She started after Merlin, flapping her hands to clear a particularly thick waft of fog. Susan followed her.
“And why are you all dressed up?”
“Silvermere!” called out Merlin.
“Are we going back there, through the tarn?”
“Definitely not! We might get stuck or lose a week, or lose you again.”
“So you missed me?”
“Yes!” cried Merlin, and there was such honesty in his voice that Susan didn’t know how to reply and instead focused on her feet and the effort of not slipping on the loose rocks herself, and not thinking at all about how she might have misjudged him and perhaps she should give him a chance, and maybe it would work out, and it would be fun anyway and life was too short—
“Where exactly are we going, Merlin?” asked Vivien, interrupting Susan’s runaway thoughts.
“The village below,” said Merlin. “Phone first. The Grandmother might have warned Thurston or one of the even-handed but we can’t count on that. How long do you reckon until Southaw gets back to London, Viv . . . he is a London entity, isn’t he?”
“Oh yes, one of the major malevolences,” said Vivien, pausing to catch Susan, who had tripped and was about to fall past her. “Careful, Susan. Uh, I don’t know how swiftly he can get back . . . a discorporate entity, out of its own bounds . . . it’s not something I’ve studied. I mean, if he keeps that smoky raven thing going and flies at the speed we saw, maybe five or six hours? If nothing stops him; I mean, he must be trespassing on many other Old Ones’ domains.”
“Southaw’s had eighteen years of forcing oaths of loyalty without bookseller interference,” said Merlin. “Who knows how far his suzerainty extends now? In both the Old World and the New? Besides, he’s got the Copper Cauldron’s powers.”
“Yes,” said Vivien. “Susan . . . where is the cauldron?”
“I don’t know—” Susan started to say, but then she realized she did know, though in an abstract way. It would take a bit of figuring out. “Southeast, quite a distance. I guess towards London. Underground, in some sort of chamber . . . kind of earthy, with tree roots . . . I need to be closer. . . .”
The fog came with them down the mountain, heavy and far wetter than it had been up above. It was her father’s work, Susan knew, so she wasn’t surprised they met no one climbing up. When they got to the Walna Scar car park it was empty, save for two late-model Range Rovers. A blue one containing two dead men and two dead women, and a green one with three dead men. All of them were dressed for outdoor pursuits in brand-new clothes, some with the tags still on. Susan might have thought they were asleep, if her father hadn’t mentioned stopping the hearts of evildoers below who were waiting for their boss.
Merlin opened the passenger door of the closest car and lifted the flap of the dead man’s anorak pocket, revealing the butt of a Colt .45, and there was the hilt of a knife sticking out of his boot top. There was a sawn-off shotgun in a bag in the footwell, and a quick glance at the others showed they were also all well-armed, their weapons barely concealed.
“Best not to cross your dad,” said Merlin. “I wonder if I should have checked with him if it was okay to ask you out, Susan.”
“I make my own decisions on that,” said Susan. “And I do the asking out.”
“And what have you decided?” asked Merlin. He looked back for a moment, a very Brontë figure with the wisps of fog, all smiles and charm and romance. If you ignored the dead bodies in the car behind him.
“I always preferred Jane Eyre to Wuthering Heights,” said Susan thoughtfully.
“Um, what does that—”
“I’d choose Mr. Rochester over Heathcliff, if I was going on a date. He always struck me as being of more practical use.”
“So you will!”
“I’ve decided that when the opportunity presents I will ask you out for a drink,” said Susan. “We’ll see about anything else.”
She looked at Vivien. “No warnings this time?”
“No,” said Vivien seriously. “You are definitely not like the people Merlin normally . . . well, Merlin’s relationships start more quickly I suppose and end not very long after with him sidling off. In fact I have to say I’m quite curious to see what happens. Of course, we have to survive long enough for anything to happen.”
“We’ve made it so far,” said Susan, finding herself unexpectedly full of something she thought must be mostly a rush of survival joy and not to do with Merlin. At least not entirely.
“Because we were here, in your father’s domain, and we were lucky,” said Vivien. “You could have been killed by Merrihew, let alone Southaw sticking you in a hole in the rock with your dad! And now we have to go up against him on his own turf, at the center of his power. Like tracking a wounded bear to its den. Only much, much worse.”
“But not by ourselves,” said Merlin grimly. He started to drag the passengers out and there was no disguising they were dead and not merely asleep. “Next time, it’ll be with lots and lots and lots of well-armed, knowledgeable, and powerful booksellers.”
“We hope,” muttered Vivien.
“Don’t be so negative and give me a hand,” said Merlin, dragging the first passenger a few steps and laying her down. “Or do you want to take the blue car?”
“You don’t seem bothered by dead people now,” said Susan. “I thought—”
“Only the innocent ones, killed by my hand, haunt me,” said Merlin somberly. “Besides, these aren’t even ordinary gangsters. See those three tattoos, the rings around the forefinger? It’s a Death Cultist thing. These people signed up to serve Southaw voluntarily, knowing what he is. There’s always a few wannabe Satanists or Druids into human sacrifice around and malevolent entities who thirst for such blood. A tattooed ring here means a man killed; on the thumb, a woman killed; and on the little finger, a child. But I
