I may not always know what's right, but I know I want you here tonight.

Continued on from
Version xiv switchover plots, part eight, section three.
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Dawn was breaking over the sprawling palace twenty miles south of Madrid. The pink and gold haze on the horizon was just beginning to creep through the inky black of the early morning sky. Almost everyone in the mansion was asleep, but Duilio Alvarez, the butler, and Felipa Espinosa, the head cook, preferred to be up before first light. They liked to enjoy a strong black coffee together in the downstairs drawing room before beginning their daily activities. For Alvarez and Espinosa, this was the morning calm before a bustling day. It was the one part of the day when they could be sure that they wouldn’t be disturbed.

A flash of yellow light and an audible bang made Espinosa drop her mug, spilling black coffee all over the pale blue rug. Alvarez, who had nerves of steel after being in the job so long, merely blinked a few times in quick succession. The pair of them were on their feet and moving around the coffee table towards their employer, who had just appeared in the middle of the room with his cat at his side and a baby in his arms, in a heartbeat.

“Señor?” Espinosa asked uncertainly.

“Can you take him upstairs?” Mallos asked a little brusquely in Spanish, holding out the baby. Espinosa reached out to take him, clucking softly.

“Where did you come from, little one?” She cooed.

“He’s…” Mallos hesitated, but only for a second. No one can know, Mallos. They’ll kill him because he’s mine. “Ned. My son.”

Espinosa glanced at him with a slightly quirked eyebrow. Then she looked back at the baby in her arms, then at Mallos, as though trying to spot the resemblance.

“Your son? With - er - Croe?” She asked. Mallos just nodded without really thinking, pushing his fingers through his hair. Espinosa looked down at Ned again, her brow furrowing slightly. “I thought Croe was, er… Mediterranean?”

“Felipa.” Mallos said, his voice a little strained.

“Right,” Espinosa tucked Ned into a nook in her arm, “upstairs, right.”

She vanished out of the doorway. Mallos fell back into the nearest armchair, rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands.

“Sir?” Alvarez asked carefully. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Mallos pushed the tips of his fingers into his hairline, trying to think. Lethargy burned at the corner of his eyes and weighed down his limbs. Every time he tried to think of what to do, his brain kept throwing up images of the last few hours: Arthur’s last words, Ciara’s face, the helpless life in his arms. More than anything right now, he needed time. Space. Downtime, the chance to process, to feel something other than this… this nothingness.

There was no time. Ángela, Croe, Tristan and Morgana were all still over on Shaman - possibly even still in the castle. Time didn’t pass between worlds at the same rate, so even though he’d only been on Earth for a few minutes, hours could have passed there. Besides, how long had passed since he’d had the conversation with Arthur? He’d been unconscious for a while, then Sperantia had had to find him and bring him to Earth, then he’d had to get to Shaman… The thought of it all made him feel sick, like an invisible hand was squeezing his insides. Time was one thing he did not have.

But maybe he could have space.

“Close the court.” He told Alvarez. “Everybody out.”

The butler didn’t question. He simply nodded and strode out of the door towards the suites where the divine court resided. They wouldn’t be happy about being turfed out of the palace in the early hours of the morning, but there was a savage kind of satisfaction in that. No one should be happy right now. Arthur was dead.

Sperantia inched cautiously towards him and sat down next to his foot, so close that he’d’ve felt her fur if he wasn’t wearing trousers. When he didn’t object to her presence, she rubbed her chin against his leg, purring as softly and reassuringly as she was able to. The motorbike-style roar of her throat had been absent from his world for so long that it jarred at first, like déjà vu.

“How many hop loops are left?” He asked, still not removing his face from his hands. Sperantia hesitated for a moment.

“What are you going to do?” She asked gently.

What was he going to do?

He stood abruptly, running his hands through his hair, and started pacing up and down the room. Sperantia remained stationary at the foot of the armchair, watching him with calm, sad blue eyes. It occurred to Mallos how much Sperantia had liked and admired Arthur and Morgana. She’d snapped, on one memorable previous occasion, how much she’d’ve preferred to have been the familiar of either one of them.

“Ángela and Croe.” He muttered. “Then Tristan. Then Morgana. Then Mordred.”

“You’re going to get all of them?” Sperantia jumped softly up onto the armchair. “Even Mordred?”

Mallos paused by the bay window, staring out across the gardens. The sun was just poking above the horizon.

“I’m going to kill Mordred.”

Sperantia nodded, like she’d expected this answer. There wasn’t a trace of judgement or revulsion on her face. “Then you’re going to need more than hop loops.”

She hopped back off the armchair, crossed the room and jumped up onto the windowsill, obscuring his view of the lawn. She stood up onto her hind legs and stretched her front paws up towards his shoulders, her blue eyes narrowing as she focused. With a jolt, Mallos realised that he could feel her energy flowing into his body. The blackness at the corners of his vision retreated, the lethargy dimmed from his limbs. It wasn’t a lot, but it must have been all she had. Sperantia’s eyes drooped and she leant into him; he caught her just as she was about to tumble off the windowsill.

“Go get ’em,” she breathed, just before she closed her eyes.

Mallos
I've learned enough to know I'm never letting go