When he arrived back at the flat, he limped to the kitchen, where he had laid out on the table everything he would need after meeting with the ghoul. Easing into a chair, he opened the nearby bottle of scotch, took a stiff drink, then set to work.

The first step was to give himself a shot to numb the area of the wound. After that, things got easier.

With access to the right supplies, and having the ability to treat the wound immediately instead of suffering from blood loss, he could stitch himself up. He had done it before.

He detached from the chore, watching himself clinically as he tilted the makeup mirror so the magnified side reflected the point of entry where the knife had slid in.

Carefully he sutured himself, and when he was finished, he bandaged the wound. Even though he hated narcotics, he shook out a couple of the strongest pain pills from a bottle and swallowed them with another long pull from the scotch bottle.

Then he slid an IV needle into the vein at his wrist, attached a bag of saline solution, and carried it into the bedroom, where he hung it off the metal stand he’d placed by the bed. Carefully he eased onto the mattress.

As he rested his head back onto the pillow, he smiled in grim triumph.

He had just gained weeks more of freedom. Weeks more of not having to look into Isabeau’s eyes or look upon Modred’s handsome, hated face. Weeks more to search for possible ways to either break the geas’s hold or to find ways to act around it.

Not that long ago, he had longed for just such an opportunity, but he hadn’t dared hope for it. Now it was his.

One by one, his muscles relaxed as the medication kicked in.

In a few days, he could even go to Paris. There was an Elven tome on the seven Primal Powers in the Louvre that was reputed to explore in depth each of the Elder Races gods’ many aspects. He needed to examine the book to see if it mentioned Azrael’s Athame.

He could walk along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées and breakfast in a café along the Seine. He could attend another one of Sidonie Martel’s concerts.

The memory of her impassioned music was like another knife to his middle, filling him with a sweet, piercing pain. With steady focus, he breathed through it.

Life was full of pain. He could handle it.

The narcotics and the scotch did their work. He didn’t fall asleep so much as slide into unconsciousness where dreams and memories twisted together like the dark, bare limbs of trees in winter.

“How’s this, Morgan? Is this right?” The boy’s voice cracked, a harbinger of the man he would become.

“Not like that. Here, let me show you.” He adjusted the boy’s grip on the sword. “Like this. You’re too kind. If you have to pull your sword, then grip it like you’re prepared to use it. You don’t want to slap your enemy with the flat of the blade. Not unless you want to make him laugh while he kills you.”

The boy’s grin was bright and abashed. When he smiled, he lit everything around him. “That’s what Kay and I do when we fight each other.”

“Kay is your brother.” Morgan smiled. “Of course you don’t want to really hurt each other.”

Then something had happened to interrupt their sparring lesson. Morgan could never remember what. Maybe someone had called the boy’s name, and he had sprinted off to handle yet another issue that had arisen with the mantle of new kingship that had settled on his too-young shoulders.

Even as Morgan tried to hold on to the conversation, it faded into the distant past, to be replaced by another dream of an event that had happened much later.

The day had started so auspiciously. The jangle of horse harnesses and the stamp of hooves mingled with dogs’ eager barking. The crisp, cold air bit the skin on his cheeks.

Morgan looked up just as the king rode by, laughing at something one of his men had said. Just like his smile, his laughter lit everything around him. Morgan smiled as he always did when he heard it.

He had not yet mounted his gelding and stood casually with the reins looped through his fingers. There was still time. The guests were assembling, and the hunt had not yet started.

“Good morning.” The woman’s voice came from behind him, and he turned to face a beautiful Light Fae noblewoman who smiled at him. Leading her own palfrey by the reins, she was dressed to ride in warm wool and furs. Jewels sparked at her wrists and graceful throat. “You must be Morgan. The king’s merlin, they call you. The famous falcon at his wrist.”

“Good morning, my lady.” Morgan bowed. “You are correct. I am Morgan. Are you ready for the king’s wild hunt?”

“Only Death may lead the true Wild Hunt,” she replied as she arched one perfect brow. “And when Lord Azrael rides, no one is ready.”

He inclined his head. “True. But in this human court, the king’s wild hunt is in honor of Azrael and part of his Yuletide celebration. As such, it should be much more pleasurable for most people than Lord Death’s Wild Hunt.”

“I love to hunt. I am Isabeau.” She extended one slender hand, and when he took it, he scanned her Power. She was a strong sorceress, but Morgan had a rare, fierce talent for magic, and she was no match for him.

If she had been wearing Azrael’s Athame, its presence would have burned in his mind’s eye, and he would never have dismissed her so casually. But she had been all too aware of that, and she had hidden the knife in anticipation of meeting him. Even then she had plotted her course with meticulous care.

Courteously, he bent to brush the air over her hand with his lips.

“Your majesty,” Morgan murmured. He had taken the Queen of the Light Court for one of her handmaidens.

As he straightened, a handsome Light Fae male strolled over. As he joined them, Isabeau gestured toward him. “This is Modred, my escort for this morn. We are much taken with your human court.”

“His majesty will be glad to hear it,” Morgan told her, his voice easy and untroubled. He had been so comfortable then, back when he first gazed upon their doom. “He was pleased when he heard that representatives of the Light Court would be visiting, and extremely honored when you chose to grace us with your own presence.”

Both Modred and Isabeau turned to regard the king. Something moved in Modred’s gaze, assessment perhaps, or calculation. Modred remarked, “He’s very young to be king, isn’t he? He must be grateful to have you by his side.”

Morgan did not reply. His gaze remained on Isabeau as she turned her attention back to him. She gave him a pretty, charming smile. “What I wouldn’t give to have a merlin like you on my own wrist.”