Legend of the Sorcerer Read online

  “Any good reviews in today’s mail?”

  “Just fans and the occasional advertisement.”

  For the most part, Alfred left Cai alone to his work, because he felt that what was in a man’s heart and soul was his to transform to the written word alone. But he did enjoy the critical reviews. Cai had caught him snooping through his mail more than once. As any proud grandparent would, he’d say when caught. But Cai knew differently.

  Alfred had had a long, and at times outspoken, history with various literary reviewers such as Isolde Morgan. His public battles with her were notorious, and they had cleverly engendered only further review and attention to his work. But while Alfred was still widely considered the definitive Arthurian scholar of the modern era, he’d chosen not to publish anything in the last ten years. He’d said all he had to, was his reasoning for retiring. But Cai knew it was his failing mental faculties that had forced him to end his career.

  Alfred had adjusted surprisingly well to his retirement. Of course, it helped that he still spent hours a day holed up writing. He told Cai they were his memoirs and he’d let him in on them when he was good and ready.

  Alfred’s eyes sparkled. “Any more mail from that Candy’s Playhouse website?”

  Cai scowled. “No.” For a man who resented most things modern, Alfred had taken a perverse shine to certain aspects of the Internet that Cai would just as soon he not know about. “I delete that stuff.”

  “Of course, but before or after you peruse them?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Just trying to improve your social life.” Alfred stepped into the room and Cai shifted to block his computer screen. Alfred’s eyesight would do a buzzard proud.

  “Trust me, I’ll never be that desperate for companionship.”

  Alfred looked down his narrow nose. “It has been a while.”

  “Why don’t we leave that dead horse in the grave today, okay?” When Alfred merely nodded in too-easy acceptance, Cai frowned. “Okay, what’s up? When you give me that look I know you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

  “I have nothing in my sleeves but my arms.” Alfred sniffed indignantly as only a Welshman could.

  “Fine. But if Dilys comes home with anything more than boxes of groceries, we’re going to have another little chat about blind dates. Understand?” He remembered the blonde lifeguard who’d mysteriously popped up one day during his morning swim to “save him.” Alfred had looked so innocent, but Cai hadn’t missed the startling resemblance the woman had to Pamela Anderson Lee, nor had he forgotten Alfred’s recent fixation with Baywatch. Of late, he’d become quite engaged by Xena, Warrior Princess. Cai shuddered at the possibilities.

  Alfred picked imaginary lint off his pristine white duck shorts saying, “I have had no dealings with Dilys in regards to your dismal social calendar, dear boy.” Leaning on his gold griffin-headed cane, Alfred lowered himself to the seat in the corner and elegantly crossed his legs. “Now, why don’t we dispense with all this diversionary verbal byplay and you tell me what it is that has you upset. Is it a bad review?”

  Cai thought about going with that, but Alfred knew he was rarely put out by negative reviews. “No, nothing like that.”

  “Eileen?” Alfred said, referring to Cai’s editor. “She’s not tampering with that bit about the dragon in Book Two, is she? She needs to trust your inner voice.” There was only one thing that got Alfred’s back up besides “sadly misinformed literary analysts” and that was “frustrated wanna-be writers”—otherwise known as editors.

  Cai raised a hand, even as Alfred’s gaze shifted to his computer screen. “No, she bagged that revision once I explained how it wouldn’t fit in.”

  “Well, if she’d half a brain in her narrow-minded head, she’d have never questioned—”

  “Don’t pick on Eileen, you like her, remember?”

  “Yes, I do. What is the problem then if it is not the lovely Eileen? Nice Irish lass. A pity she’s married. Children, too.”

  Cai merely tightened his smile. “The only I thing I lust after is her editorial skills.” He needed to contact her, he thought, and very possibly the local police. Was someone out there right now, torturing one of his readers? It seemed more fictional than real. But one look at any daily paper proved reality was often stranger than fiction. He just didn’t need this wacko to be his reality.

  “Well, lust in one’s work is always a worthy thing, lad, but you mustn’t ignore your more earthly needs. A man can’t live in his mind alone. It stunts the imagination, disconnects one from the emotions necessary to bring the words alive on the page.”

  Cai sighed, knowing he was in for one of Alfred’s lengthier speeches on the sins of ignoring the flesh. He didn’t need this reality, either. He glanced at the screen, but turned his attention back to Alfred. One problem at a time.

  It was often the only way he managed to get through the day.

  THREE

  Jordy sipped her morning coffee and stared out over the water wafting through the mangroves. Maybe she could do her own investigation and find the woman in the pictures. “Yeah, right,” she murmured. Joe Friday she was not.

  She focused on the water lapping the mangrove roots. She should start painting here, and use the real thing as inspiration instead of the images from the photos.

  Chicken. She should bag this and go home.

  Would the police do anything? If no one was pressing charges, maybe they wouldn’t care.

  Painting. Think about painting. She did some of her best thinking while she worked. In fact, when her mind wandered, the most creative of her creatures emerged from the clay, or from her pen. She usually did a series of ink drawings for new sculptures. Other times she just went directly to the clay and let the creature out. Right this moment however, the only creature begging for release was the haunted woman in the photographs on her dresser.

  She headed inside, closing the balcony door behind her. After a hot shower and a talk with the desk clerk, she was on her way to the police. So okay, maybe she was still running. But trying to help someone else felt good. Besides, she honestly had zero interest in water colors.

  It was almost lunchtime when Jordy emerged from the Mangrove Key police department. Sgt. Winston had been solicitous and kind, smiling reassuringly as she’d asked several hypothetical questions before getting to her real reason for being there. She realized the officer thought she was the victim herself. His demeanor had undergone a dramatic change when she’d revealed the truth. He explained that the type of assault and battery done to this woman was very serious and indeed a punishable offense that did not require the victim to file charges. The state could do so on its own.

  He had her fill out a report and seemed so earnest. She wanted to believe he would do something, even though he’d warned her that it was possible the woman and her abuser were no longer in the vicinity.

  Sgt. Winston had thanked her for her concern and told her that she was free to go.

  Jordy knew she had done all she could, but she wished that she could have done more. She pulled into the hotel parking lot deep in thought. Then she saw the eye-catching sign. Before she could change her mind, she peeled the hot pink paper off the hotel manager’s office window and stepped inside.

  She emerged minutes later with a new job as the Mangrove Hotel’s arts and crafts camp counselor. The hotel ran a small program for their guests’ children, freeing the adults to take fishing excursions and the like. Their regular arts and crafts teacher had taken a sudden leave of absence to tend to a sick family member. So, for the next two weeks, for two hours each day, Jordy would be teaching children to draw, paint, whatever she wanted. The manager showed her to the supply room, which was surprisingly well-stocked, then arranged for her to move to a smaller room in the hotel.

  “I know what you’re going to say, Fred,” she said as she threw her clothes back in her suitcase and collected her toothbrush and shampoo. “Trust me, I know I’m doing the right thing. I’m excited
. When was the last time that happened? I know I have to go back and face reality. But the rent is paid for the month. Once I get home, life will just bite me in the butt all over again. And maybe I’m still sore from the last time.”

  She would go back. She’d find new clients, make new friends. She’d come back stronger, and this time she’d take care of her own business. She wouldn’t live, eat, and sleep work, either. She’d find balance.

  In short, she’d get a life.

  She drew in a deep breath and stepped out on the balcony, absorbing the bright sunshine. However, in order to achieve those goals, she had to be able to sculpt, and to do that, she had to rediscover her imagination. Who better to help her than a group of children?

  Cai managed to get the still-lecturing Alfred to accompany him out to the gardens. His grandfather was quite the horticulturist and had created an Eden of their very own behind their home. It was an interesting twist on the delicate tea gardens he remembered with fondness. He’d created a haven that was both serene and whimsical.

  Cai often found Alfred out here in the late afternoon talking to his plants, or any one of the pieces of statuary he’d collected over the years. He held forth on a number of subjects, clearly delighted to have a never-tiring audience. At times he’d ask questions, pausing as if hearing a response, answering phantom questions, debating unspoken points.

  Many times, Cai would take a seat out of view, and listen as Alfred told the plants his stories of the dark ages and the days of Arthur. Cai marveled over the richness of detail and vast wealth of his grandfather’s knowledge. Of course, Alfred would sense when Cai was there, and would suddenly zero in on him with his laser-like blue eyes, firing this question or that, ready for debate. So in touch with reality and yet living in fantasy. As a child, Cai had learned to enjoy his grandfather’s oddities. As an adult, he sometimes wished he had the same capacity for unselfconscious whimsy.

  He forced a smile now, wishing Alfred would turn to his marble and stone creatures for a speech or two so he could make some phone calls.

  Dilys had already left for Mangrove, so she could not help him. Not that he could count on her. Dilys was an eccentric herself with an unswerving loyalty to Alfred.

  Their relationship was an odd one. Cai thought she was part Welsh, but her accent was an odd hybrid of English, Scottish, and God only knew what else. She looked to be anywhere from sixty to one hundred sixty. Short, stout-bodied, and stronger than most men, she wore a dour expression that didn’t invite conversation. She was a one-woman dynamo. Cai was convinced she’d missed her calling as ruler of a great nation. She could have done that and still had time left over to cook for twelve, run a household of a hundred, and take care of two reclusive men who appreciated her more than the air they breathed. He had no idea why she was so devoted to Alfred, but had stopped trying to discover the answer by his teens. He supposed most would consider her a housekeeper, cook, maid, whatever. Cai thought of her simply as their keeper, period.

  The funny thing was that Cai didn’t even know what her last name was. She was just Dilys to him.

  “I’m in no mood to be coddled by plants and inert statuary, young sire,” Alfred started up.

  Young sire. Alfred was just winding up, when he’d hoped to wind him down. “It’s nice out here, Grandfather. A good breeze today.”

  “If we must sit outside, then perch there.” He pointed to the sanded marble bench beside the koi pond he’d added last year.

  “I would love to, but I really have to get to the rest of my revisions. Eileen is expecting them.” It was a white lie, but a necessary one.

  Alfred grumbled and went right into his Free the Muse speech. Cai left him lecturing the koi on the finer points of protecting one’s inner voice from the piranhas of the soul. He sighed wearily as he sat down behind his desk. It was sad. His grandfather’s eccentricities had grown to an almost unmanageable level. And Dilys could only be of so much help. Though the woman seemed ageless to him, she was no spring chicken. As unbelievable as it sounded, he’d probably be making some decisions about her care before too long. The idea of Dilys being frail or weak in any way was frightening … Lord only knew when the time came, how in the hell he’d handle that.

  He turned to his monitor and read the message once again. “And now this.”

  Cai left a message for Eileen and debated alerting the local police on Mangrove before talking with her. He had no personal lawyer. No agents, publicists, managers, and the like. Only Alfred, Dilys, and Eileen. Fortunately, the publishers had wanted his work badly enough to find a way to deal with the reclusive author. They had portrayed Cai as a man of mystery, which he wasn’t keen on, but it allowed him to write and care for Alfred in peace and quiet.

  It also helped spawn obsessive fans, determined to find out about the man behind the mystery.

  His private line rang and he snatched it up. “L’Baan.”

  “I just got your message,” Eileen said, pausing to inhale.

  “I thought you quit.”

  “Only outside my office.” Her accent was pure Long Island with enough brass to fill a horn section. “And get off my back already. I’ve been working seventy-hour weeks. What’s this about a letter?”

  “You work too hard. I keep telling you, I’ll set you and Max up down here in the Keys. You could work at home, be with Lee and Sam. Freelance. Or just work for me.”

  Eileen’s cackle had Cai grinning even as he held the phone an inch from his ear. “I’d die first. New York isn’t in my blood, it is my blood. And, trust me, Lee and Sam are better off letting Max take care of them. This way they stay alive and I stay out of prison for manslaughter.”

  “You love those kids.”

  “Late every evening and most weekends. It’s a perfect arrangement for everyone.” She sucked another inch of tar into her lungs. “Alfred must be on a real bender today, you’re in mother hen mode.”

  “Speaking of that, be on your toes. He’s on his ‘editor-as-a-frustrated-wanna-be-writer’ kick.”

  Eileen chuckled. “I’ll deal with Alfred on my own.” There was a pause, then she grew serious. “You know, Cai, lately Alfred has been a little off, even for him—”

  “Listen, I really need to talk to you about this letter.”

  “Okay, okay.” She exhaled loudly. “What about it?”

  Cai read it to her. For once, Eileen had no snappy comeback. “Do you think this is legit?” he said finally.

  “Good God, I hope to hell not. But we have to play it like it is. Dammit. This isn’t the kind of hype we want for the Pearl series.”

  “This can’t leak out, Eileen. Cannot.”

  Eileen didn’t bother to pretend she hadn’t thought about it. She might be a good friend, wife to a great guy, and a mother of two delightful daughters, but when it came to his books, she was an editor first, last, and always. “I know, I know. But things like this have a way of taking on a life. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Don’t make me regret that I called you before the police.”

  “Let me talk to legal first, see what our liability is in all this. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Eileen, there is a woman out there, possibly injured, maybe worse. We can’t sit around worrying about our legal position on this.”

  “Yes, we can, and yes, we will. Let me do my job. You do yours. I want those revisions on my desk by Friday.”

  “Dilys is FedExing them as we speak. Call legal,” he instructed. “I agree we need to know how to handle this from a professional angle. But in the meantime, I’m going to figure out what the hell pictures she’s talking about, see if I can dig up some leads.”

  “Leads? Hello. You write fantasy, Cai, not true crime. Besides, you said the e-mails came from the UK. So, what’s the point in calling the local guys?”

  She had a point. “I’m a good researcher. I’ll dig around and see if I can find out who this message came from, where, what provider, and so on. Maybe I can get a name.”

  “Do
n’t call the police until I get back to you. Agreed?”

  “Get back to me quickly, Eileen.”

  FOUR

  Cai was on the dock when Dilys returned.

  He had spent several hours researching on the Internet, but that had proven more frustrating than enlightening. He had learned that international crimes, or threats of crimes, fell under the jurisdiction of the State Department. The magnitude of what he might be dealing with had sunk in.

  He was waiting on replies from the service providers about the e-mails, but he wasn’t overly optimistic. It was simple enough to open up any number of free e-mail accounts, using any name and address the user felt like providing. That each e-mail had come from a different provider told him the sender had likely figured out an untraceable path. And the service provider wasn’t likely to give him any account information on the names, but he asked, nonetheless.

  Cai watched as Dilys expertly steered the motorboat against the pilings. She tossed him the lines, which he obediently tied off. He knew better than to offer a helping hand up, and instead jumped into the boat and hefted two cardboard boxes of food and supplies. He also knew it was fruitless to explain that he could do this chore himself, or have the stuff delivered, saving her the trouble altogether.

  He did, however, take the heavier of the boxes, knowing Dilys would heave the other two herself, or die trying. They said nothing until they were in the kitchen. Here was Dilys’ undisputed domain. Of Alfred’s many and varied talents, cooking wasn’t one of them. And while Cai could grill a mean shark steak, he humbly accepted his sexist role of landscape pawn and maintainer of all things mechanical, and left the kitchen to the queen.

  “Himself asleep?” Dilys asked. She always spoke of Alfred as if he were some sort of past century lord of the manor. And where Alfred’s Old World accent ebbed and flowed dependent on the vehemence of his emotions, Dilys’ hybrid mix remained as strong as it had been when she and Alfred had moved to Florida twenty-seven years ago.