Chapter 6: Blood and Magic
The office of Camelot Securities was very quiet. Leon was occupied with his Canines for Kids project, and Arthur was seated at the circular table in the middle of the room, all of Leon's material from his days as Thomas Drake's driver spread out in front of him. Planners, receipts, memos, travel vouchers.
The clock on the wall ticked audibly. How quiet it was when both Gwaine and Merlin were gone. Arthur didn't have the heart even to switch on the radio.
The door opened and Arthur and Leon looked up simultaneously to Gwaine's devilish grin. He sauntered in, dropped casually into the nearest chair, which happened to be Merlin's vacant desk-chair. "Well, he's away," Gwaine said. "One week without Merlin – how will you ever survive, princess?"
"My father has a housekeeper," Arthur informed Gwaine loftily.
"Oh, he said to tell you, Mary's records are a dead end," Gwaine remembered. "No Xander."
"Mary's records?" Leon asked. They knew that Arthur's father had forbidden Arthur from involving Mary.
Arthur said, "When the hell did he –" and stopped, remembering the look of concentration on Merlin's face as he stood over Mary at her desk, having been summoned by IT to fix something with her computer. But that had been before Thomas Drake's refusal to allow access to her files… Arthur sighed. Merlin really did have a problem following the rules, if he saw an opportunity. He winced, thinking about the young sorcerer at a week-long training class run by a drill sergeant. "Did he say anything else?" Arthur asked.
"Yeah, he did." Gwaine's face glinted mischief. "He said to tell you he missed you."
Arthur snorted. "That wasn't what he said." Merlin had been spitting mad when they'd parted.
Gwaine shrugged. "It's what he meant."
Arthur picked up one of Leon's leather-bound schedule books and tossed it at Gwaine. "Make yourself useful," he said. "Xander."
At least Leon was organized, Arthur had to admit, shuffling through a folder of receipts, in chronological order, mostly to do with the cars Thomas Drake owned – gas tank filled, oil changed, detailing work. Nothing. He picked up the next folder, containing the travel vouchers.
"You know, it doesn't have to be a person," Gwaine mentioned. "Xander could just as easily be a group of people – a business, a company, an organization – or a place."
Arthur sifted through invoices for hotel rooms, printouts from toll-road quick-passes and parking validations. "Nothing and nothing," Arthur said, dropping the folders back into the carton Leon had carried in from his trunk that morning.
"After lunch," Gwaine proposed cheerfully, "You can help me read Leon's diaries."
"They're not diaries, Gwaine," Leon said mildly. "I'm going to be finished with this segment of the project this morning, Arthur – this afternoon all three of us can finish going through this material."
That afternoon, Arthur began with the first schedule record kept, when Leon first began working for Thomas Drake. Leon began with the most recent one, while Gwaine grabbed a new one at random. "Your life, mate," he grumbled good-naturedly to Leon, "makes for very dull reading. Now if I had been Mr. Drake's bodyguard and driver, this reading would be a lot more lively and entertaining."
"No doubt," Leon returned easily. "And much, much shorter."
Gwaine grinned, conceding the point. "No doubt," he agreed. "I wouldn't have lasted long in your job."
"Wait a minute," Arthur said. "What the hell is this entry – 'TD Do Spells work'?"
"Let me see that," Leon said. TD was Thomas Drake, they all knew that. "No, it's an 'r' that curved around so you thought it was an 'o'. Dr. Spell's work."
"Who's Dr. Spell?" Gwaine said, ready to be distracted.
"Dr. Spell was head of the lab before Gaius came here," Leon said. "About four and a half years ago, was it? Dr. Andrew Spell." Leon looked back down at the page of the book in front of him, and Gwaine shrugged, yawning as he rubbed the back of his neck.
"Dr. Andrew Spell," Arthur said slowly. "Do you remember why he left?" The name echoed in his memory, it must have been right before he'd graduated high school. While his dreams were still bright in his mind, and the word 'spell' had held different connotations than phonetic or alphabetic.
"You mean, was he fired, or did he accept a better offer, or did he retire?" Leon shook his head. "I don't remember."
"I'll be Gaius knows," Gwaine put in wisely.
"Andrew… Xander…" Arthur mused. His vague memory suggested that Thomas Drake had been furious when he'd said the name. It had connected to Arthur's memory of Uther Pendragon ranting about sorcerers and enchantments. He turned around and leaned back, grabbing his phone from his desk and dialing the extension for the lab. "Dr. Gus, please," he said. "This is Arthur Drake."
"You want us to keep looking?" Leon said.
Arthur nodded. "Just in case I'm wrong."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Gaius, it turned out, was involved in laboratory research until the end of the day, but Arthur was waiting in his office at five o'clock when the old physician returned, plastic eye goggles perched atop his bald crown, black-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. He stripped rubber gloves from his hands carefully, turning them inside out, one inside the other, then did the same with a second glove layer.
"Arthur," he said. "What can I do for you? Have you heard from Merlin?"
"Gwaine said he made the flight this morning," Arthur said. "He hasn't called yet."
"Have you called him?" Gaius said, looking at Arthur over the top of his glasses. He'd caught the mood of their last argument before Merlin left, Arthur expected.
"I left a voicemail," he said, not liking the defensive tone in his voice. "Gaius, I was wondering if you know anything about Andrew Spell."
"Dr. Andrew Spell," Gaius said, seating himself behind the desk and gazing toward the window into the lab. "My predecessor. This laboratory was built for him, you know. Your father funded his work."
Dr. Spell's work, Arthur thought. "Do you know," he said, "what he was working on?"
"Not specifically, no," Gaius said. "When your father approached me through a mutual medical acquaintance to offer me this job, he only said that the position had been left vacant. I gathered that he did not part from Dr. Spell on the best of terms, however, he was far too reluctant to speak of the man, even on a personal level, for the break to have been amicable."
"Anything you can tell me, Gaius," Arthur said. "Anything at all. Did they disagree about his work? Did they fight? Was Andrew Spell fired? And where did he go after leaving here?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know the answers to those questions," Gaius said, shaking his head. "However, I seem to recall – we found a few pages of his research jammed behind a drawer of one of the filing cabinets in this office."
"Did you keep it?" Arthur demanded.
"No, of course not – shredded long ago." Gaius steepled his hands, resting his chin on his fingertips. "He was, I understand, an epidemiologist. Studying DNA links to viral outbreaks, the effects of vaccines, biological warfare. Anthrax, smallpox, possible terrorist tactics."
Arthur felt cold, and couldn't rationally explain why. DNA. Smallpox. Andrew Spell. Xander. Just over a week ago Merlin had sat in the lab – Arthur could see the tan leather seat from where he stood – while Gaius drew blood samples to replace what had, presumably, been smashed along with every other sample in the lab. He remembered that Gaius had mentioned a preliminary report, and opened his mouth to ask after the results.
His cell phone rang in his pocket, and he glanced at the caller ID before answering. No name came up, but a number that he recognized as a satellite call originating with the naval ship Elyan was aboard. Strange – Elyan usually used his phone time to talk with his family, and Gwen relayed information between the former king and his former knight.
"Hello," Arthur said.
"Arthur," Elyan said. "I have five minutes before I have to be on duty."
"I'm listening," Arthur said, hearing in the former knight's voice a note of significance.
"Gwen said she told you about my friend who – went missing," Elyan said. "His name was Adam Longley."
Was. "What happened?" Arthur said. Gaius looked concerned, and Arthur held up one finger as a signal for the old man's patience.
"When Adam disappeared and the MPs said he went AWOL and they weren't going to open a missing person's case, I asked Percival to see what he could find."
"Percival?" Arthur said, surprised. How could Percival, stationed in Fort George Meade, MD, possibly help someone missing from San Diego, CA?
"Next to yourself, sire, he's our most experienced tracker," Elyan said in a voice of explanation. "Adam walked out of his house in Annapolis without his keys or wallet, leaving his car behind."
Annapolis – the Naval Academy was less than twenty miles from Fort Meade. That explained that, Arthur thought. He said to Elyan, "Go on."
"Percival picked up his trail easily. Followed him five miles northwest up the Severn River before he had to quit for the night. He searched the shores of the Little Round Bay over the weekend, and last night he - he found Adam's body."
"I'm sorry, Elyan," Arthur said.
Elyan cleared his throat. "The reason I'm calling, Arthur," he said, "is that when the authorities reached Percival, the medical examiner suspected that Adam had died of disease, rather than trauma or exposure – but it wasn't smallpox from the vaccine. The CDC was called in last night, and Percival is quarantined for the week." Arthur put his forehead in his palm. "Arthur, can you – will you do a favor for me?" Elyan said. "Do you have anyone that can keep tabs on the investigation? I would but –" he huffed a breath through the connection. "I'm on a boat at the far end of the Pacific." Arthur didn't know anyone in Percival's company, but – there was always Agent Chance, at Fort Meade. "Do you suppose Gaius –" Elyan said tentatively, then turned away from the phone to holler at someone else, "Roger that! On my way! Arthur, I've got to go."
"I'll see if Gaius can find out anything with the CDC," Arthur promised.
"Thanks, Arthur." The line went dead.
Arthur turned to Gaius. "You know anyone at the Center for Diease Control?" he said.
"I have a few contacts, sire," Gaius said. "Why?"
"You're going to have to ask them for a favor or two, I'm afraid," Arthur said, beginning to compose a text for Agent Chance. Friend of ours found dead near Annapolis, CDC involved, team member quarantined. Any way NSA can help me get update on investigation?
"The CDC," Gaius said slowly. "What is going on, Arthur? You don't suppose that this is connected to your suspicions about Dr. Andrew Spell?"
"I don't know," Arthur said slowly. "I don't know."
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Thomas Drake refused outright to discuss Dr. Andrew Spell, scoffing at Arthur's idea that connected the former laboratory chief to the terrorist organization responsible for stealing the drones in June. By Wednesday Chance had informed Arthur that he'd gotten permission from the naval team as well as Percival's officers for him to cover the investigation as soon as he was out of quarantine. On Thursday, which was the day Percival was declared clean and released from custody, Gaius spent the day at Baltimore General, where the CDC's finest had performed the autopsy, and were currently running a wide range of tests. But by the next Tuesday, when Arthur left the D.C. area to drive south on 95 highway toward North Carolina, there were no real answers.
Arthur turned the satellite radio up almost full blast, driving as fast as the speed limit would allow. All right, a little faster. Truth be told, he was nervous. He and Merlin had not parted on the best of terms, and hadn't spoken for a week. At least they had the consolation of Chance's reassurance – what little it offered, under the circumstances – that Merlin would not be allowed to use his phone during the course. The lengthy and uncomfortable silence had not been by Merlin's choice, then, though it made Arthur's instincts itch to be out of contact with his sorcerer – his friend – so long.
Would he be angry with Arthur? Next of kin would be notified of any injuries that were life-threatening or of a nature to prevent course completion, but knowing Merlin and his lack of natural grace, there were any number of things that might have gone wrong but left unreported.
The guard at the main gate of Fort Bragg gave Arthur a map of the Army post, with the Caisson Hill barracks circled. The arms-room attendant at the barracks was just as helpful – eager, almost – to have Arthur depart again.
"The Tango-Echo-Mikes spend the afternoon at the range," the attendant told him. "There's a sign indicating the trail to your left off the porch – it's only about a hundred yards." Arthur's one-day special dispensation to attend the class, courtesy of Gibson Chance, meant he did not need to change his clothing for the class uniform. He was wearing, he realized, pretty much exactly what he'd worn to break into the drone hangar four and a half months ago – long-sleeve t-shirt, cargo pants, and boots all in black. He didn't even bother settling his overnight bag into whatever room he'd been assigned to, but started out on the trail.
It was cool, the sky mostly overcast, the afternoon sun breaking through occasionally to reach down with near-visible rays. Arthur heard two volleys of gunfire as he hiked the trail to the range, and someone shouting authoritatively as he came down the last hill into the open.
The tree-line was fifteen yards or so from the firing row, the class participants strung out to the left and right, facing away from the trail toward the targets in the field beyond. Arthur paused, searching the line for Merlin, somewhat surprised that the tall, lanky frame of his friend wasn't immediately apparent to him. The class instructor was at the far right, bellowing at the young man on the end. Arthur slowed the sweep of his gaze, searching – yes, there he was.
Arthur stood for a moment, watching his friend unaware. Merlin wore the same camouflage trousers as everyone else, tucked into black combat boots. There was a scrape on his right arm, just below the short sleeve of the black t-shirt, soft cap pulled low over his eyes. He stood next to one of the wooden tables at each firing station, sharing the surface with another young man, chatting casually with him, lit cigarette trailing smoke between them, his hands busy with the equipment on the table. He looked well, and not unhappy.
Merlin shifted so his back was mostly to Arthur, and the former king, instead of reporting to the instructor, crossed to his friend. He was five steps away when the instructor roared, "Re-assemble!"
Merlin glanced up reflexively, and his eyes fell on Arthur, instantly lighting with recognition, his irreverent grin flashing without hesitation, so wide Arthur couldn't help grinning in response.
Neither said anything. Arthur moved closer as Merlin's big bony hands flashed in the re-construction of his pistol, keeping time almost perfectly with the other young man at his side. Finishing the task by sliding a loaded clip into place with a click, Merlin stepped to Arthur, placing the handgun in his king's hand, barrel pointed safely downward.
Then he turned back to the table, mimed picking something up, something Arthur's mind instinctively recognized and defined as Merlin spun to slide the invisible sword into an invisible sheath at Arthur's hip, then retreated one pace to snap to attention and give Arthur a regulation Army salute. Arthur laughed out loud, reaching out to grab his friend and give him a shake of affection.
"You look almost glad to see me," Merlin said.
"You look almost glad to see me," Arthur countered.
"Well, you're alive," Merlin said.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "You have a real talent for stating the obvious, don't you, Merlin," he said.
"All I'm saying is, I'm glad to see you survived the week without me," Merlin said. "I thought you were coming on Tuesday."
"It is Tuesday," Arthur said, giving him a mocking smile.
"Already?" Merlin marveled.
"Comes around every week," Arthur reminded him. "Right after Monday."
"Every day here is Monday," Merlin said. He gestured to the young man next to him, who'd watched their exchange with a wide-eyed grin. "Arthur, this is Casey Lindell. Casey, Arthur Drake."
"Nice to meet you, Drake," Casey said as Arthur shook his hand, and to Merlin he added, "Your boss?"
Arthur raised his eyebrows at the word, and Merlin snorted. "For all intents and purposes," Merlin said with a facetious show of resignation.
"Do you call him Merlin because he can do magic?" Casey said disingenuously to Arthur.
"Magic," he said expressionlessly, standing stock-still.
"Yeah!" Casey enthused. "I've never seen anybody do the things he can do."
Arthur turned his gaze on Merlin, who winced and grinned shamefacedly. "You know," he said. "Making small objects disappear – sleight-of-hand."
Arthur gritted his teeth. Here he had Agent Chance hesitating to allow Merlin's clearance and Merlin was brazenly showing off to a stranger. "Yeah, sleight-of-something," he growled to Merlin.
"What the hell are you doing cluttering up my firing range!" A deep voice boomed behind Arthur, causing the former king's metaphorical hackles to rise. He waited one moment before turning, gathering all his experience as a monarch to his bearing.
"Sergeant Major Hyden, I take it," he snapped. "I am Arthur Drake. Presumably you've been told to expect me this afternoon."
Hyden was a middle-aged career soldier, hard and lean, and unused to backing down to civilians. "You're late!" he barked.
"I make my own schedule," Arthur stated coolly.
"Arthur," said Merlin at his shoulder in a calm ironic voice, "this is the real world – and in the real world, he owns you."
"Lindell, back to your station!" Hyden ordered so abruptly the young man jumped and put his pistol down on the table before backing away. "Caroban –"
"Down and give me twenty," Merlin guessed, stubbing out his cigarette and positioning himself on the ground. Arthur smiled to himself, guessing it was a command Merlin had heard often that week.
Hyden's hard eyes returned to Arthur appraisingly; he glanced down at the weapon still in Arthur's hand. "Well," Hyden said, gesturing to the paper targets set up in the field. "Let's see what you can do with that thing."
Arthur made one shot at a time – standing, kneeling, lying down, at twenty, thirty, then fifty yards. Thanks to a total of four sessions at the NSA's basement range with Chance, Arthur was able to hit the target within three inches of the center each time, providing Hyden with the step-by-step monologue requested on what he was doing and why.
Hyden grunted. "You're not as accurate as your partner," he said. "Mind explaining that to me?" His gaze was focused down-range.
"Yes, I find that I do," Arthur said evenly. "No offense intended."
Hyden didn't look at him. "Normally, with results like Caroban somehow manages to achieve, I'd be recommending him to be advanced to sniper training. But –" Hyden swiveled abruptly to meet Arthur's eyes, his face inches away from the former king's. Arthur found his hand moving for the sword no longer at his hip, and tightened his grip on the pistol instead. "But," Hyden repeated, "Caroban isn't normal, is he."
"The man you speak of is my partner," Arthur cautioned the older man, softly.
The wrinkles around Hyden's eyes deepened. "Exactly," he breathed. "I feel quite certain you can explain the anomalies to my satisfaction."
"I feel quite certain that I don't have to," Arthur said. "Now, I just drove five hours down from D.C. because a friend of mine recommended your course to me. Have I wasted my time?"
"Have I wasted mine?" Hyden spat in Arthur's face, and moved around him, heading for the end of the line.
Arthur stepped back to Merlin's station, where his friend was stretching after his remedial calisthenics. "You've been using magic this week?" Arthur murmured to the young sorcerer. "Hyden is highly suspicious of your aim."
Merlin shrugged. "It's not really on purpose," he said. "I've tried hitting the target in a more ordinary spread pattern, but it just doesn't seem to work."
"Hell, Merlin," Arthur said between his teeth. "Your magic won't let you miss? What, has it got an ego of its own?"
Merlin shrugged again, gazing past Arthur with a quizzical look. Arthur turned to see one student after another, starting at the end, placing their weapon on the table of their station, and heading for the trail back to the barracks, some going with an air of confused resignation, some with eager relief.
"What's going on?" Arthur said, laying the pistol borrowed from Merlin down on the table next to them, beside the weapon Casey had left.
"I don't know," Merlin answered. "We haven't once quit while there's still light to see the targets by."
"Shall we go back to the barracks with the others?" Arthur murmured as Hyden marched past them without a word or a look.
Merlin bit his lip. "I don't think so. He can get very angry if you don't wait for orders."
"You mean, angrier than he already is?" Arthur said, trying to make a joke around the tension in the air. Casey left his station, giving Merlin a worried look as he walked slowly toward the trail, followed by a broad-shouldered blonde. Merlin didn't answer, watching Hyden, and Arthur focused on his friend, seeing a shadow in the depths of his normally clear blue eyes. "Merlin, has he been giving you a hard time?"
Merlin grimaced briefly in denial. "He's Royce Frederick's friend," he said.
Arthur remembered Merlin's departing rant. "You don't trust Frederick," he said, and it wasn't really a question.
"Frederick was curious about my ap test," Merlin said, his eyes still on the shooting instructor. "They asked how I'd done things on the computer skills section, and I said," Merlin's tone changed, mocking himself, "magic."
Arthur sighed, now understanding Chance's question of Merlin's mental stability. "Idiot," he breathed.
"I know," Merlin said, frustrated.
They watched Hyden make his way back to them, methodically checking the weapon at each station, unloading it, as the other class participants disappeared one by one, up the trail past the tree-line. He was too close, now, for Arthur to question Merlin further, so they waited in silence. Hyden glanced up as the last student passed from view, then came to lean on Merlin's station table in front of them, smiling wolfishly.
"So, boys," he said. "Now that we're alone, why don't we stop playing games and be honest with each other."
"Why," Arthur said frostily, "don't we." He considered taking charge of his friend and leaving the class and Fort Bragg that afternoon, that very moment.
"Your friend here," Hyden said, addressing Arthur, "does not grasp a single one of the basic principles of stance and support, the necessary breathing techniques, the mathematics involved in estimating slope and distance, factoring wind direction and velocity. Yet he never fails to hit the center of the target. Every time."
"My friend here," Arthur replied, "has some redeeming talents."
"Talents," Hyden said, as if tasting the word. "Yes. I've been told he might be – special. There are others who wonder just how talented he might be." The instructor pushed up from the table, Casey's pistol in hand, leveled at Merlin's face.
Arthur reacted by holding up his hands palm out in a calming gesture, feeling like he'd gone from holding control of the situation to being very much a helpless bystander. Merlin's gaze took in the weapon mere inches from his nose, then locked onto Hyden once more.
"Don't be stupid, Hyden," Arthur warned, keeping his voice calm, though his heart was in his throat. "Put the gun down and we'll all –"
"No, I don't think so," Hyden interrupted. "Put the gun down and we'll never know for sure, will we? And I was given orders. Find out for sure." He stepped closer to Merlin suddenly, bending his elbow so the handgun was next to his face instead of extended at arms' length. "They call you Merlin, don't they," he said to the sorcerer. Arthur had rarely seen his friend's eyes so icy hard, so calculating. "It's a secret, isn't it? The talents. Some would say – magic." Merlin said nothing. "And this?" Hyden circled just enough so the three of them formed a triangle, where each could see the other two. "This is your King Arthur, isn't it?" the instructor said.
Merlin's eyes flickered briefly to Arthur, and one hand came up in an involuntary defensive gesture.
"Oh," Hyden sighed. "That's how it is. I see. You'd take a bullet, wouldn't you? Trust that you're special enough to survive. But him?" Hyden swung the pistol around to point straight at Arthur's heart, two inches from the black fabric of his shirt.
A look of sheer desperation passed over Merlin's face, replaced by one of fatal calm.
"Hyden," Arthur tried again. "You know who I am. Who my father is. Who my friends are. You want to rethink this. Very. Carefully."
Hyden pulled the trigger.
Arthur heard the noise of the discharge as an ear-numbing explosion. He felt nothing. Hyden stared into his face with a rabid fascination, then his eyes dropped to Arthur's shirtfront as if to bore a hole there that the bullet failed to do. Merlin had not moved a muscle, his eyes focused on the weapon to the exclusion of all else. Hyden pulled the weapon back to examine it, as if unsure it had actually fired anything.
Arthur reacted instinctively, lunging closer to Hyden and closing his fingers around the weapon, trying to wrest it from the instructor's grasp. His ears were ringing – was someone hollering from far away, or was that his imagination?
They grappled, and the pistol lined with Merlin's motionless body once again. Arthur spun to place himself between the barrel and his friend, instinctively trusting that Merlin would protect him, Arthur, more thoroughly than himself.
Hyden squeezed the trigger again, and blinked as the casing flew up between his face and Arthur's.
Arthur felt nothing. No pain. He continued to struggle with Hyden, hampered by his need to contain the weapon, while the instructor fought to discharge it, wildly uncaring which direction the bullet would travel. Hyden's left fist came from nowhere to smash into the side of Arthur's face, momentarily stunning him as they stumbled into Merlin.
Arthur tripped over Merlin's boot, his own momentum tearing his hand from it's purchase on the weapon as he knocked his friend backward to the ground, breaking the sorcerer's concentration. Two more shots sounded, then Hyden said, "Ooof!" as a large square figure tackled him to the ground.
Arthur rolled away from Merlin, scrambling to reach Hyden's right arm again, the arm that ended in the deadly weapon. Still another blast deafened him, and he pried the pistol from Hyden's fingers, rolled and came to his feet, gasping for breath and aiming the piece instinctively at Hyden.
"Don't you move a muscle," he ordered the instructor, who froze flat on his back with his hand up to signal his compliance. Merlin crouched over the newcomer, the broad-shouldered blonde, who was groaning and writhing on the ground. There was blood everywhere, on Merlin's hands and trousers. "Merlin, are you hurt?" Arthur demanded with his first full breath of air.
"No, it's Buell," Merlin answered shortly. He glanced up, past Arthur, and shouted, "Casey, get to a phone and call for help!"
"How bad is it?" Arthur asked.
"It's bad." Arthur heard the despair in his friend's voice, and spared him a glance. "Arthur, I need to help him. I need to try." His eyes were wide with the plea for Arthur's understanding. Not permission.
"Merlin," Arthur warned. On the ground, Buell coughed as he squirmed weakly on the ground, and blood flecked his lips. He moaned in agony.
"No!" Merlin said urgently. "No one else dies because of me!"
"Put pressure on the wound," Arthur told him calmly, holding his gaze. "Use both your hands and – keep a steady pressure. Eyes on your work, and focus on staying calm." Merlin nodded, understanding the deeper meaning of Arthur's instructions.
Hyden shifted so he could see the pair, the young man he'd shot and the teenager trying to help. Arthur menaced the instructor with the handgun again, and Hyden subsided. No words were necessary.
Keeping his eyes on the shooter for any further malicious intent, Arthur could still see Merlin in his field of vision, bending over Buell, his blood-smeared hands spread over the glistening stain just below the other's sternum. The sorcerer's hands pressed down, but it seemed to Arthur that Merlin's touch was gentle rather than firm. Thick red liquid oozed over Merlin's fingers and Buell grew more pale and still. Merlin's mouth moved, though no words were audible. His hands shifted position slightly, but the movement was controlled rather than panicked.
Arthur could not have said how long the four of them held that macabre tableau, until he heard sirens in the distance, and a shouting and rustling of hurried footsteps through the wooded area where the trail led. They were surrounded in the blink of an eye, figures in military uniforms and medical uniforms, weapons at the ready, emergency bags yanked open for the life-saving equipment inside.
Arthur raised the pistol to indicate he did not intend to fire it, laid it carefully on the ground a good yard away, and sank to his knees with his hands behind his head – law enforcement tended to listen more carefully and calmly when they were the only ones armed.
"Pulse is strong," Arthur heard one EMT say. "There's a lot of blood here, but the bleeding seems to have slowed considerably. How close was he to the gun when he was shot?"
Merlin stammered, "I don't know."
"It doesn't look like close range," the EMT concluded. "Slap a field bandage on it – who's got the stretcher? Yeah, he'll be fine til we get him to the hospital – well done, kid. Looks like your friend will be just fine."
The MP at Arthur's side allowed him to stand and drop his hands, while another secured Hyden's hands behind him with cuffs. Arthur turned to Merlin, whose blood-covered hands were shaking, his face pale with shock.
"Take it easy a minute," Arthur instructed him. "Are you all right? You weren't hit anywhere?" Merlin shook his head numbly. "Well," Arthur said, lightly teasing, "I'm fine, thanks for asking."
Merlin gave him a reproachful look. "I know," he said.
"You made sure of that, didn't you?" Arthur said, shaking his head as Merlin let his drop forward.
Across the noise and confusion, Hyden said one word clearly, his eyes on them, and blazing. "Magic."