Preclipse
Prologue
Essie Abbot was angry.
Tonight had not gone as planned. Creeping around Chislehurst Caves, illegally to boot, with a near burnt-out torch and wet shoes had not been on the agenda. I must admit, though, she thought to herself, it is a bit of a rush being in the caves at night.
"You alright?" Cullen whispered through the darkness.
"I'm a long way from California," Essie answered, feigning her best annoyed voice.
Being yanked out of high school just after the start of her freshman year hadn't been the hardest part of adjusting to her father's sudden transfer to London. The hardest part had been acclimating to the weather. The cold, damp rain and fog of London could only hope to conjure visions of Southern California – it would never aspire to compete. The culture was different, the high schoolers were different; but she had found good mates in Cullen and Lucas. They had made the last 15 months bearable. She, Cullen and Lucas might be the geeks – the thoughtful ones, the different ones – but they had each other, and between them and the beautiful grey Thoroughbred her father had purchased for her so she could continue her dressage training, she was managing to transition. Essie wished she was riding Excalibur right now, instead of creeping, illegally, through a labyrinth of dark, freezing caves.
She'd been in a warm house by a fireplace when Cullen had come over, frantic. Though he was nearly hysterical, it had taken Cullen a good deal of talking to convince her to come. "He just disappeared," Cullen had said, white as the proverbial ghost. "When we got to the carving, he shined his torch on something, one of the carvings, and then there was this flash of light, and Kyle was just – gone."
"They couldn't have faked that?" she had asked.
"Barton Endice is clever and his dad is techno-king and all that, but they couldn't have faked this. Barton nearly wet himself."
"I would like to have seen that," Essie had said.
"That's why I need you to come with me," Cullen pleaded. "Please. I need you on this."
So here she was, having followed him through a secret entrance accessed through very wet and muddy foliage. What am I doing here?
Once inside the caves, she became intrigued by them. "I wonder what stories these walls would tell?" she whispered to Cullen. She could see her foggy breath escape from under her nose and turn to vapor in the chilled air.
"Quite a few, actually," came the quiet reply. "Some say the Druids actually built these caves. They've found altars, used for human sacrifice."
"Eeu."
"During the blitz it was used as an air raid shelter. People lived down here. It had shops and a hospital and everything."
"How do you hold all that in your head?"
"Same way I memorize whole scripts," Cullen answered, a bit full of himself.
"Oh, excuuuse me, Mr. DeNiro."
Cullen laughed. "I prefer Mr. Olivier."
Essie grunted. "Don't overreach or anything."
"Seriously though," Cullen continued, "it's really cool down here. You should read the brochure."
"Well I wouldn't need to read anything if you hadn't agreed to play D&D with Barton and his lot."
"Don't get snippy." She could feel Cullen smiling, though she couldn't see him through the shadows. "Look at you, sounding all British. His lot?"
Essie managed her best grunt. "I can't believe you went."
"I was bored. They were begging."
"They were begging because they can't do the math. And Barton is not a good Dungeon Master."
"And you heard that from?"
"Just around." Essie followed Cullen step for step, trusting him, although it suddenly dawned on her that two torches were the only things between her and Cullen, and absolute, unrelenting darkness. For miles.
"How big are these caves?" Her own voice sounded small in her head.
"I dunno. Twenty miles maybe. Read the brochure."
"Cullen, really?"
He stopped, and she bumped into him. "Here it is." His voice was a whisper.
They approached a magnificent carving. Through the filtered light, Essie could make out eerie faces, a horned skull with a hole in its forehead beneath two horse heads topped by what looked like a sinister owl. The carving went on, but the spine-chilling apparitions bade her look no further.
"Here," Cullen said.
Essie let out a scream, feeling her feet tangled up in some kind of paper.
"It's okay, it's okay," Cullen whispered, putting his arms briefly around her. He directed his torch at the ground. "Just our battle map."
Essie caught her breath as Cullen passed his torch slowly over the carving.
"This is what Kyle was doing. Just like this."
A few silent minutes passed before slowly, a small part of the wall began glowing.
Cullen gasped. "Essie, are you shining your torch there? What? …"
"It's not me, Cullen."
The glow grew in size and in heat, and the pair of them stepped back. There was a quick, sudden flash – they shielded their eyes, and when the darkness fell once again, they found themselves in the company of a very old man.
They both fixed their torches upon him. His ruby red robes flowed to the ground. Lines and wrinkles were woven into tiny baskets on a beleaguered yet confident face. His piercing eyes were ice blue, long white hair flowing past his shoulders. His lengthy white beard masked high set cheekbones, what was certainly once a perfectly chiseled nose and full red lips, pursed with purpose.
He's beautiful, Essie thought, suddenly losing half her light.
She glanced over at Cullen, who was out cold.
Fainted? Seriously?!
Essie bent to pick up Cullen's torch.
The old man eyed Essie intently. He had appeared carrying an unlit flambeau, something out of the dark ages. Waiving a wrinkled hand across it, the flambeau came to life with a hiss, producing a glittering flame. Essie feared she herself might faint.
She managed to push her fear-riddled voice through trembling lips. "How did you do that?! Who are you?"
"Who am I?" the old man spoke loudly, forcefully. "The question is, where am I? When am I?"
A thought appeared in Essie's bewildered mind that she must look like Excalibur right now – that sort of blank stare the gelding would give her when she was asking something of him that he did not understand. Funny thing, adrenaline. Puts the strangest thoughts in your head.
"Quickly, girl! Answer me!" The old man was at once trepidatious and confident, his regal countenance clearly unsettled by a usual firm grasp that could now grab onto nothing.
"Kent!" she said, louder than she had intended, as if the ghosts would hear and awaken. "Outside of London. England."
"Year?"
Essie fought for breath. "2015."
"2015?" The old man began muttering to himself, counting on his fingers. He took a step forward, to which Essie took two steps back.
"What is the matter with you?" he demanded. Impatient, crotchety.
"You frighten me!" Essie replied, her tone suggesting that he should already know that.
"Frighten, what, fri . . . oh. Oh. Yes. Of course. Apologies. Turn 'round."
"What?" No way was she turning her back on this enigma. She was beginning to convince herself that she had fainted too, and this was a dream.
"No. I won't. Who are you?"
Breathing deeply, the old man replied, "Please. Look away."
Yes. Definitely a dream.
"Now," the old man continued, slowly waiving his empty hand, "if you would just turn around, I will assume a form that will not be so, em, intimidating. How would that be?"
As if his physical appearance alone was the oddest thing about this whole confrontation.
Unable to look away, Essie watched his hand, his fingers slowly counting down in the air, until she felt herself turning, turning, like a jewelry box ballerina in slow motion.
When she once again faced him, she gasped for air. "How did you do that, make me turn around?!"
She regarded him through torchlight and the flickering flames of the flambeau he held. Essie took in a breath that became trapped in her lungs.
He was young! Just a few years older than her! Dark, curly hair worn forward in boyish bangs led the way to river-blue eyes, flawlessly sculpted high cheekbones, a slender nose and a full, perfect mouth. The flowing scarlet robes had been replaced with blue jeans, a t-shirt and athletic shoes, just like the high schoolers wore. What had not changed was his intense sense of purpose – a mission from which he could not be diverted.
"Let's try this again, shall we?" His eyes were kind, his voice soft. The old man – the young man – extended a hand to her. "My name is Merlin. And I need your help."