the repository of both their spirits. It was an uneasy coexistence.

Not that there was any real conflict. Gorlois had yet to speak to

either of them. Even when he manifested himself, as he had done

on only a couple of occasions, when the body they all shared was in

the gravest danger, he did not utter a sound. But from time to time,

he gave them dreams. Unsettling, frightening dreams. The most

recurrent one was a dream in which he was being hacked to death

by Uther. He seemed to take a perverse satisfaction in making his

son, Merlin—and consequently, Billy, too—experience his mortal

death.

Given half a chance, Billy would have taken off the ring and

tossed it in the river, but from the moment it came into his

possession—before he realized what it was—he had been unable to

remove it. So there he was, a fifteen-year-old cockney punk from

the back alleys of London, possessed by the spirits of two

archmages thousands of years old, with no love lost between them.

“Why me?” he grumbled as he crossed the living room, heading

toward the bar. “Why the ‘ell’d they ’avta pick on roe?”

He knew why. Because he was descended from Merlin and

Nimue, the De Dannan witch who had seduced Merlin, and that

made Billy both spiritually and thaumaturgically compatible with

them. But personally, he did not feel very compatible at all.

“Where are you going?” Merlin said.

“To get a bloody drink.”

His body turned suddenly, of its own accord, and started heading

for the kitchen.

“What you need is a nice warm glass of milk, ” said Merlin.

Billy stopped himself with an effort and turned resolutely back

toward the bar.

“Milk? Christ, that stuff’s bloody disgustin‘. I need a whiskey.”

He took another step and came to an abrupt halt once again.

“You shouldn’t be drinking at your age.”

“Sod off!”

“Listen, you impertinent young whelp—”