She also saw the misshapen shadow that pooled behind the beast’s feet, the polluted detritus of the bear’s spirit, forced from it by the power of the cauldron, but still connected to the remnant flesh.
Susan bent her will upon the bear, trying to wrest control away, to become the puppet master herself. She felt a sudden flash of nausea as she lost her own vision and senses and took over the bear’s, but a moment later she was thrown out, back in her own head again.
She heard Holly’s bullying, confident voice right next to her, shouting in her ear, and felt his presence, Southaw’s immense power.
“Mine! This is mine!”
He was too strong. She could not prevail against him—and Susan also knew she didn’t want to; that brief, foul taste of controlling the poor bear was more than enough. She would never direct a Cauldron-Born, never.
But Susan instinctively knew there was something else she could do. She lifted her salt-stained, bloodied knife again and slashed through the fiery string emanating from the bear’s head, as Southaw lifted its huge, taloned paws to strike at her.
The bright copper-red cord parted without resistance, curling back up like a burnt hair. The fire inside the bear went with it, blown out like a candle. The misshapen shadow re-formed into the true shape of a sad, bewildered bear, sank into the grass, and was gone.
Susan leaped back as the physical remains of the monster tumbled down in front of her, a gut-wrenchingly awful pile of decomposed bear meat, rank blood, and broken bones. Some of it spilled over Vivien’s feet, but she still didn’t move.
She looked like she was dead. Fearing the worst, Susan knelt at her side and felt for the pulse in her neck, gasping in relief as she found it. Faint, but regular, and she could see the slow lift of Vivien’s chest under her eggshell-blue waistcoat. Blood trickled from her lip where she had bitten it in the effort to hold the Cauldron-Bear. And her bare silver hand still shone.
Merlin dragged himself up and Susan turned to him.
“Overtaxed her strength,” muttered Merlin. “She’ll be okay. . . .”
“What about you?” asked Susan anxiously. She started to pull Merlin’s trousers up to see how bad the breaks were, but he stopped her, holding her wrists.
“Both legs broken,” he said, grimacing. “Spiral fractures. Very bad.”
“The Sipper spit . . .”
“Can’t mend broken bones . . . not quickly,” said Merlin. He was breathing in short pants, obviously in extreme pain. He pulled the Smython out of his bag and held it out butt first. “Take my revolver. I see your salt-bloodied knife is better than a sword against the Cauldron-Born. You have to distract Southaw—”
“But—”
“You can . . . do . . . what you did to that . . . one.”
“But how will I even know what Southaw—”
“The Totteridge Yew,” gasped Merlin. “His locus is a tree! It will be clear to you, and he’ll be with the cauldron. Head for that.”
“But what do I do?” asked Susan.
“I don’t know! Shoot the tree, chop branches off with the knife, anything to take his attention away from the contest of wills,” croaked Merlin. “I’ll follow, but crawling . . . there isn’t time! You’re our only chance.”
Susan hesitated for an instant before leaning in to kiss Merlin full on the mouth. He lifted his shaking right hand and ran his fingers across the stubble on her head. They held the kiss for an electric second, before both slowly broke away.
“Stay alive,” whispered Merlin.
“You too,” said Susan. If they lived, she knew there would be much more than a single date in their shared future.
If they lived.
She grabbed the revolver, hefted her knife, turned, and walked swiftly into the fog. She knew exactly where the Copper Cauldron was, and she headed straight to it.
Merlin looked at Vivien again, took a knife out of his sleeve, and sat up, grunting with the pain. He bent forward and slit his trousers from the knees, inspecting his fractured legs. With his steady left hand he drew out a vial of Sipper blood, swished it in his mouth, and spat it on his left leg where a piece of twisted bone protruded through the skin. He let it pool there, then settled his left hand on the bone and with one quick motion pushed it back in place—and fainted.
Susan did not look behind her. She walked as straight as she could towards the cauldron. She could sense its location. It wasn’t far away, but the fog was still so thick she couldn’t see anything but the field a few yards in front of her. The grass was higher here, strewn with stones, a natural clearing rather than the work even of primitive agriculture. Southaw had indeed removed his demesne to some ancient part of England, far back in time.
Susan readied her knife, every nerve on edge, ready for a sudden attack by a Cauldron-Born, be it human, bear, or whatever. But before she’d taken a few steps, she realized this would not work. She couldn’t creep around the fog, fearing attack.
Merlin had said to distract Southaw. To do that, she had to get his attention, not skulk herself.
Susan walked faster and filled her lungs to shout as loudly as she could.
“Hey, Southaw or Holly or whatever you want to call yourself! Shithead! I’m coming for my cauldron! Yes, that’s right! My cauldron! MY CAULDRON!”
Her words had an immediate effect. The fog swirled and thinned, visibility increasing enormously. Modern noises suddenly filtered in, though distant. The sound of sirens, far away, and a helicopter. Both faded away again almost at once, but the fog did not return.
Faint sunshine lit up the stony field, its light soaked
