The Last Ever After

  Tedros gripped Sophie tighter, pulling her to his flank, as the two Evil pirates inched within striking distance. As Hook raised his weapon over the prince, Sophie focused on her fear, feeling her fingertip glow hotter, hotter . . .

  Then she magically whisked one of Merlin’s white-hot crumbs into Smee’s eye.

  Smee shrieked, dropping his dagger, and Sophie tackled him off the path into the Woods.

  “Sophie!” Tedros cried in horror—

  Hook swung his blade at him and Tedros raised his sword just in time, steel clashing steel.

  Sophie had never fought a full-grown man, so she wasn’t prepared for Smee to tackle her back, pinning his fat, hairy belly against her as she kicked and scratched.

  “Such a pretty girl,” Smee snarled, the giggly tone gone. “Never any pretty girls in Neverland.”

  He sniffed her hair and Sophie slapped him so hard he gaped at her, clutching his cheek. For a moment, she thought she’d defused him, only to see him turn bloodred and seize her by the throat. His filthy nails dug into her larynx, as if she’d triggered something deep within him, a murderous rage consuming him.

  “Not—supposed—to kill—me—” she gasped.

  But Smee had forgotten or he didn’t care and Sophie choked and sputtered, knowing she was going to die here, her prince only a few feet away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Hook trap Tedros with his boot, slashing at Tedros’ cloak as the prince squirmed and yelled. Cheeks blue, Sophie looked up at Smee, as she wheezed her last breath—

  A fire-tipped tree branch ripped right through Smee’s head, igniting his skull with blue flames.

  Eyes wide, the henchman let go of Sophie, his head combusting at the stitches, as he flopped back into darkness.

  Stunned, Sophie looked up at Hook, who’d moved off Tedros as he watched Smee’s body consumed by blue fire. Slowly the Captain looked down the path at a broad-shouldered, raven-haired stranger, brandishing a glowing blue fingertip.

  “I-I-I know that boy,” said Hook, astonished. “That’s Scourie’s son. Born and raised on my very ship—”

  But it was Hook’s last words, for a sword ran him through and he dropped to his knees, mouth open in shock, before falling face-first on the trail.

  Behind him, Tedros wiped his blade of zombie guts and rose gingerly, inspecting a patchwork of hook wounds in his right side, bleeding into his cloak. He breathed relief, as if none of them were mortal.

  “I owe you my life, Hort,” said Tedros, looking up.

  Hort stepped into the moonlight, teeth gnashed at him. “I saved her. Not you.”

  Sophie saw the rage in Hort’s face, the result of a full day alone with his festering feelings. Her eyes widened, suddenly understanding.

  “But . . . but . . . you said you didn’t love me anymore—” Sophie rasped.

  Hort whirled to her. “I lied.”

  Lost in a fog, Sophie didn’t know what to say. But she knew one thing for sure. She couldn’t make Hort travel by himself any longer. Not when he’d saved her life.

  Her time alone with Tedros was over.

  I had it! He would have kissed me! she thought miserably. She glowered at Rafal’s ring, undestroyed on her finger, feeling heavier than before.

  Soon they’d resumed their journey, the three of them in a silent pack, for Sophie couldn’t say anything to Tedros that Hort should hear, and Tedros and Hort had no desire to speak in the other’s presence. And just when Sophie thought the tension could get no worse, she looked back distractedly at the horror show they’d left behind—

  “Um . . . boys?” she croaked.

  Prince and Weasel turned.

  They looked past Sophie to see Smee’s corpse in the distance, still burning off the path.

  Hook’s body was gone.

  “But I stabbed him in the heart!” said Tedros, still defending himself the next afternoon.

  “For the last time, zombies don’t have hearts,” snapped Hort. “Why do you think I set Smee on fire? It’s the only way to destroy them—”

  “Why didn’t you say something then?”

  “’Cause I was hoping Hook would kill you!”

  “Please tell me we’re getting close to the safe house,” Sophie growled.

  After losing Hook’s body, they’d hurried along the trail like a spooked cabal, tracking Merlin’s light crumbs to bubble-like caves that resembled the ones in the Blue Forest. There they’d camped until morning, each in their own den, with the two boys taking turns on lookout. By sunrise they were on the trail again, plowing through miles of the Frostplains’ blue-iced tundra. Hiding under their cloaks, they braved relentless blizzards of snow and hail until at last they glimpsed something through the monotony of white.

  It was a small, peninsular kingdom, built upon a bluff of rock, with pearl-white towers veiled by mist off stormy gray seas. The crash of waves echoed with violent booms, the entire kingdom shuddering down to giant iron doors, swinging open against the rock.

  Crack! Crack!

  Warily the three teenagers passed through the open doors, but there was no one there to greet them. Indeed, there seemed to be no one in the kingdom at all, only the magnificent white towers with no windows or entrances, arranged in a circle above a series of descending marble staircases. Squinting over the railing, they saw a vast lake at the bottom of the stairs, gray-watered and eerily still, leading into the tempestuous ocean.

  “Did we hit a dead end?” Sophie asked.

  Then she saw Tedros’ face, blissful and calm.

  “It’s Avalon,” he said.

  “You’ve been here before?” Hort asked.

  Tedros shook his head. “My father drew pictures of it in his will,” he said softly, as he gazed down at the lake. “Said he wanted to be buried in ‘Avalon’s safe house.’ Merlin brought us to my father’s resting place.”

  “This is the safe house?” Sophie murmured as they went down a long staircase, trying to be sensitive to what Tedros was feeling. “It’s just . . . it’s freezing, the doors were wide open, and the towers had no way insi—”

  She stopped at the sight of Agatha, sitting in dead grass at the edge of the lake, her back to them. To see Agatha by herself on the shore gave Sophie an unsettled feeling, as if the scene was incomplete . . . as if Agatha shouldn’t be ending her story all alone.

  Agatha turned at their footsteps. She smiled serenely, as if relieved her best friends were safe after the long journey.

  Sophie’s heart relaxed and she sidled closer to the prince. There was no reason to be unsettled. Agatha could be happy alone in a way that she never could.

  “There you two are,” yawned a voice and Sophie turned to see Merlin lumbering up from a nap against a rock. “Took you long enough. Oh and look, our bodyguard too,” he said as Hort came off the stairs.

  “The safe house is in those waters, isn’t it,” asked Tedros, stepping to the edge of the shore. “That’s where my father is buried.”

  He tossed a pebble into the water and watched it sink.

  Sophie frowned. “How can a safe house be in a—”

  But now the waters were silently churning into a whirlpool where Tedros’ pebble had sunk, mirroring the circle of towers above. The waters spun faster, faster, like a spinning wheel at work . . . so fast that a creamy white foam spewed from the pool’s eye, building, thickening into a human shape . . .

  A ghostly, silver-haired nymph in white robes floated out of the waters and into the sky, raising her head to her guests. She had chalk-white skin, a long nose, and big black eyes that fixed on Tedros, before her crimson lips curled into a smile.

  “Never made another one quite like it,” she said.

  For a moment Tedros thought she was talking about him, only to realize she was looking at his sword.

  “Excalibur . . . you made it . . . you’re the Lady of the Lake!”

  The nymph smiled, turning to Merlin. “Hello, handsome. It’s been a while,” she cooed in a low, husky voice. “Let me guess. Yo
u need something.”

  “Excuse me if you’re a bit far out for social visits, but I wouldn’t come unless it was a serious matter,” Merlin replied.

  “Another sword? A life-extension potion? Or a holy grail this time?” the nymph huffed. “Come to the lonely Lady and she’ll do magic on command!”

  “I need to ask for the same thing I asked for two others once upon a time,” spoke Merlin, stark and firm. “That you hide these children in your shelter as long as they need it.”

  The Lady of the Lake stopped smiling. A fraught moment passed between the two sorcerers.

  “Merlin, dear. You do know what you’re asking,” she said darkly.

  The wizard’s eyes flicked to Tedros for a moment before he looked back at the nymph. “Indeed.”

  Sophie glanced at Agatha, utterly lost, and Agatha shrugged back, just as befuddled.

  The Lady of the Lake took a deep breath and gazed hard at the four students. “Well? Come on then, children. The waters are warm.”

  “Waters? You want us to swim?” Hort blurted, peering over the edge of the lake. “How are we supposed to live underwat—”

  Merlin groaned and pushed him in.

  Hort was sucked through the water with a blast of white light before he vanished under the surface entirely.

  Agatha, Sophie, and Tedros all gawked at Merlin.

  The wizard smiled. “Why do you think water was always the portal in Merlin’s Menagerie?”

  He thrust out his hands and the three students went flying into the lake headfirst. Light detonated in Sophie’s eyes and she felt her whole body swarmed by gooey heat, water all around her and yet not touching her, like she was protected by an invisible womb. Deeper and deeper she sank into the lake until all at once the waters receded and she was on solid ground in a glare of sunlight, completely dry and curled up like a baby.

  “Where are we?” said Agatha’s voice above her.

  Sophie craned to see Agatha with Hort and Tedros standing on a lush green moor, the grass so green and dewy it sparkled under the melting sun. Sophie stood and saw they were surrounded by more green heaths, with sheep, cows, and horses grazing freely, as if they’d found a haven from the dying Woods.

  “Look,” Agatha said.

  The others followed her eyes to a small farmhouse across the moors.

  “Must be our safe house,” said Hort.

  Tedros squinted. “Someone’s coming.”

  Two people were walking towards them now, tan-skinned and weather-beaten, both holding hands. A bony woman with straggly brown hair and a broad-chested man with rough black curls.

  “Hope they have hot water,” said Sophie, smiling at her prince with relief. “I really need a—”

  She stopped because Tedros wasn’t smiling at all. Watching the strangers approach, his face flushed dead white, sweat streaking his temples.

  “No no no no no—” he gasped.

  Sophie spun to the strangers, confused, but the woman had stopped cold, her mouse-like face a mask of shock.

  “God help me,” she whispered.

  Tedros stumbled back, grabbing Agatha’s arm like a panicked child. “Wake me up . . . please . . . wake me up—”

  “T-T-Tedros?” the woman stammered.

  “I’m afraid your son and his friends need you, Guinevere,” said Merlin’s voice, as the wizard appeared out of a sun flare, striding onto the moor.

  Tedros couldn’t speak, wild eyes darting between Merlin and the woman, his entire body shaking so much Agatha had to cradle him under her arm.

  Sophie knew she should go to the prince, but she couldn’t move. She was trembling at the sight of the dark-haired, coal-eyed man the same way Tedros trembled from his mother.

  Because just as Tedros dreamed of Guinevere, Sophie dreamed of him.

  The devil who appeared inside Rafal’s ring.

  The devil who stopped her from Tedros’ crown.

  And now the devil who had a name.

  Lancelot.

  24

  Who Do You Belong With?

  Tedros had been staring at the steaming cup of cinnamon-apple cider for nearly twenty minutes, but had yet to touch it.

  Watching him, Agatha had been so worried about what he was thinking that she hadn’t touched hers either. Nor had Sophie next to her, who was too busy giving Lancelot nervous looks, as the swarthy, pock-skinned knight lay plates and silverware for each of them.

  “You must be famished, the lot of you,” he said in a rumbling baritone. “Your dark-haired friend asked if he could have a bath. Funny lad . . . said he didn’t want to stink up the table. What’s his name again? Homer? Hodor?”

  None of them answered.

  “Hobbin, I think,” said Lancelot.

  Agatha could see Tedros’ shirt wet with perspiration, his Adam’s apple lurching up and down, the veins on his arms about to pop—

  “Hort. His name is Hort,” Guinevere said, bustling in from the kitchen with a dish of fire-grilled turkey and a bowl of rampion salad. In the torchlight of the farmhouse’s dining room, Agatha saw she had Tedros’ small, snub nose, his flat brows over electric-blue eyes, as well as his tendency to sweat profusely. Her hair was another matter: it was so tangled and twiggish brown that her small, pallid face was like an egg in a bird’s nest.

  “It’s Tuesday and Lance and I cook for the week on Mondays, so we have plenty to go around,” she said. “Until next Monday, that is. Doesn’t mean you can’t stay past Monday, of course. We’re just not used to guests . . . or people for that matter. Sometimes Lance and I go days without talking at all.” She sat down and waited in vain for someone to fill the silence. “Hope it’s edible. Tedros always loved my turkey, even as a little boy. He’d come running the second he smelled it from the kitchen, even in the middle of his lessons with Merlin.”

  Tedros didn’t look at her.

  “Shall we start?” Guinevere said weakly, inching the dishes forward. “You’ve been on a long journey, so load up your plates. I can always make more.”

  No one ate.

  No one spoke.

  “Well, seems like you’re all settled in, so I’ll be on my way!” chimed Merlin, ambling in with his walking stick in hand.

  Everyone looked up urgently, as if he were the last lifeboat leaving a ship.

  “W-w-where are you going?” said Tedros.

  “Just as you are safe here, I must ensure our other friends are safe too, including your fellow students at school,” said Merlin. “No doubt the School Master has accelerated his plan, once the Storian revealed to him that you are under the Lady of the Lake’s protection.” He looked at Guinevere cryptically. “Apologies for not staying for dinner, my dear. Though I did go to the grove to pay my respects . . .”

  Guinevere nodded, as if she understood what he meant.

  “I’ll see you soon, children,” said Merlin, before he glanced at Sophie, his eyes finding the ring on her finger. “Hopefully with no more blood on our hands.”

  Agatha saw Sophie hold her breath as Merlin magically whisked a lump of turkey from the table to his hand and sauntered out of the cabin, the door swinging shut behind him.

  Unbearable silence resumed.

  Agatha tried to forget about Merlin’s absence and Sophie’s ring and Tedros’ torment and focused instead on the house’s logwood walls, the oval-shaped rooms with crackling fireplaces, the handmade leather couches and sheep-wool rugs, everything so cozy and lovingly crafted, as if two people, without friends, family, community, had made a home at the end of the world—

  “White or dark meat, Tedros?” Guinevere’s voice asked.

  Agatha snapped to attention to see Guinevere pick up her son’s plate and smile at him.

  Her question hung in the air, the first challenge to the silence.

  Tedros finally looked at his mother. “I can’t do this,” he breathed.

  Guinevere said nothing as Tedros wrenched from the table, his cast-iron chair screeching against the floor.

  L
ancelot frowned. “Tedros, you don’t have to talk to her, but at least eat your—”

  “If you even look in my direction, you dirty fink, I’ll split you in half,” Tedros hissed.

  Lancelot rocketed to his feet, but Guinevere clasped his wrist, guiding him back down. Lancelot said nothing as Tedros’ boots snapped out of the room and the farmhouse door slammed behind him.

  Instinctively Agatha jumped up to follow her prince—

  “I’ll go, Aggie,” Sophie’s voice said.

  Agatha turned to see Sophie standing. Sophie gave her a subtle nod and left the table, but not before flashing Lancelot a last anxious look. Agatha heard the front door close once more and she lowered back to the table, her stomach in a knot.

  The room was so quiet they could hear the sound of Hort’s bath running across the house.

  “Well, then,” Agatha said, forcing a smile at her hosts, “shall we dig in?”

  Guinevere and Lancelot both exhaled, as if keeping someone at the table was victory enough.

  Agatha started on the turkey, so smoky and soft she closed her eyes with pleasure, trying to block all thoughts of what may or may not be happening outside . . .

  “He’s picked a lovely princess, hasn’t he?” Guinevere said.

  Agatha’s eyes opened.

  “‘Sophie,’ was it?” said Guinevere, shunting her straggly hair out of her salad. “Went after him so surely, like Tedros’ father used to come after me. She must love him very much.” Her voice wavered. “Not sure Arthur or I could have chosen any better for him.”

  “Well, they look enough alike, don’t they?” grumbled Lancelot, mouth full.

  “I just mean she carries herself like a queen. More than I ever did to be honest,” said Guinevere, sniffling a laugh.

  “She’s perfect for the lad. People of the kingdom will fawn over her and she’ll dote on him hand and foot,” said Lancelot.

  “Camelot will finally have a real queen,” Guinevere sighed, putting on a smile. She turned to Agatha. “What about you, dear? Did you and Hort meet at school? Or was it the Snow Ball—”