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Authors: Molly Cochran
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of an art form and to be recognized for his artistry.
And so, through contacts made in the coven, he added a third component to his life: He became an assassin known as Thanatos, and not even the people who sought his services ever connected him with the dapper young artist named Aubrey Katsuleris.
I t came as a shock , then, when a young Arab appeared in the doorway of an apartment in New York City where Aubrey was staying.
"What do you want?" he hissed, maneuvering the man so that he would fall silently into the apartment when Aubrey killed him.
The Arab immediately prostrated himself on the floor, offering up a battered leather case.
Aubrey ignored it. "Who sent you?"
"My uncle, Hamid Lagouat, who follows the instructions of our patriarch, the High Lord Saladin."
For a moment, Aubrey could only stare at the man. Then, flinging himself onto a sofa, he burst out laughing. This was no terrorist seeking Thanatos. It was only one of Saladin's pesky relatives.
"I should have known. Well, get up, get up. What does Saladin have in mind now? Where the devil is he, anyway?"
The Arab raised his face from the carpet. "He is dead, Sire."
Aubrey blinked. "Dead? Did you say he was dead?"
"He was killed by an American FBI agent."
"But..." Aubrey fell dizzy. Saladin wasn't supposed to die, not ever. It was his wish, a wish granted in exchange for eternity. "How was it done?"
"He was beheaded, Sire."
"Beheaded? By the FBI?"
"My uncle saw it with his own eyes." He approached Aubrey once again with the leather case. "As Saladin's heir, the document in here is for you, Sire."
Slowly Aubrey took it. "That's right, he made me his heir, didn't he?" he mused.
"Yes, Sire. As such, my entire familyâand there are many of usâstands ready to assist you in any way."
"Yes, yes." From the case Aubrey extracted a small notebook. It was a diary of some sort, its pages handwritten with a quill pen and interspersed with Saladin's breathtakingly realistic drawings. Among them were portraits of a man, a woman, and a preadolescent boy, as well as many pagesâover twenty, rendered in colored pencilâof an oddly shaped container of some kind.
Aubrey flipped through the entire book first, then went back to the beginning. On the first pages was a letter to him.
My dear Aubrey,
I am writing to you because it is possible that I may at last have the good fortune to die. After you accept the gift implicit in my storyâand you will, no doubt, accept itâyou may also, one day millennia hence, come to long for death as I do.
My story is about a cup. A quite ordinary artifact, from its appearance, a small bowl of greenish metal; yet countless men have died for it. Wars have been fought, legends grown, kingdoms fallen over its existence.
At one time it was known as the Holy Grail, and in this connection was it stolen from me by a sorcerer named Merlin, who understood well the ways of magic. It was not for himself that Merlin took the cup, but for a king who, perhaps alone of all the multitudes who have ever lived upon this earth, did not desire to possess it and its wonderful gift. He feared that eternal life would corrupt him, as it had me. He never did embrace the darkness, which you and I have come to love so well. Rather than succumb to the temptation of the cup, he threw it away, and died young for his pains.
I wonder now if that king were not wiser than the rest of us.
His name was Arthur of Britain. You no doubt have heard the legend about the once and future kingâthe great ruler who would one day return to finish out his reign. For sixteen hundred years, the legend has been told and retold until it has become little more than a fairy story. Even among those who accept the possibility of reincarnation, no one believes that an individual can be reborn as himself, to continue a life begun in the distant past.
And yet that is what has happened. Arthur has come back.
He is a boy again these days, far from royal, and
And so, through contacts made in the coven, he added a third component to his life: He became an assassin known as Thanatos, and not even the people who sought his services ever connected him with the dapper young artist named Aubrey Katsuleris.
I t came as a shock , then, when a young Arab appeared in the doorway of an apartment in New York City where Aubrey was staying.
"What do you want?" he hissed, maneuvering the man so that he would fall silently into the apartment when Aubrey killed him.
The Arab immediately prostrated himself on the floor, offering up a battered leather case.
Aubrey ignored it. "Who sent you?"
"My uncle, Hamid Lagouat, who follows the instructions of our patriarch, the High Lord Saladin."
For a moment, Aubrey could only stare at the man. Then, flinging himself onto a sofa, he burst out laughing. This was no terrorist seeking Thanatos. It was only one of Saladin's pesky relatives.
"I should have known. Well, get up, get up. What does Saladin have in mind now? Where the devil is he, anyway?"
The Arab raised his face from the carpet. "He is dead, Sire."
Aubrey blinked. "Dead? Did you say he was dead?"
"He was killed by an American FBI agent."
"But..." Aubrey fell dizzy. Saladin wasn't supposed to die, not ever. It was his wish, a wish granted in exchange for eternity. "How was it done?"
"He was beheaded, Sire."
"Beheaded? By the FBI?"
"My uncle saw it with his own eyes." He approached Aubrey once again with the leather case. "As Saladin's heir, the document in here is for you, Sire."
Slowly Aubrey took it. "That's right, he made me his heir, didn't he?" he mused.
"Yes, Sire. As such, my entire familyâand there are many of usâstands ready to assist you in any way."
"Yes, yes." From the case Aubrey extracted a small notebook. It was a diary of some sort, its pages handwritten with a quill pen and interspersed with Saladin's breathtakingly realistic drawings. Among them were portraits of a man, a woman, and a preadolescent boy, as well as many pagesâover twenty, rendered in colored pencilâof an oddly shaped container of some kind.
Aubrey flipped through the entire book first, then went back to the beginning. On the first pages was a letter to him.
My dear Aubrey,
I am writing to you because it is possible that I may at last have the good fortune to die. After you accept the gift implicit in my storyâand you will, no doubt, accept itâyou may also, one day millennia hence, come to long for death as I do.
My story is about a cup. A quite ordinary artifact, from its appearance, a small bowl of greenish metal; yet countless men have died for it. Wars have been fought, legends grown, kingdoms fallen over its existence.
At one time it was known as the Holy Grail, and in this connection was it stolen from me by a sorcerer named Merlin, who understood well the ways of magic. It was not for himself that Merlin took the cup, but for a king who, perhaps alone of all the multitudes who have ever lived upon this earth, did not desire to possess it and its wonderful gift. He feared that eternal life would corrupt him, as it had me. He never did embrace the darkness, which you and I have come to love so well. Rather than succumb to the temptation of the cup, he threw it away, and died young for his pains.
I wonder now if that king were not wiser than the rest of us.
His name was Arthur of Britain. You no doubt have heard the legend about the once and future kingâthe great ruler who would one day return to finish out his reign. For sixteen hundred years, the legend has been told and retold until it has become little more than a fairy story. Even among those who accept the possibility of reincarnation, no one believes that an individual can be reborn as himself, to continue a life begun in the distant past.
And yet that is what has happened. Arthur has come back.
He is a boy again these days, far from royal, and
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