Dark and Stormy Knight (29 page)

He smiled as if amused by her naiveté. “We believe that divinity is a growing, living thing, like the trees, and that it exists not outside of us, but within. We believe that each soul is reborn innumerous times to continue its lessons on the path toward ultimate enlightenment. And we believe that, when the last soul has atoned, the three worlds will merge in a blaze of glory, ending existence as we know it.”

His striking blue eyes looked almost black in the flickering firelight. “This is more or less what the Bible means by the end of the world, although Christian clerics have misconstrued its meaning, as with most things divine, by rejecting a pantheon of loving, influential, and engaged gods in favor of one remote spirit who grants immortal souls one chance to awaken before damning them for eternity.”

It was her turn to smile. Though she’d never given religion much thought, her own intrinsic beliefs echoed those he’d just described. Not including all that human sacrifice and intestine-reading business, of course.

Curiosity drew her eyebrows together. “What’s the purpose of ritual sacrifices?”

The small smile he wore drooped into a frown. “You must bear in mind that Cesar’s chronicles were devised to discredit the peoples he sought to conquer. And what better way than to paint them all as heartless savages?”

“So, you don’t perform human sacrifices?”

Even in the faint light, she could see his posture stiffen. “We pay the tithe to the Lord of the Thitherworld every seventh year, as do all who take refuge in this realm.”

From her father’s stories, she knew the Lord of the Thitherworld was Madoc Morfryn, father of Merlin and twin of Oberon. Unlike Oberon, a mere trickster, Lord Morfryn was malevolence personified.

“Just how did your people end up in the Thitherworld?”

He didn’t answer. Maybe he hadn’t heard her. Just as she opened her mouth to ask again, he looked up from his cooking.

“We retreated here to escape persecution and to protect Danu’s lost children.” Breaking her gaze, he checked the rabbits for doneness and, once again, raw lust simmered in her pelvis. “One day, when humankind awakens to the truth, we hope to return to the Hitherworld to restore the species sacrificed to that trinity of greedy gods worshipped by so many in the world of man.”

Gwyn didn’t understand. “What trinity of gods do you mean?”

His face took on an expression of forlorn. “The ones humankind call Progress, Profit, and Convenience.”

Leith waited on tenterhooks for Sir Axel to return with word from Queen Morgan. He’d already waited more than an hour and was growing restless. He sucked in a breath, advising himself to have patience. An hour was but a moment in Thitherworld time. He might well wait days or even weeks to learn his fate.

A heaviness settled over his heart as his thoughts turned to Gwyneth. Where was she now? What was she doing? Was she still with that handsome druid or sailing toward Avalon by now? Neither prospect made him easy. The Druids of Brocaliande practiced Sex Magick, believing the energy of arousal and orgasm could be harnessed for mystical means. It was a coupling devoid of passion.

Even so, the prospect of Bran or anyone else having relations with his darling mouse made his heart sick and his stomach hurt.

He bit his lip, raked his hair, and wrung his hands. Waiting was sheer agony given the stakes. Not that he had much choice in the matter.

A splash drew his attention toward the waterfall through which Sir Axel had disappeared. In the pool, dripping wet and wading toward him, was the big red-haired knight wearing a maddeningly unreadable expression.

Leith, thrumming with impatience, hurried toward him. “Well?”

Sir Axel mopped his face with a meaty hand. “First of all, I’m no charades player. It was anything but easy to do your bidding without speaking your name.”

Leith’s impatience rose from a simmer to a boil as the big knight shook his wet mop of ginger hair like a shaggy retriever. “And?”

Combing back his wet locks, Sir Axel gave Leith a hard look. “She’ll let you cross, though I’d strongly advise you to reconsider.”

“Why? What did she say?”

The guardian held up his hand and looked away. “That’s all I’m at liberty to disclose without breaching my fealty.”

* * * *

Leith’s gut was in knots as he approached the iron gates separating Castle Le Fay from the rest of Avalon. They were as intricate as lace and embellished in places with golden leaves and rosettes. They also were unexpected. Back when he’d been here, there were no gates around the fortress.

Posted at the gates were two guards. Oddly, they were uniformed in the manner of English soldiers back in his day. Red frock coats ornamented with buttons and braid over white waistcoats and knee breeches. Both sentries wore swords at the hip and carried muskets affixed with bayonets. The sight of them activated a new torrent of adrenaline.

He searched their expressionless faces. The sallowness of their complexions suggested they weren’t human, but neither were they drones. Faeries, even the Unseelie ones, possessed a luminosity these beings were entirely without.

With every nerve-ending buzzing, Leith approached one of them. A rank odor assaulted his nostrils. Holy fuck, the guard reeked of rotting flesh.

Reviled, he swallowed. They had to be vampires of the sort that rose from the grave. He’d never met one before, though he’d heard plenty of stories. Their kind kidnapped faeries to keep or sell as sex slaves. Last he’d heard, they were the sworn enemies of Avalon. But, then again, so were most of the other occupants of the Thitherworld.

Back in the tenth century, there had been a war among the Thitherworld kingdoms. A very bloody war, from what he’d heard. Morgan had forged no alliances since, so it seemed highly suspicious that she was suddenly hiring vampires to guard her castle.

A sudden onslaught of dread threatened to strangle him. Swallowing hard, he addressed the guard. “I’m Leith MacQuill. Sir Leith MacQuill, one of the queen’s knights. She is expecting me, I believe.”

The guard looked at his partner, who produced a jangling ring of keys. Turning on his heel, he unlocked the gate and pushed it open just far enough for Leith to pass through.

Holding his breath to block the stench, Leith stepped past the guard and through the gap. Only when the gates clanged shut behind him did he lift his gaze to the castle’s familiar façade. Built in the Middle Ages, the structure boasted a steep slate roof, soaring spired towers, and vine-covered stone walls.

The castle stood on a tidal island in the middle of a deep loch. For wingless creatures, the only way in or out was to cross a rickety wood-and-rope bridge. Leith wasn’t fond of heights in the best of circumstances, and these were far from ideal. The loch below might look to be a soft enough water landing, but it was inhabited by a herd of ravenous water horses.

Leith swallowed hard and sucked in a breath. Rotting wooden planks held aloft by rusty wire stretched out before him. He grabbed the rope railing, badly frayed in places, to steady himself. The breeze, though mild, rocked the bridge from side to side. Below, icy water and flesh-eating equines threatened.

He shot an angst-filled backward glance at the gates. The guards were watching. Another pair waited on the other side. There was no going back. Not that he would. Gwyneth needed him. If he hadn’t been so stupid and selfish, she’d be safe and sound back in Hollywood right now.

Heart hammering against his ribs, he set out across the bridge. The structure swayed like a hammock. Planks creaked under each step. Down below, the water horses circled. Sweat moistened his palms and armpits. Please, let him make it across. Not that the fate awaiting him at Castle Le Fay promised to be any better. In fact, it was probably worse. Much worse. At least the water horses would kill him quickly.

As he took the next step, the board snapped in two. He lost his footing as one leg plunged downward. A surge of adrenaline stopped his heart. He was down on one knee with his leg through the break, gripping the ropes for dear life. Sweat poured down his brow, stinging his eyes. He took a moment to collect himself before dislodging his leg from the gap.

Jesus Fucking Christ, that was close. Too bloody close.

Back on his feet, he took a breath and carried on, his gut as knotted as the ropes he clung to for safety.

By the skin of his teeth, he made it the rest of the way across. The guards, making a sandwich of him, ushered him through the castle’s main entrance and down a wide corridor lined with tapestries and suits of armor. The cloying scent of incense hung in the air.

After walking the equivalent of three city blocks, the guards stopped outside a stately pair of red-lacquer doors.

“Wait here while I announce you to Her Royal Highness,” one of them said.

The guard who’d spoken pushed through one of the spring-mounted red doors. The other remained at his side.

Leith, eager for a distraction, took in his surroundings. The queen’s collection of antiquities had multiplied in the century he’d been away. The crystal- and gem-studded mortar walls were barely visible through the display of ancient artifacts, archaic weaponry, heavily bejeweled crosses, and stiff but colorful depictions of angels, martyrs, and saints. For some inexplicable reason, Queen Morgan had a morbid fascination with the iconography of Christianity.

“Her Majesty will see you now.”

Leith’s chest tightened as the guard opened the door. The cloud of incense that escaped nearly choked him, but at least the scent masked the stench of the guards as they escorted him inside.

At the far end of a long red runner, the queen sat upon her lavish golden throne. Though he couldn’t see her eyes across the smoke and distance, he could feel them burning into his soul.

As he drew nearer, dread tightened its grip on his innards. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her face. She was too beautiful. If he looked, he’d be awestruck.

She wore a cloak embroidered with silver and gold threads which partially concealed an ankle-length gown similarly embellished around the sleeves and hem. On her feet were brocade slippers studded with gems. As ever, she held a golden scepter shaped like an erect phallus.

Movement off to the right drew his gaze away from her. A portly gentleman was seated at a desk between two wire-screened bookcases. He wore a long red coat similar in style but far more elegant than those donned by the guards. It was heavily trimmed in gold embroidery. He wasn’t a knight; Leith knew that much. Only fit, well-favored noblemen were knighted in Avalon. The fat man, hunched over a stack of papers, was writing with what sounded like a quill. As the scribe or whatever he was turned to look his way, Leith’s heart froze in his chest.

It couldn’t be.

And yet, it was.

Cadaverous complexion aside, he would know that bloated face and those beady eyes anywhere.

Fuck me.

The fat man was none other than the Butcher of Culloden, back from the dead and looking worse for the experience.

“Well, well, well. So, you’ve come crawling back to me at last.”

The queen’s dulcet but taunting words snapped Leith’s attention back to the throne. A chill went through him as his gaze met hers. Her eyes, hypnotic emeralds framed with sweeping dark lashes, smoldered with suspicion.

Otherwise, she looked exactly as he remembered. Spoiled, selfish, and almost too beautiful to gaze upon. Her face was a perfect alabaster oval. Her eyes were large, her nose small, and her lips seductively full. Her hair fell like skeins of golden wool to her waist. On her forehead, from an encircling silver chain, dangled the dreaded jewel of enchantment—a smoky Cairngorm quartz crystal that could turn any who gazed upon it too long into her willing slave.

“As you see, my queen.” He bowed deeply at the waist to avert his eyes from her and the gem as well as to demonstrate subservience. “Thank you for granting me the privilege of an audience.”

The queen regarded him for a long moment as she idly twirled a long strand of her hair. “Sir Axel informs me you wish to offer yourself as the tithe to the Dark Lord. Have I been correctly informed?”

Heart pumping hard and fast, Leith kept his gaze on the floor. “You have, Your Majesty.”

“Is it also true you seek a favor in exchange for your offer?”

He sucked on his cheeks before answering. “It is, my queen.”

Morgan’s sharp laugh gave him a jolt. He raised his gaze to hers. The green fire he met singed his courage.

“I do not grant favors to traitors, my knight,” she said. “I should have thought you’d learned that long ago.”

Fuck, what now? Backpedal, suck up, or both? “My queen, I assure you I meant no—”

“Silence! Do you think me a fool? I know it all. Know about your treachery, know that you brought me the heart of a sow, know that Belphoebe yet lives, know that she bore you a son. When I find him—and mark my words, I will—he will be roasted on a spit in the courtyard, after which my
loyal
subjects will sup on his flesh. Just as I will yours, my knight, as soon as you’ve disclosed his whereabouts.”

A cruel smile bowed her lips as her gaze shifted between him and the guards who still flanked him. “Did you think I didn’t mean every word of my curse? Or that I would condescend to end your suffering by making you the tithe? How little you know me, my knight. To your great peril.”

Looking pained, she turned away and waved her free hand at him in a dismissive gesture. “Collar him and clap him in irons, take him to the dungeon, and do your best to extract the information. I cannot bear the sight of his deceitful face another instant.”

Shit. His only way out was to shift—but into what? Before he came up with a suitable creature, the guards grabbed him, snapped a knight’s torque around his neck and locked his wrists behind him in manacles.

Both collar and cuffs were made of iron, of course, the bane of all faeries. As long as iron touched his flesh, he’d be as defenseless as a mortal man.

As the guards dragged Leith toward the door, the queen said to the fat man, “Do what you must, but do not let him die. Dead men tell no tales, after all.”