The Eighth Excalibur Read online

  For a second, he looked through the window of Pickles Taproom. Too crowded, he decided. Too visible. He walked a little further and descended the steps down to Zeno’s Pub, not really sure what he was after, but half-entranced by whatever had gripped him. He showed his ID to the doorman and stepped into the cozy little underground pub, looking around at the healthy but not quite overwhelming Friday night crowd. Friends laughing, talking about their weeks. There was music too—the exact same standard pop fare that always seemed to be playing at every single bar and party in Happy Valley—but at least it wasn’t aggressively loud.

  This would do just fine. Except he still didn’t know what it was he was doing. Never once since turning twenty-one had he just walked into a bar alone like this. But here he was, someone who could do exactly that, exactly as he pleased.

  He turned and headed for the bar, refusing to stop now.

  The bartender, a portly man with a silk vest and a matching flat cap, finished up with a pair of girls and turned to regard Nate with an indifferent air.

  “Can I help you?”

  Nate looked at the tap handles—Zeno’s had a great roster of taps—then stopped himself. Because Nate Arturi would order another IPA, just like any other night. But someone else…

  The image of Todd sprang to his mind’s eye—Mighty King Todd in the middle of their pong match, downing a hearty swig straight from a bottle of… what had it been?

  “Uh, can I get a whiskey?” Nate asked.

  The bartender arched a brow at him. “Jack? Jim? Johnny?”

  “Uh…”

  “Top shelf or bottom, kid?”

  Nate felt his face warming. “Is middle a thing?”

  The bartender, either sensing Nate was overwhelmed at this point or simply growing tired of the conversation, turned around and grabbed a short, square glass and a bottle with a white label, a red mark, and black lettering he couldn’t make out in the dim lighting.

  “Can you make it a double?” Nate asked.

  The bartender glanced dubiously up at Nate. “Can I see some ID?”

  Damn. He was just knocking this cool person act right out of the park, wasn’t he?

  After the bartender had double-checked the ID, he shrugged and handed the card back to Nate.

  “You know what?” Nate said, desperate to stop feeling like such an idiot. “Make it a triple.”

  So much for that effort.

  The bartender finished his pour and turned, shaking his head at Nate as if to say he was sure Nate wouldn’t recognize a double from a triple anyway. Which, in the bartender’s defense, he totally wouldn’t.

  “I think a double’s fine, kid,” he said, sliding the glass to Nate. “That’s ten dollars.”

  Nate reached for his wallet and fumbled the money out, wishing more than anything he’d just gone home. What was he honestly hoping to accomplish here?

  “Thank you,” he mumbled to the bartender, handing the money over.

  The bartender looked him over one more time then gave up and shook his head again. “Have a good night, kid.”

  Nate turned and scanned the room for an empty seat, inwardly wringing his own neck. The guy tells him he can’t even order himself a triple-whatever and what does Nate do? He says thank you. So much for transcending Mr. Nice Guy for the night.

  He spotted a small open table and shuffled over, frowning down at his double-whatever and wondering if he even had the stomach to down the stuff at this point. If his phone hadn’t been dead, he would’ve at least texted Marty—if for no other reason than to share a laugh about his sitting here in the dim corner of a pub he never would’ve come to alone, with a drink he never would’ve ordered.

  But he was here, wasn’t he?

  That was something. Not much. Basically nothing, really. But something.

  Trying not to wrinkle his nose, Nate took a sip of his rebellious drink, pretending he was someone who enjoyed whiskey—and was seized by a sputtering cough as dragon’s fire trickled down his throat and seared into every square inch of his mouth and tongue.

  Mother of Smaug, people did this for fun?

  It wasn’t like Nate had never taken a shot before. Basic proficiency at the skill was like an unspoken requirement for anyone courageous enough to brave a party in Happy Valley. He’d just never dared to let the dragon’s fire actually sit in his mouth, and now he had confirmation that his gut instinct had been in place for good reason.

  But some people did like whiskey, didn’t they? It was probably just an acquired taste. Just like hoppy beer.

  Still not really sure why he cared so much about making this happen, Nate glanced around, checking if the coast was clear for a second attempt. After the day he’d had, he half-expected to find half the bar pointing and laughing at his feeble attempt at whatever this was. In his mind’s eye, he even imagined Todd across the pub, raising his own glass of amber liquid in mocking cheers, Gwen curled up in his lap.

  But there was no Todd. And no one was watching Nate.

  No one, that was, except for the ragged-looking man Nate hadn’t noticed sitting at the next table over.

  The first thought that popped into Nate’s head was that the dude looked like homeless Gandalf. He had an enormous mane of long hair and a great bushy beard, both of which might’ve once been white or gray but had since grown too tangled and greasy to tell. His robe—and Nate was pretty sure robe was the right word here—seemed to have undergone similar abuse, having once maybe been a flowing garb of a subtle blue, but now looking more like a matted, dirt-caked assortment of hole-ridden grayish brown rags.

  To say the guy was in rough shape would’ve been an understatement.

  And he was staring straight at Nate. Staring without a shred of self-consciousness—not unlike one would stare at a painting in an art museum.

  “Can I help you?” Nate asked.

  Immediately, he regretted his choice of words. If this guy wanted money or something…

  “I sincerely doubt it,” the ragged wizard said. His voice was raspy, like it hadn’t seen much use in a while. With bushy eyebrows and hard, dark eyes, he frowned down at the clay cup Nate hadn’t noticed he was holding. “It’s actually an ongoing point of debate with my companion, here.”

  He spoke with an odd accent Nate couldn’t place. Maybe it was just because Nate was thinking about Gandalf now, but he couldn’t help but think the guy kind of sounded like he’d walked straight out of Middle Earth and into Zeno’s Pub.

  More importantly, though, what did he mean, ‘an ongoing point of debate with his companion here?’ His companion where?

  The guy was sitting alone, and quite frankly ragged enough that Nate was a little surprised Mr. Flat Cap behind the bar hadn’t called over Mr. Doorman to check on their wizardly friend. True, the guy had a drink, which implied he was a paying customer, but on second glance, Nate didn’t see another clay cup like his new friend’s anywhere else in the pub.

  Who the hell was this guy?

  “Well, have a good night, then,” Nate said, pointedly turning back to the privacy of his own drink and his own table.

  He was probably being a dick. The guy was probably harmless. But he couldn’t ignore the gut feeling that this was either a potentially unstable homeless man, or an eccentric local who liked to dress up on Friday night and put on a strange act for the drunk college kids, to who knew what ends.

  Whatever this was, Nate was pretty sure he didn’t want to be a part of it—was pretty sure, in fact, that he should probably just get up and walk out right then and there. Almost as soon as he thought it, though, he chided himself for being so paranoid and judgmental.

  So what if the guy was a little dirty? He was still human, wasn’t he? Nate was safe here in the pub. There was no reason he couldn’t finish his drink in respectful silence and make his leave without offending anyone.

  Except the guy was still staring at him.

  Unwavering. Un-freaking-blinking.

  It was creepy as hell, and Nate was f
ixing to throw all that moral high ground stuff out the window and to stand and beat a hasty retreat—feelings be damned—when the ragged wizard spoke again.

  “It appears you’ve sprung a leak.”

  Nate tensed. “What?”

  He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, exactly—maybe for the man to break into manic cackles, or to come lunging at him with a shiv. Instead, the ragged wizard just pointed to Nate’s hoodie, and Nate realized in a rush of embarrassment that the bag of rice had shifted in his pocket and that he’d already spilled a dozen or so grains on the floor.

  “Oh,” Nate said, carefully resealing the bag, doing his best not to spill any more. “Right. Thanks.”

  His ragged pal raised his clay cup in cheers. “The leaky pocket gets the rice.”

  “Yeah, I…” Nate looked up from his unfinished drink to the door and back to his leaky pocket. “I should go. Have a good night, uh, sir.”

  For some reason, he expected the strange man would try to keep him talking, but the ragged wizard only waved his clay cup in farewell. Nate headed for the door, feeling at once both disconcerted and also foolish for having allowed his jittery nerves at a harmless old man to affect him so deeply.

  Whatever. He never should have come here at all. It was stupid, trying to pretend like he could ever be anything other than Nate “IT Guy” Arturi—like he could just walk into a bar and suddenly become something more. That just wasn’t how things worked.

  Nate glanced back, afraid he might find his new friend following him, but the ragged wizard was still huddled over his table, muttering something into his clay cup. Nate turned back for the door, eyeing the doorman beside it. Hesitating.

  Had it all been in his head?

  Probably. But better safe than sorry.

  The doorman frowned a little as Nate approached him.

  “Excuse me. I don’t wanna sound like an alarmist or anything, but that guy with the beard back there was sort of giving me a weird vibe.”

  The doorman studied Nate for a second, then turned to survey the pub. “Which guy? Over there by the post, in the flannel?”

  “No, the one in the robe. Right…”

  Nate turned, trying to remind himself not to overtly point, and trailed off. Because there was nothing to point at.

  The ragged wizard was gone.

  6

  Doggy Style

  Nate might not have jumped at every flickering shadow on the walk home, but his racing heart sure as hell did. He did scan every nook and cranny of the buildings he passed, expecting any number of horrors to come leaping out at him.

  Christ, he wished his phone wasn’t dead. He’d considered asking to use one at Zeno’s before remembering he didn’t actually know anyone’s number by memory. Wonders of the digital age. Had his phone not been resting in peace at the bottom of a rice-filled pocket, he might’ve even broken the bank and ordered a rideshare—never mind that he’d just foolishly spent ten dollars he barely had on a drink he’d barely wanted. Saving a few precious bucks probably wasn’t worth more than his life.

  But his phone was dead. And he was just being paranoid, besides. He had to be. There was no reason to believe otherwise. No reason to believe this was anything more than another half-drunk walk home down Allen Street.

  And yet he couldn’t stop wondering: where the shit had that blinkless-staring, Gandalf-looking creepy bastard vanished off to?

  Probably to the bathroom, he thought for the hundredth time. Hell, for all he knew, the guy might’ve ducked under a table just to give Nate a nice strong case of the willies for the walk home. Nate had been too chicken to check for himself after the doorman had lost interest in the drunk college kid’s made-up dangerous wizard man.

  So Nate marched on, whispering to himself that he was being crazy, but also making a shameless point to stick to well-lit areas wherever possible. As much as he felt like he’d been through the wringer that night, it still wasn’t all that late, and he was glad for the fleeting company of multiple packs of passing students as he went. One cute redhead even smiled at him as he passed her group outside the library.

  On any other day, that smile might’ve made his night. That night, though, he just marched on, head on a swivel.

  It probably said something about his state of mind that he barely even remembered he was coming up on the dreaded Iota Nu Nu house until he was practically beside it. Nothing like a little madman scare to set his priorities straight. For the briefest of seconds, though, he couldn’t help but wonder what Gwen would have to say about the strange encounter.

  He crunched that thought against the pavement, marching on, into the darker downhill stretch of Allen Street. There was no way he was going back in that house right now. Even if there was a strange old wizard man prowling after him in the shadows.

  Which there wasn’t, dammit.

  He needed to stop watching so many creepy movies. But first, he just needed to get home and forget all about this night.

  He crossed Prospect Ave and stomped onto the even darker sidewalk of Emily Atherton’s block, wondering despite himself what Copernicus was up to right now—if he was peacefully asleep, dreaming doggy dreams, or if maybe he was alert and awake at his favorite front window lookout, awaiting the glitter and glam of his forgetful master’s return.

  Nate hoped it was the latter, if only so he could catch a glimpse of the little guy’s infectious smile, and maybe share a bit of telepathic solidarity. He kind of wished, not for the first time, that he could simply snatch Copernicus up and abscond into the night. It wasn’t like Emily was running a five star resort for the little guy.

  Approaching Emily’s plot on the dark sidewalk, Nate slowed. One of the upstairs lights was on. Emily’s room, he was pretty sure. Maybe she actually was home, then. Nate looked down to the dark ground floor windows, hoping to spot Copernicus anyway, but no such luck.

  Then a flicker of movement caught Nate’s eye above, right at the peak of the angled porch rooftop. For a second, there was nothing, but Nate thought he saw a slightly denser shadow there in the darkness. A small one. Then the shadow moved, and the faintest little whine carried down to his ears, removing any doubt.

  Copernicus was on the goddamn roof. Again.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Nate whispered, looking up and down the sidewalk.

  It was dead this far down Allen Street, and far too dark for a casual passerby to spot Copernicus. Not that it mattered. Even in the daylight hours, it wasn’t like anyone else ever stopped to get the corgi down. No one but Nate. But standing there in the considerable dark, still half-drunk and already having had two major falls that day, even he couldn’t help but think this might finally be the time he should throw in the towel.

  Still, he could at least go knock and let Emily know. Maybe they could call the volunteer fire department or something. Dammit, she really needed to get a ladder. Or learn to accept basic responsibility for another living thing. One or the other.

  With a sigh and one last wary glance at the shadows, Nate stepped into the pitch black yard—and froze as movement from the single lit window above drew his eye.

  Emily Atherton backed slowly into view, clearly topless, clearly wearing nothing but a little black thong. Nate stood frozen, instantly and embarrassingly aroused by the unexpected sight. Above, Emily padded on past the window, hips swaying seductively, her hand raised to someone else in the room, index finger curling with an unmistakable come hither.

  Nate tore his gaze away, the guilt at accidentally witnessing Emily’s private affair winning out over the torrent of other thoughts and feelings buzzing through his now fully wired body. For a second, he wasn’t even sure he should ring the bell and spoil the moment for her and whatever lucky bastard was up there with her. At that thought, though, his eyes flicked back to the window of their own accord. Just in time to see a shirtless Todd Mackleroy stride past the window after Emily, his styled hair ruffled, and a hungry grin etched across his mouth.

  “You’ve
gotta be fucking kidding me.”

  Nate was walking into the pitch dark yard before he even knew it—definitely before he’d had a chance to come up with an actual plan. But it didn’t matter.

  He’d just had what might’ve been the worst day of his life. He’d fallen off of a roof, to the great amusement of his public audience. He’d literally crushed what little remained of his artistic aspirations. He’d abandoned his friends just to go embarrass himself again in front of the girl he was pretty sure he loved, only to watch her be hauled off by the ass cheeks and swept away on a one-woman flight to Todd’s Pound Town.

  And now that Greek God A-hole had the self-important nerve to come calling for round two with a different woman on the same goddamn night?

  “Fuck this,” Nate whispered, taking his first handhold in the increasingly familiar climb.

  Right foot up. Hand over hand. Left foot joins. Right foot to the power meter. Stretch for the windowsill fingertips.

  “Fuck your windmills,” he growled, not really sure what he or Brad had meant by that, and not really giving a shit.

  He just climbed on until he arrived at the sticking point—the oh-shit moment that had claimed his pride, his mini Promethean, and almost his spinal cord that morning.

  He reached over the rain gutter, past the shingles to the edge of the roof.

  “And fuck you.”

  He lunged from his foothold, at the same time catching the lip of the roof and pulling. He strained, and scrambled… and pulled himself safely onto the rough shingle surface of the rooftop.

  For a second, Nate felt a stir of victory in his chest.

  Then a faint feminine moan broke the silence from inside, and Nate wasn’t quite sure what he felt, other than angry—and maybe slightly confused in the nether regions as he turned and realized just how clearly he could see the scene through Emily’s barred bedroom window up here.

  The first thing he saw was Emily Atherton in all her naked glory, face down on a pillow, curvaceous hips raised high and ready. The second thing, to his horrid fascination, was the golden ass of Hercules himself, thrusting into her, his strong hands clamped down on her slender waist with an intensity that looked borderline violent.