Enchanted Warrior (12 page)

“No,” Tamsin said, dragging the word out of her parched throat, aware she ran the risk of Waller's wrath. She'd never live with herself if she gave in. “I'm too close to getting the books, and if I don't act now, they'll slip out of our hands.”

“Are you sure?” Greed tinged Waller's voice. He wanted Merlin's grimoires—but was that enough for him to gamble on her? “How close?”

“A whisker,” she said. “I just need a bit more time.”

“Bring me the books,” Waller said, the air around the phone turning the color of blood. “The coven will be forever grateful. You have my personal guarantee you'll be our loremaster. I'll even make you an Elder.”

Tamsin silently started to cry tears of fright, absolutely certain the Chief Elder had just lied to her. Again.

Chapter 13

T
amsin ended the call a half hour later, after Waller had told her what else he knew—which wasn't much. She sat on the floor and drew her knees up to her chest, as if that would protect her vulnerable core.

She clasped her fingers around the tattoo that bound her wrist, feeling her coven's presence even though an entire country stretched between her and Shadowring. Had her father, when he had come to Carlyle in search of Merlin's books, felt the same pull to his family and the sleepy town he called home? More to the point, what had happened to him in Carlyle and why had the Elders lied about it?

In a single swift movement, Tamsin was on her feet before she realized that she was trembling with anger.
We were better served by putting a final chapter to his story than by entertaining endless conspiracy theories and romance tales.
Fury swamped Tamsin, making her close her eyes against a rush of weeping. She'd served the coven all her days, believing the Elders were necessary to govern the power of its members. Maybe that meant giving up some freedoms, but they'd taken too much this time. They'd taken the truth. They'd taken away the chance to avenge her father and give his death meaning.

Why? What hostile power had struck down her father? And why was it an automatic death sentence to any Shadowring members who came here? From what she understood, her father had visited before Mordred's arrival in the mortal realms, so it was something other than the Prince of Faery. Did Waller even know the answer? Or had she stumbled into something the Elders didn't want found? That was reason enough to push on.

Tamsin was still sitting at the table, a street map before her, when Gawain returned with his brother. The two men were flushed with high spirits. Obviously, Gawain had enjoyed showing off the new world to Beaumains, who now wore faded jeans and a shirt that looked as if it might be Gawain's. In one hand, Gawain bore a faded sports bag.

“I gathered my possessions from the place I've been staying,” said Gawain. “If Mordred is aware we oppose him, it would be wiser for us to remain together.”

Tamsin glanced at the bag, not sure what to say. He was moving in, which might have been romantic after last night, but he was right about the threat. The bag was long enough for a sword and clinked like chain mail. That Gawain could fit everything he owned into one bundle said much about the life he lived.

She nodded, unable to bring herself to make conversation yet. She was still reeling from Waller's call. If she started in on that topic, she'd waste precious time ranting.

Gawain immediately picked up on her mood. “What's wrong?”

She pointed to the map, forcing her face into neutral lines. “I have Mordred's address.”

“Where?” Gawain and Beaumains gathered around.

“Here.” Tamsin pointed to a spot north of Medievaland. “There are some old houses up on the hill. Big places with private woods around them. One of them was owned by Dennis and Marian Henderson. He was from an old witch family but never joined a coven. It's rumored he collected rare books of all kinds, including magic.”

Gawain's eyebrows shot up. “You think he has Merlin's grimoires?”

“Henderson was one of the people who invested in Medievaland back in the day. It's no stretch to think his contribution paid for a few books from the church's collection.”

Beaumains furrowed his brow, confused. “I thought Mordred had the spell books?”

Tamsin swallowed. This part of her research made her queasy. “I think Mordred killed the Hendersons and moved into their house. The Henderson family built it a century ago on a natural wellspring of magical energy, and Mordred would want to take advantage of that free-flowing power.”

“How do you know this?” Gawain asked.

“To make a long story short, I had a call from one of my coven's Elders. He believes the Hendersons are dead. The human authorities just haven't figured it out yet.”

There was a moment of stunned silence in the room. Then the two brothers moved as one, Gawain sitting across from Tamsin as Beaumains leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Go on,” Gawain prompted her.

“If Mordred did take over this address,” she said, “he might not realize he has the books. Not unless he's gone through the library in detail and looked at every title. Unless he's a scholar of magic, he might not recognize what they are even if he has given them a glance.”

Gawain and Beaumains exchanged a look. “He's not much of a reader, but it's just a matter of time,” Gawain said. “Sooner or later he'll realize there is a vast opportunity for mischief waiting on the shelf.”

Beaumains shrugged. “Then I propose we pay Mordred a visit. Why take the chance he'll discover them?”

“Another thing,” said Tamsin. “I've been going on and on about the books, but I haven't forgotten that I caught a glimpse of your friend Angmar during my vision. The Henderson house is large and there's a good chance Mordred is holding him prisoner somewhere on the grounds.”

Gawain knit his dark brows together. “I would rather have waited until we had a greater number of knights before confronting Mordred in his lair, but there is too much at stake to delay any longer. If we wait, Mordred will have even more advantages.”

“What about Excalibur?” said Beaumains, obviously worried.

Gawain shot him a sharp look, as if his younger brother was going to say something he shouldn't. Tamsin shifted, waiting until Gawain finally turned her way, his cheekbones flushed. “What—or who—is Excalibur?” she asked.

“A very useful sword,” he said. “We don't have it, so there's no point in talking about it.”

Beaumains gave his brother an uncertain look but held his tongue. Tamsin had enough on her mind that she let the exchange pass without comment.

Because the Henderson house was one of the main historical buildings in Carlyle, Tamsin was able to find a house plan on the internet. That led to hours of strategizing before Gawain and his brother settled on a plan. Meanwhile, Tamsin stocked a small belt pouch with a healer's tools and a few magical powders. Her favorite was heal-all, which could cure small hurts or act like a field dressing on a major wound. Her pouch didn't hold enough supplies for a serious emergency, but having a few things made her feel better.

Gawain and Beaumains dressed for battle, an affair that involved a lot of buckling and lacing and glimpses of scarred, muscular flesh. Tamsin had a fleeting worry about getting stopped for a traffic ticket with two armed knights in the car, but that close to Medievaland they had a plausible excuse.

But when she looked up and saw Gawain dressed for battle, all practical thoughts ground to a halt. She'd seen Beaumains in his medieval clothes, but not Gawain. The sight made her catch her breath. He was a large man to begin with, but now he wore a quilted tunic with a shirt of chain mail over it, and then a dark cloak over that. He filled the tiny room, and not just with his physical bulk. In putting on the armor, Gawain had donned his role of warrior. Every gesture, every line of his body spoke of hard strength and harder will.

Gawain drew his sword a few inches. The steel scraped against the scabbard, the sound raising the hairs on Tamsin's arm. It was as if she had an ancestral memory of battle, something so deep in her genes that generations could not erase it. Gawain gave a smile that hovered between bitterness and anticipation. It was the smile of a man who did not shy away from violence but understood the cost. He slid the blade back into place and met Tamsin's eyes. “I am ready.”

Beaumains nodded, twirling a dagger in one hand before thrusting it into his belt. “Ready.” All at once, with his determined eyes and scarred face, he went from charming to dangerous.

They were on the road soon enough, Gawain riding shotgun. Conversation in the car had died to a brooding silence until he finally spoke. “You are unusually quiet.”

“Are you asking if I'm afraid?”

He gave her a frank look. “Yes.”

“I am. I'd be crazy not to be.”

“But you are thinking of something else?” he guessed.

Tamsin didn't want to talk about it, but decided it was better to unburden herself after all. She would need a clear head once they reached their destination. “I was thinking about my father. Waller told me he didn't actually die in a car crash. He disappeared from Carlyle when he came to find these same grimoires.”

Gawain sat back with a huff of surprise. “Interesting that the Elders kept that to themselves.”

At his words, a dam burst inside Tamsin, flooding her with hurt. “How can they do that to us?”

Tamsin turned the wheel none too steadily and had to correct her direction. “Waller said we hadn't really buried a body, that they just wanted to give the coven closure so nobody went looking for him.”

“Do you think he is alive?” Gawain asked carefully.

“No. If he was, my father would have come home. He loved us.” She slammed on the brake just before she ran a red light.

Gawain cast her a sideways look. “If you are upset, we could stop the car for a time.”

“I'm fine to drive,” she snapped, and then instantly regretted her temper. “I'll be all right in a moment, but I have to tell you I hate the Elders right now. I hate them for lying and never bothering to find out the truth. I'm supposed to be able to trust them, but instead I'm afraid of what else they might do.”

He put a comforting hand on her knee, his presence big and warm and solid as a rock beside her. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus on the streets around her. “This is a lot to take in on top of everything else.”

“I understand,” Gawain replied. “I swear to you, on my honor as a knight, that I will do everything possible to help you find the truth.”

“So do I,” said Beaumains from behind them. He'd been silent up until now, but he leaned forward with a clink and rustle of gear. “Trust me, that's how the Round Table spends a lot of its time—getting to the bottom of these things. You might say we're the experts.”

His confidence made Tamsin smile despite her mood. “Thank you.”

The conversation took them to the bottom of the rise that marked the edge of the Henderson property. Tamsin parked several blocks away to avoid attracting attention, and they walked around the perimeter until Beaumains found a track that climbed through the brush to the main part of the grounds. Tamsin found the trek hard going, especially when her feet seemed to find every crackling leaf and snapping twig possible. Despite their size, the two men moved almost in silence, stopping often to listen. At those moments, Tamsin would freeze, her breath misting in the fading light, and spread her senses wide. The information Waller had given her was obviously correct. The house sat on a nexus of natural magical energy such as Tamsin had never felt before. Any spell cast on these grounds would carry a wealth of power, although only an expert could safely harness the full strength flowing from the rocks beneath. There was little wonder why Mordred chose this particular house to make his own.

The path led them to a break in the trees on the west side of the house. Tamsin crouched, making herself small as she viewed the huge Victorian mansion. It was beautiful, a mass of gingerbread and wrought iron that rose up three stories under a clear indigo sky pinpricked with the first stars. “This is definitely the place from my vision,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

Gawain gave a single nod and pointed toward the back of the house. According to the plans, there was a rear door that led from the kitchen garden into the old scullery. It was the entrance with the least visibility from the grounds, but there was no telling how many people were inside. Beaumains drew his dagger and ran a few yards toward the back of the house. As Tamsin watched, he seemed to disappear, using his dark cloak to blend with the shadows. There was a tense moment of waiting, and then he signaled that it was safe to follow. Once they caught up, he set out again. After a few minutes, they were in position, the entire process smooth and efficient. The knights had obviously done this before.

The scullery sat straight across from where they hid. Now it was Tamsin's turn to take the lead. Bent nearly double, she scuttled between a series of raised beds, her feet silent on the paths strewn with straw. She had an impression of winter vegetables and cold frames, and then she was at the door. It was an ordinary door with a dead bolt, but she probed for magic. Finding none, she spelled the lock open and raised a hand to signal her success when it clicked open. A tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered this was going too well, but there was no time to listen. Gawain and Beaumains appeared at either side of her like silent wraiths. Gawain drew his sword carefully, making no sound, and Tamsin reached for the door handle.

The three of them exchanged glances. Gawain was solemn, whereas his brother's eyes danced with excitement. Tamsin reached for the door handle and turned it. The door drifted open on silent hinges, and they stepped into a darkened room.

A moment later, she understood why the house didn't have alarms. Mordred didn't need them.