3.
Arthur stares at him incredulously. "It said . . . hello?"
"Not exactly in those terms, but essentially," Merlin smiles. "They usually greet me some way or another. This one just didn't waste any time doing so."
Arthur for some reason looks like he finds this amusing and unlikely. "Greeted you. Really."
Merlin nods, and when Arthur's doubtful look remains he sighs. "I'm sure you, Arthur, have heard about people like me scamming people like you, as well. The thing is I'm the one getting paid either way, whether you are the one faking, or I am.
"So," Merlin puts his elbows on his knees, rests his chin on his hands. "What can I do to convince you of my sincerity? I hope you've looked at my record, before hiring me?"
Arthur nods a little, though with narrowed eyes. "Yes. You seemed genuine. And had the most false-alarms."
It's true. Half of Merlin's appointments end in him telling people that, sure, there are spirits in their home/garage/office—they're everywhere, really—but he isn't picking up on any disturbances. Any troubled spirits, in need of his help.
Honestly, most spirits are docile folk. They're drawn at first, mostly, to the important places and people from their past life, but it's not like they're trying to wreck the living's lives. Take the woman sitting in that cozy-looking chair near the window right now, looking out over the lawn. He can feel the link as strong as tree roots, connecting her and this house, these people, together. But she isn't bothering anybody. Why would he bother her?
"That's because, most of the time, spirits aren't trying to harm anyone. They're not vengeful or hateful in nature, usually."
Merlin can tell by the weirded-out look Arthur's giving him that he probably should shut up right about now. Considering most people these days don't believe in spirits, or an after-life.
Well, most living people, at least.
But this Arthur called him—indirectly through his secretary, but still—so the man has to be somewhat of a believer. Or at least considering it as an option..
"Right," Arthur says eventually, shifting his weight. Hands still behind his back. "The rest of what you need to know is pretty simple, really. You start on Monday, around eight. Gwen will help, she had a room prepared for you—Gwen, my wife, who you'll meet no doubt on Monday—and you'll see most everyone else, as well. Her, the servants, security, even the landscapers should you wish.
"Except my sister." Arthur's eyes harden then, jaw taut. "My sister is not to be disturbed, no matter what crazy voo-doo you think you need to do. As far she is concerned, you're a—distant relative, er, relative's friend—of Gwen's," he stumbles, possibly because Merlin's face is a little confused and mostly amused about the "crazy voo-doo" bit. "This is for both of your own goods. She'll freak out if she knows what you are, and then you'll be pestered by her constantly."
"So, make nice with your wife, stay away from your sister, befriend the landscapers." Merlin struggles to keep a nonchalant voice at the last part, cracking a grin when Arthur rolls his eyes. "Think I got it all."
"Good then." An awkward silence ensues. Arthur just scratches at the back of his neck, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, so it's apparently up to Merlin to fill the silence. The man obviously isn't rich off his social skills. "See you Monday?" Merlin stands and offers a smile, brushing his jeans off for something to do.
"No, you won't." Arthur smiles back sardonically, finally letting his arms drop. Merlin shrugs as he starts walking past him, but Arthur's hand stops him. He grips Merlin's shoulder, a little too tightly, saying, "Make this quick. The sooner you fix the problem, the sooner you get your money. Deal?"
Merlin gives him a look, and then shakes off Arthur's hand. "Yeah. Sure." Prat.
4.
Merlin is packing his clothes when Will calls.
"You're leaving tomorrow, right?"
"Mmhm," Merlin says, sticking the phone between the crook of his neck. "And packing right now. What's up?" He goes and grabs a Cola from the fridge in the kitchen, putting Will on speaker.
"Just wanted to give you the head's up. Apparently, Elena's worked for your guy before as his assistant, and she says he's a total arse-hole. Complete 'Anal Orifice.'"
Merlin snorts into his drink. "Really," he recovers, though still laughing. "Anal Orifice how?"
"She was serious. Apparently the Pendragons are well-known for firing people on the first day 'round here. But she got sacked from his company simply because Arthur said she sneezed too much."
"Man's got to have a sanitary work environment," Merlin offers in a serious tone, finally getting a hold of himself.
"Ha ha Merls. But it's true. I'm just trying to look out for you."
"I know. And there's no need—I met Arthur and am already completely aware of his anal orifice-ness, really." Merlin rolls his eyes, screwing the cap to his drink and heading back to his room. His things are strewn across the furniture, normal procedure for packing. "A complete prat. Honestly. The bloke acts like there's a pineapple stuck up his arse."
"Pineapple? Ouch. Elena says you're right on the mark, though."
"She's there with you? Tell her hi."
"Merlin says hi." There is a beat of silence. "She says 'good luck, hope you make it out alive.'"
Merlin lets out an amused breath. "Her confidence is overwhelming." Then the wheels in his head finally turn, reminding Merlin of an important little detail. "The Anal Orifice doesn't want me telling other people I'm there, though. Elena's not supposed to know. You're not supposed to know."
"Yeah, but I'm your best mate. Extra privileges."
"Fine. Just don't tell anyone else about it, got it?"
"Mum's the word, Merlin. I swear. Call me this weekend, 'kay? You can take a break from the dead, join the living some night."
They make plans for Ealdor's finest dive—and by finest, of course, they mean greasiest—in which Elena invites herself along, and Will implores Merlin to find a date so he's not "third-wheeling it." Merlin does not really appreciate his best friend's hint-dropping about the "girl dilemma," as Will calls it—circling round to the philosophy the man's had ever since secondary school—that being with a girl is miserable, and being without one is suicidal. Merlin often has to let him rant about it for a while (usually after a break-up) before his friend will shut up and leave him alone.
He sounds pretty content and non-miserable with Elena, right now though, wishing Merlin a good rest of the night—"What's left of it, of course. See ya!"—then Merlin is off the phone, staring at his room blankly before he realizes it's two in the morning and he's expected near eight at the estate.
Why eight in the morning, Merlin cannot fathom. This whole job is the strangest he's ever undertaken. Mostly because he has no idea, really, why Arthur Pendragon has hired him. To be a medium he assumes, to contact a spirit that, in this case, seems to be the "disturbance" occasionally mentioned. And what attacked him the second he entered the premises.
But what has made Pendragon Estate, of all places, suddenly home to a malicious ghost? As old as it is, Merlin's never heard of ghost stories or haunted tales about the castle-like mansion. Not that he knows much about the place in general, but still. Usually his clients tell him stories about paranormal activity—doors shutting, voices whispering, things falling. A lot of the time it's rubbish, but then how should they know till he tells them?
That's just when it's something bad. Mostly, he's hired to help someone communicate with their deceased or vice versa, carry one final message to someone they love. "Like a spiritual postman," Will once declared. After three bottles of the good stuff, of course.
So when Merlin gives his keys to one of the security men the next morning—"I'm Leon, met you at the gate last time you came." "Right, hello." "Can I park your car then?"—and walks up the stone steps once more, he's not sure exactly what this Arthur bloke wants of him.