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Twigs snap beneath Sebile’s feet as she makes her way closer and closer to the Pendragon Estate. The moniker “estate” does not fully capture the expanse of it, the way the towers jut upwards like jagged teeth against the sky, an ill-begotten castle designed by Uther Pendragon himself. It should be out of place here, deep in the backwoods of Michigan, but it is not. Otherworldly perhaps, and dangerous — danger like a burial shroud, a promise for after all, the Pendragons are a cursed lot. All had met dastardly ends, often bloody, rarely succumbing quietly and privately, like a great beast of old being hunted and killed for sport.
(Well, all except one.)
(No, Sebile thinks to herself, she is not thinking of her. Not now. Not ever.)
(That's a lie, Sebile is always thinking of Morgan.)
It is later than Sebile planned, and against the dark outline of the turrets and a backdrop of startlingly bright stars, the castle looms in front of her cradled by the woods like a baby swaddled in blankets. She shivers, adjusting the pack slung across her back. It would have been easier to drive up to the estate in her truck but that would have ruined the element of surprise, and in Sebile’s line of work, any advantage no matter how small could demarcate between life and death.
The pervasiveness of the Pendragon Estate is so heavy, so potent, that even without its impressive wards there is something in the air. Something unnatural, something angry and bitter and forgotten and lost and lonely, enough so that it would make even the most staunch skeptics to the supernatural pause and reconsider taking another step closer.
(Where the devil lies, there is chatter.)
(The Pendragons are well known to a very certain circle, very niche. But that doesn't mean that the townspeople don't talk.)
There is something off about the Pendragon Estate — at least that is what those who live in the closest town over say. Camelot. Small place. Population under 1,000. The death rate overwhelms the birth rate, a dying town filled to the brim of people suffocating on dirt and grime and the cold sting from the lake. The waitress to the only quintessential greasy diner had stated that the destitute mansion was the haunt of the local teenagers who would dare each other to see who could get closest to the door. As far as the waitress knew, no one had ever made it past the gates. The adults avoided the estate altogether for despite how large it was and the danger that its rotted structure could possibly cause if anyone ever made it inside the carcass, it was far too deep in the woods and its behemoth body was easily obstructed by the thick canopy of trees. Out of sight, out of mind, forgotten.
(It's best to let sleeping dogs lie, Sebile knows that.)
(Sebile doesn't always follow that though.)
Sebile stops a few yards away from the gate; there is a shift here, nothing tangible to the touch nor visible to the eye, but she feels it. It is oppressive and humid and all-encompassing, threatening to reach out and choke and tug and pull and destroy. Sebile hums. The wards are not what she expected, she thinks to herself, almost disappointed.
(Sebile likes challenges, maybe that's why she likes, liked, Morgan so much.)
She doesn’t break the wards, no; that would require something more, something that Sebile cannot waste energy over, not now. There is the spirit within to subdue and then the relic to claim.
(Instead, she tugs and twists and nips and slips inside — )
Sebile is better.
( — easily swallowed up by the estate as if she never existed in the first place.)
She steps past the gates and slowly crosses the courtyard and freezes. The door is ajar. Cautiously, Sebile sends a tendril of her magic out but it fizzles out, snuffed. She frowns and reaches behind to unzip her pack, pulls out a flashlight and her knife. The shape of its hilt and its weight is familiar and comforting, and Sebile silently stalks into the foyer and up the sweeping stairs. Her eyes are wide and scanning, ears alert and her magic tense and coiled around her, ready to strike.
The interior smells unpleasant, like mildew and mold. The floorboards are only slightly rotten, surprisingly sturdy despite the fact that no one has lived, much less cared, for the place in decades. The wallpaper is stripped and the skeletal remains of chandeliers hang like ghosts above Sebile’s head. There are tattered remains of rugs and crooked paintings on the wall, all of them far too damaged to even consider pawning off. It is impossible to tell what the color the rooms used to be, everything too covered in a thick layer of dust and grime. It doesn’t matter, the place looks tacky enough as it is.
She climbs up to the third floor and then the fourth. There are no traps, no spells, no enchantments, no tricks. Nothing. The estate is eerily silent; the wailing ghost of Arthur Pendragon is nowhere to be found.
(Sebile wasn’t expecting this to be easy by any means, but this is strange. Wrong.)
(Where is Arthur Pendragon? But most importantly, where is the sword?)
(The sword could be anywhere. The sword is the reason she is here, why she decided to go hunting in the first place. Sebile doesn’t want Excalibur, she needs it.)
(Something’s not right.)
She shudders, nerves wracking her body uncontrollably and she breathes in, out, in, out. She feels like she is crawling out of her skin and she wishes to clutch her hands against her chest, to huddle and make herself small and unassuming against the unknown thing that she feels is there. It is not so much the feeling of being watched, being stalked, but rather the absence of it that causes the alarms to ring in her head, her magic to seethe under her skin. Her heart is beating too fast, too loudly, and desperately she tries to wash away her terror, knuckles whitening as she grips her knife tight. She draws her magic tighter against herself to cloak herself from the assault of the carefully hidden beasts, always out of sight and out of range of detection even with Sebile’s own heightened senses and gifts. Her shoulders convulse once more and the feeling of a thousand eyes watching her prickle at the edge of her awareness.
(Sebile grinds her teeth — let whatever it is come, Sebile can gnaw through flesh and bone; she’s strong, an underestimated lethality.)
“I knew you’d come.”
Even if she wanted to, Sebile is unable to move, frozen. She curses herself for becoming entangled in such an obvious trap. There is a touch at her shoulder, fingertips light and tentative before Morgan’s hand wraps firmly around her arm, a searing heat.
“Morgan.”
“Hello Sebile.”
Morgan remains behind her and Sebile grits her teeth. Morgan’s answering chuckle is light and airy, ringing like church bells in a desecrated church. The enchantment lifts and Sebile turns around, jaw flexing to keep herself from hurling an attack Morgan’s way.
(That doesn’t mean it’s not good to see her. It’s always good to see Morgan.)
(Anyways.)
“What are you doing here?”
“Me?” Morgan says. “Is that how you talk to someone who left the door open for you? Who cleared the rooms for you?”
“Was that you being polite, Morgan?”
Morgan tilts her head, a crooked smile on her face. Her hair cascades against her cheeks and Sebile’s fingers twitch with the desire to brush it back from her face.
“You’ll know when I’m being polite.”
“I’ll know when you’re being kind,” Sebile retorts.
“This is me being kind,” Morgan counters, stepping closer. “You’re here for Excalibur.”
Sebile’s shoulders stiffen. She raises her chin, squinting as she stares at Morgan. She didn’t expect this, didn’t think that Morgan would even bother to lay a claim on Excalibur. She had never shown an interest in it in the years that they had known each other, but then again, neither had Sebile until very recently. “Are you getting in my way?”
“You can have it,” Morgan says inching forward and Sebile finds herself tugged once more into Morgan’s orbit, a helpless cosmonaut in her gravity. “I’m here for Arthur’s soul. Or the remnants of it.”
Sebile blinks. “Arthur?”
(Now that's unexpected.)
(Arthur Pendragon, Morgan's baby brother. Arthur Pendragon who was the only Pendragon to not implode like a black hole, bloody and haunting and a reminder, but flickered out of existence, quietly, extinguished.)
(At least, that's what Morgan had said.)
Morgan shrugs; if she was less dignified she would be picking at her nails. “You feel it too, there’s more here than either of us can see.”
“Are you saying you want to team up?”
“We’ve done it before, don’t you trust me?”
“No. And you don’t trust me either.”
(Just Sebile’s luck. Morgan always had the most awful timing.)
They stare at each other, neither willing to concede more, another impasse. The stale I-don’t-need-to-trust-you-to-love-you rings between them unsaid but certain. This is how they have always been, although neither of them liked to think of it as such.
(Sebile knows what Arthur had meant to her though, but something seems false. It's almost too good for Morgan to come and collect her brother’s shattered soul years too late.)
(But Sebile has no real claim on Excalibur, this she knows. She had been willing to try her hand anyways despite the fact that it may destroy her in the process. Sebile has no choice, she’s at the end of her rope, and once more Morgan has appeared to tug at its frayed edges.)
Sebile sighs and spins on her heel, stalking down the corridor. “Come on.”
Morgan falls into step with her and she looks pleased, vindictive.
Sebile snorts and resists the urge to reach out and hold her hand.
Morgan leads them down, down, down — and their magic flickers uneasily against one another as they stare up at what Arthur’s become, something with far too many eyes and teeth and claws, Excalibur lodged deep into the beast’s side.
(Well. When have things ever been simple for them?)
“Sebile and Morgan back in action, baby,” Morgan grits as she dodges a swipe, hands arcing up to create a shield around them as the beast swings once more towards them.
“Oh, shut up.” Sebile twists to shoot out a spell; her grin is a nasty thing when it hits the creature and the thing howls.
“I’ve missed this,” Morgan says conversationally, jamming a knife into one of its many eyes. She sounds too pleased despite the fact that the two of them are soaked in sweat and the beast's blood. “Would you want dinner later?”
“Oh my god. I forgot that you never shut the fuck up.”
Morgan whirls, a graceful movement that sends her braided hair spilling about her shoulders as she dances in circles around what was once her beloved Arthur. As easy as breathing, Sebile reaches and pulls Morgan close, shooting off another spell that immobilizes one of the beast’s arms. “And yeah. Greasy diner food?”
“Well, if you insist.”