grunt work for Merlin, but for her it would be tricky. She tried not to think about the time she’d accidentally teleported a moose into her hotel room. Be brave, little witchling. “I’m ready.”
Merlin gave a signal, and the voice of the announcer boomed through the public address system. “Lords and ladies, honored guests of Medievaland, welcome to this afternoon’s main event. This is the moment of dread, the true test of bravery and the battle you’ve all been waiting for—Medievaland’s courageous knights versus the enchanter Merlin’s monsters!”
The audience roared its approval. The gates at the far end of the amphitheater swung open, and the knights rode in two by two—Gawain and Hector, then Beaumains and Percival, and finally Owen and Palomedes. They parted, each pair splitting left and right to form a colorful double line. The last to appear was King Arthur, resplendent in blue and gold and riding a huge bay stallion. The amphitheater rumbled with enthusiastically stamping feet as the knights took up their position flanking the king.
Two musicians with long golden trumpets blew a fanfare, silencing the crowd. Merlin turned to Clary and gave a nod. She braced herself. She’d practiced this spell hundreds of times and now she recited the words of the spell exactly as he’d taught her. Then she released her power. With relief, she felt the magic shape itself, swirling until it solidified into an enormous black wolf. It bounded toward Palomedes, jaws open to reveal a lot of drool and fangs.
“Nice,” said Merlin.
He didn’t give praise often, so Clary felt her cheeks warm with pleasure. Far below, Palomedes did battle with the illusion to the obvious pleasure of the paying guests. But that was only the first of many monsters, and Clary set about creating the next. A quick sideways glance showed Merlin had begun an incantation of his own. Clary wondered what it would be, but quickly pushed the thought away. She couldn’t get distracted.
With exquisite care, she wove the next spell bit by bit, checking and double-checking each element she added.
Seriously? said the voice in her head—the same voice that had plagued her at the café. This isn’t brain surgery.
Startled, Clary released her power an instant too early and it bobbled wildly. Then—without knowing how she did it—she reached out and patted it back into shape. Except it was the wrong shape. She’d planned on one oversize lion. Instead, two flightless raptors straight out of the Jurassic era popped into existence and began charging the knights at lightning speed. Clary stared at them in dismay. What did you make me do?
I upped your game. You should be grateful.
Stop it! Go away! You’re a hallucination! At least she’d hoped Vivian’s voice had been the product of her infected wound.
The voice in her head gave a wry snort. Do you feel feverish?
No, Clary felt physically fine. Better than ever, in fact—which meant even worse trouble. “Why are you doing this?”
She didn’t realize she’d spoken out loud until Merlin gave her a quick glance. “Keep going.” Then he turned back to his long, intricate spell.
The show must go on. With a flick of Clary’s wrist, the demon summoned not one lion, but a whole pride. All at once, the knights were extremely busy.
Vivian! Clary protested. She wanted to round on the demon, glare at her, maybe punch her. Except it was impossible when the opposition was inside her head. What do you want?
Vivian’s gaze—in the form of Clary’s eyeballs—turned to Merlin. He took something from me and walked away.
An ominous feeling gripped Clary as if she’d just stumbled upon an unquiet grave. What?
Vivian didn’t answer. She was watching Merlin work, and Clary had a front-row seat to the demon’s emotions. They weren’t as deep or complicated as human feelings, but they were uncomfortably frank. Vivian liked everything about Merlin, from the straight line of his nose to the angle of his jaw. There was also distinct disappointment about how much of his body the robes concealed.
An image of Merlin, his hair longer and his clothes absent, flicked across Clary’s mental screen. The vignette revealed a lot of long, lean muscle and tanned limbs. Clary’s skin heated, suddenly too tight as her own desire melded with the demon’s.
I know his secrets, the demon mused. You wouldn’t worship him half so much if you knew the truth.
Clary struggled, now barely aware of the spectacle below. It’s none of my business.
He’s your flawed hero, your rebel prince. Of course you’re curious.
With horror, she realized Vivian was quoting her own thoughts. Fury pounded against Clary’s temples. This hopeless attraction was her own affair, buried where it couldn’t embarrass her.
Don’t bother, said Vivian. He thinks you belong to him, but that is a far cry from passion.
Clary’s nails bit into her palms. And what’s he to you?
Another sweep of eyes, another rush of need. It was all Clary could do to keep her hands at her sides and not reach out to touch the enchanter’s warm skin. Merlin Ambrosius was my soul mate, the one who filled the empty places in my heart.
Was the demon lovesick? Clary wondered with astonishment. She shifted uncomfortably, suddenly hot and weak with their mingled need.
No. Vivian flexed her power—which Clary felt in a sudden head rush. I’m here to take my revenge.
He’ll stop you. Clary dug her nails into her palms, using the pain to focus. I’ll stop you. I’ll tell him you’re here.
Really? And you think there would be no consequences?
I don’t care what he does to me as long as he stops you.
Vivian