Lowering his lids to hide the flare of triumph in his eyes, he murmured, “As you command.”
Her gaze darted around the room and fell on a marble figurine. She swept it up and flung it viciously at his head.
He ducked his head to avoid the figurine while his mind raced. He barely noticed when she stormed out of the audience chamber and slammed the door.
If Isabeau’s temper cooled enough to allow her to think, she might realize what she had done. He had to leave before she could find him and rescind her impetuous order.
Tightening his lips against the vivid, tearing pain in his side, he wended his way through the castle, using magic to avert attention from his presence.
Normally his Power flowed like an abundant, nearly inexhaustible river. With the silver poisoning his system, he could barely manage enough for the avert spell.
He didn’t stop at the infirmary to get medical attention or bother going to his rooms to pack clothes. He was too intent on leaving Avalon as quickly as possible.
At one point guards ran down the hall. He heard them coming in time to step into an alcove. They might have been looking for him, or they might have been sent on some other urgent task. He didn’t know or care, and he wasn’t about to risk finding out.
I don’t want to see you again until you’re fully healed.
As long as he avoided hearing a countermanding order, he would have weeks of freedom, something he’d never had under the unending yoke of Isabeau’s geas.
Weeks.
His imagination leaped ahead, racing through possibilities.
If he could acquire another injury before he was fully healed, he might be able to prolong this hiatus, perhaps even indefinitely. Unfortunately, he couldn’t reinjure himself. Long ago, she forbade him to commit any acts of self-harm.
What if he found someone else to strike the blow for him? Someone he could trust to wield a silver weapon without killing him?
Would the geas allow it? He was sure as hell going to find out. If the geas would only let him, he would happily stick a silver knife in his own gut repeatedly to avoid returning to Avalon and living as Isabeau’s slave.
He could gain time. Time to himself.
Time to research ancient texts and learn everything he could about Azrael’s Athame. Time to see if he could work around the magical restraints that bound him and still find a way to destroy Isabeau and Modred.
The geas wouldn’t allow him to destroy them himself—Isabeau’s long-ago first order had forbade him to harm either her or Modred—but what if he could set in motion certain events that would destroy them for him?
As for the wound… life was full of pain. He would deal with it.
First, however, he had to leave Avalon.
His strength ebbed in a slow, steady trickle. Pausing only long enough to tear off strips from the bottom of his jacket, he folded a pad of material over the wound and tied it in place. The cloth was soon soaked, and he reached the closest crossover passageway in a haze of blood loss and pain. The guard at the passageway had been doubled, and conviction solidified.
They were looking for him. He had to wait until nightfall, and then he used the last of his magical strength to cast a sleeping spell over those on duty. When the guards were stretched out on the ground and snoring, he eased past them.
Into the passageway, to England, where the cool of a rainy summer evening greeted him. Morgan had money and resources on Earth. Cars, safe houses, and go-bags packed with credit cards, clothes, weapons, and necessities.
Nobody would be able to find him. Not unless he wanted them to.
By the time he reached the spacious country home of a doctor he kept on retainer, he had turned feverish and the insides of his lungs felt raw.
It was late, and he had to pound on the front door before lights came on downstairs. The doctor himself, a lanky human with receding hair and a nervous expression, answered the door.
“You can’t show up on my doorstep at all hours of the night!” the doctor exclaimed. “My wife doesn’t know anything about our arrangement.”
Morgan’s lip curled in a feral snarl, and he had to restrain his response. His lycanthrope abilities might be dampened for now, but the instincts weren’t.
“You want to end our arrangement, fine,” he snapped. “I’ll stop paying your retainer—after you treat me.”
“Who is it, Giles?” a woman called from above a flight of stairs.
The doctor raised his voice. “No one, darling. Just someone asking for directions. Go back to bed. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
“All right.” Footsteps receded.
Morgan had locked his knees to keep from falling over. He had used the last of his magical ability when he had cast the sleeping spell on the passageway guards, so he had a Beretta tucked into the waistband of his jeans.
A fine tremor ran through his muscles as he waited to see what the doctor would do. He didn’t have the resources to find medical treatment elsewhere. If he had to, he would use the gun to compel the doctor to treat him.
Giles turned back to him. “No need to stop the retainer,” he muttered, avoiding his gaze. “Next time text me, and I’ll meet you somewhere. Don’t come to my house, for God’s sake.”
Morgan began to unbutton his shirt. “Let’s just get through this. We can discuss details of any future arrangements later.”
Giles led him to a large farmhouse kitchen that had been stylishly updated, and as Morgan sat on a stool at one end of an island, the doctor eyed him much as Isabeau had. “Wounds made with silver?”
“Yes.” Lycanthropes might heal with supernatural speed, but sometimes injuries still needed attention. Broken bones needed to be set correctly—or often rebroken and set—and wounds made with silver needed treatment just like a human’s injuries would. He shrugged his good arm out of the sleeve. “After you clean the wounds, I need stitches, pain medication, and antibiotics.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job.” Despite his irritated response, Giles proceeded to do just as Morgan had said.
He cleaned both wounds, gave Morgan a shot for the pain and another shot of antibiotics. After he had stitched and bound the injuries, he left the kitchen. Morgan scooped up his lacerated shirt and jacket and followed the doctor into his office, where he watched Giles unlock a cabinet tucked in one corner.
Giles pulled out bottles and turned to him. “I’m giving you two pain medications. One is a narcotic, so use it sparingly. Take the full course of antibiotics until they’re gone.”
“Understood.” He eased his way back into the shirt.
Giles eyed him with a frown. “I don’t like this,” he said abruptly. “That wound in your side is especially concerning. You should be on an IV in hospital.”
Morgan took the bottles and tucked them into the pockets of his jacket without replying. The less Giles knew, the less the doctor could do to betray him.
Whatever else Giles was, he wasn’t a stupid man. The doctor muttered, “The trouble you’re in—it won’t be coming here, will it?”
“I don’t know.” Morgan turned away. If he’d had a drop of Power left, he would have spelled Giles to forget his visit, but he was bone-dry on magic, and he would only get it back with rest and healing. “Most likely not, but anything’s possible. You might use some of that exorbitant retainer I pay you to take your wife on holiday.”
The doctor trailed behind him as he strode for the front door. The last thing Morgan saw of the doctor was his pale, frightened face as Giles stood in the doorway and watched him climb into his Volvo.
So many people had looked at Morgan with that same frightened expression over the centuries that he had grown immune to it a long time ago. Putting the car into gear, he reversed down the long, winding drive.
Then he drove until exhaustion forced him to stop. Finding a quiet, out-of-the-way place to park, he slept in the car, and when morning came, he bought coffee and a hot breakfast and drove until he again couldn’t go any farther.
Morgan had plenty of safe houses, but he didn’t go to any of them. Instead, he kept traveling north until he reached Glasgow. Only then did he search for a place to stay.
He checked into a hotel in the stylish West End area—some place big enough that he could get away with unusual behavior—and used one of his alternative IDs along with a new, unused credit card to pay for a week’s stay.