Enchanted Warrior (5 page)

“Stop,” she said, her voice small but firm.

He pulled her closer, his ability to form thought compromised by the luxurious curves pressed against his chest. He could feel the magic deep inside her, pulling to forgotten pieces of his soul. They called to each other, power to dangerous power, though he told himself it was simply lust. “There's no need to deny yourself. I'm here for your pleasure.”

“No!”

This time the word penetrated his overheated brain. Gawain immediately let go, but it was too late to put space between them. Her powers surged, and a blow like a charging bull slammed him hard enough that his feet left the floor. There was a moment of giddiness before his back smashed against the wall. Stars swam in his vision for a sickening second, and then he slid to the floor.

“I said
no
,” Tamsin repeated, but there were tears in her voice. “I
hate
that you made me do that!”

Gawain scrambled to his feet, hands loose at his sides and ready to defend his life. Alarm rose inside him, bringing every nerve to alert. “You turn your magic against me?” he growled.

“And why do you think I did that?” Tamsin folded her arms across her chest. Anger sparked in her dark eyes, reminding Gawain of a storm at sea. “I don't know who you really are or what you're really after, but I've patched you up and now it's time for you to leave!”

Beneath the sharp words was pure misery. He'd behaved with the manners of a troll. He swallowed hard, trying to force down the uncomfortable emotions jammed in his throat. No woman had ever turned him down before—and none had ever knocked him on his backside, either.

Dread seeped through his limbs, as if he was turning to stone once more. He had come to ask her for help, and he'd bungled it horribly. First, she'd believed him mad. Now she believed him a scoundrel. “Please allow me to earn your pardon. My honor demands it.”

“Honor?” She glared at him. “How about you honor my demand for you to go?”

Gawain had lost. He cursed himself for his stupidity—his search for the tombs was urgent, but now he was forced to fall back and regroup. It was no more than he deserved—he'd approached the witch with all the finesse of the lowest blackguard.

But battles didn't end at the first skirmish. It was time to rethink tactics.

He picked up his jacket. “Then I bid you good night, Mistress Greene.”

* * *

Mordred dropped a limp form on the carpet. Nimueh, once called the Lady of the Lake, rose from her chair and stared, uncertain at first who was crumpled at the Prince of Faery's feet. All of her people had the same white hair and dark skin, green eyes and long, delicate bones. This male, however, was barely recognizable beneath the swelling bruises on his face.

“Angmar of Corin,” she said finally. She felt only a mild shock of recognition, followed by an intellectual curiosity as to how the high-ranking fae had ended up this way. She'd lost all capacity for emotions like pity or anger thanks to Merlin's spell. She remembered them, though, and knew she should have felt horror at the sight of Angmar's pain. Once, he'd been a dear friend.

“Nim-oo-ay,” Mordred drawled, stretching out the syllables of her name. “How lovely to see you lurking about the place. Here to report my deeds to my mama?”

She didn't answer. They both knew that was precisely why she was here. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them onto a side table. They were in a Victorian mansion on the outskirts of Carlyle. Mordred had charmed it away from its owners, convincing them to sign over the deed right before throwing them to his hungrier pets. The house had four stories and dozens of rooms, all appointed in velvet and fine crystal chandeliers. Mordred liked the opulence of the place, especially the high-backed armchairs that looked almost like thrones.

Nimueh watched as Mordred moved to a magnificent gilded buffet and sloshed liquor into a balloon-shaped snifter. “Why is Angmar here?” she finally asked. “What happened to your face?”

“Angmar is a present to myself.” Mordred swirled the amber liquid, his cold gray eyes almost jubilant. “He was chatting up Gawain of Lothian, who naturally tried to kill me on sight.”

That caught Nimueh's interest. “Your cousin? The knights are truly awake, then?”

Mordred nodded. “It's like Gawain to be first out of the gate. Always trying to impress.”

“It seems strange to me that you two are kin,” she observed, stooping to examine Angmar. He was still breathing, but barely.

“Our mothers were sisters, more or less. Mostly less. I lost track of the family drama ages ago. It's simplest to assume everyone slept with or killed everyone else—or maybe both—and leave it at that.”

Nimueh understood what he meant. In truth, the intermarriages of the old families—human, witch and faery—were as intertwined and complex as they were ancient. And that didn't even touch on their tangled relationship with Arthur of Camelot's kin, the Pendragons, and all the bad blood there.

Mordred set down his glass. “Gawain hasn't changed one bit. He's still strutting around like a barnyard cock.” Mordred gave a cold grin. “I managed to put a bullet in him.”

“Not very subtle.”

“I didn't have the time for subtlety. Gawain was throwing knives.”

She turned to look up at him. “Did you learn anything about the tombs? Your mother will want to know.”

Mordred's cheek twitched, as it often did when the subject of his mother came up. “I can handle this matter.” He kicked Angmar, and the fae grunted in pain.

Nimueh felt anger pass by like the shadow of a faraway cloud. Or maybe it was her imagination supplying what might have been, as men felt limbs they had lost in battle. She gave a slow, impassive blink, wondering if this was what it felt like to be dead. “Are you sure that is wise? The queen expressly ordered that she be told at once if there was news of Excalibur.”

It was the one weapon that could kill the immortal, indestructible Queen of Faery and her son. King Arthur had taken it with him into the stone sleep, which was one reason why everyone wanted to find the tomb.

Mordred lifted his brows with pretend boredom. “I'm not about to give Mama the opportunity to micromanage. And you're not going to, either.”

Mordred grabbed Nimueh's arm, squeezing until a primitive fear swam into her heart. The fae could still feel the desire to survive, and the prince used that without mercy. In fact, the smile playing around his lips said he enjoyed it.

“Stay focused on pleasing me,” he said in a pleasant, smooth voice. “Forget my mother. I'm the lord here in the mortal realms.”

Nimueh jerked away from his bruising fingers. “Your mother sent me to be your advisor. I advise you don't forget she is your queen.”

Mordred's fingers twitched, as if itching to cause more pain, but she was spared when Angmar rose to his hands and knees. The fae gasped and twisted his neck, straining to look up from beneath the fall of his white hair. Nimueh could see the full extent of his injuries now, one eye swollen shut and the blood staining the front of his clothes. When Angmar saw where he was, his breath hissed inward.

Fear. The one experience Nimueh could still share.

“Welcome to my home,” Mordred purred. Then he delivered a sharp kick to Angmar's wound. The fae fell with a moan. “You're going to tell me everything you learned from Gawain. After that, I'll find all kinds of uses for you.”

Chapter 5

G
awain seethed as he slipped away from the building, using the shadows to disguise his retreat. Too many needs had been frustrated at once, and all of them by Tamsin Greene. He spun to look back. She was standing on the balcony, arms folded and shoulders hunched against the wind that tugged at her gown. With the light behind her, Tamsin seemed fragile, a slim, barely substantial silhouette. She should have been inside, out of the cold wind and shielded from unfriendly eyes.

A sudden, hot protectiveness burned through him, completely at odds with the empirical fact that she was capable of protecting herself—at least from unwanted suitors. Surely his concern was because he needed her alive to help him. Too much depended on her aid.

Gawain stood gazing at the figure high above him, wondering what ill luck one more witch in his life would ultimately bring him. He wished he could think of another way to find the tombs, but his understanding of data and archives was next to nil and what little he knew of magic he'd done his best to forget. The only skills he could bring to the tomb problem were his powers of persuasion, which had apparently deserted him.

At last, Tamsin shut the balcony door and disappeared from view. Finally stirring, Gawain checked the knife in his boot—he'd found the one he'd used at Medievaland, the blade chipped but otherwise fine. He wished he had a shirt because it was growing colder by the minute. It was time to walk away for the night and come up with a new plan.

The clock glowing in the tower over Carlyle City Hall said it was eight-thirty, and the streets were quiet. Gawain walked the few blocks to the center of town, past a restaurant, a bar and finally the parking lot beside the gas station. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets, slowly scanning the area for anything that wasn't human. The scuff of his boots on the pavement seemed to be the only sound apart from the occasional car rushing down the main drag.

Gawain might have missed the two figures except for the tingling up the nape of his neck. The only time he welcomed the magic he'd inherited from his mother was when he hunted his enemies, and now those instincts demanded he look toward the gas pumps. When he spotted them, a warning shiver worked its way up his shoulder blades. Something about the way they were stalking across the pavement said they weren't there for the jumbo soft drinks.

He ghosted across the parking lot and pressed himself against the wall, disappearing into the darkness. Lights from the gas station stained the greasy parking lot in swaths of lurid color. Gawain watched the tall, graceful pair of fae pause next to the ice machine. They were wearing modern dress, but he recognized their fine-boned faces and moon-pale hair. He thought of Angmar's warning about the fae and wondered what they wanted.

A figure came out of the gas station, the glass door swinging shut with a chime. He bent over his smartphone, texting as he walked.

Gawain waited, watching the two fae. Sure enough, they were already in motion, swift and silent as sharks. Before the man looked up from his phone, one of them had clapped a hand over his mouth and the other had pinned his arms. They dragged him into the alley behind the building before the man had even made a sound.

Gawain drew his knife with a faint whisper of steel and glided to the mouth of the alley. He stopped, peering into a darkness he couldn't penetrate. Somewhere in that narrow dead end, water trickled and garbage stank and—he was sure of it—something vile was happening.

Turning to make himself as narrow a target as he could, Gawain crept sideways, his back to the alley wall and knife clutched loosely in his hand. In these close quarters, any fight would be short and brutal, reaction time counting as much as skill. His right arm throbbed, but he'd learned to push pain aside long ago.

His eyes adjusted enough to make out the shapes of garbage bins and drainpipes. He stopped, letting his senses gather information. Music pounded from the bar down the block like a muffled heartbeat. Beneath it, he heard a low, rasping breath. He immediately swiveled toward the sound.

It took him mere seconds to surprise the first faery, pressing the edge of the blade to his throat. The human he'd seen leaving the gas station was on the ground, struggling as his body convulsed in frantic jerks.

“What are you doing?” Gawain snarled in the faery's ear.

The faery hissed, nothing remotely human in the sound, and struggled despite the knife digging into his neck. Fae were strong and hard to overpower at the best of times—and this one seemed to be feral. Gawain took the chance of pulling the knife away long enough to bring the butt of its steel handle down hard on his opponent's head.

The fae should have dropped like a stone, but instead he whirled, shoving Gawain against the wall so hard he dropped the knife. Blood streamed down the faery's neck where the blade had cut, glistening in the cold glow of the streetlights. Gawain's skin crawled. Despite the fury of the fight, the creature's eyes were wide and staring, devoid of any emotion. He might have been fighting with a corpse.

The fae reached beneath his jacket, obviously going for a weapon. Gawain tried to duck sideways, but his opponent moved to block him with eerie speed. Gawain lunged, knocking them both to the ground. The faery grunted but rolled, struggling to pin Gawain. They wrestled for a moment, both too strong to surrender, until Gawain hit him with a savage cross, landing it right on the jaw. This time the faery collapsed in an unconscious heap. Pain sang up Gawain's arm, but there was no time to think about it.

The second faery was straddling the human, his hands wrapped around the man's skull. Their faces nearly touched, but this was no kiss. The fae's mouth was open in a snarl that mixed savage pleasure with a grimace of agony. Faint blue light coursed over his hands and up his arms as if he was drawing electricity from the man's flesh.

Gawain's stomach twisted in revulsion as the truth came with the force of a blow. Angmar had said Merlin's spell had turned the fae to monsters, but he'd assumed that was a figure of speech. Now he knew better. Robbed of their souls, the fae were consumed with an unbearable hunger to fill that empty void. They were hunting the souls of innocents.

The fae was so lost in the ecstasy of feeding he hadn't noticed his friend had been knocked out cold—or that there was an enemy behind him. Gawain grabbed the attacker's shoulders, attempting to haul him away, but the fae stubbornly clung on.

The human was starting to shudder, froth coating his lips. He would be dead in moments or worse—reduced to an empty husk. Gawain grabbed the fae's head, cupping the chin, and snapped his neck. The spell died with a sizzle of electricity.

Gawain heaved the dead fae aside and stood panting for a moment, his breath a cloud of mist in the cold air. Despite the temperature, sweat stuck his jacket to his skin. He'd heard whispers on the street about human bodies found in alleyways and empty buildings—inexplicable, random deaths. Now he could guess the cause. Fae were strong enough to survive the loss of their souls, but a human or witch was not.

The victim had passed out. Gawain knelt and checked his pulse—strong and steady. Gawain had been in time. The man would probably wake in a minute or two, weak and aching, but alive.

Gawain gathered his knife and thrust it back in his boot. The fae's eyes were clouding with death, but they had already lacked their vital spark. Mordred had found the perfect warriors for his cause. Motivating them to conquer the mortal world would be easy, for there was no shortage of souls to consume where humans were crammed cheek by jowl into massive cities. Gawain's lip curled in disgust.

He bent and slung the unconscious human across his shoulders, intending to carry him far away from the scene of the crime, for the human police would never unravel what had happened here. The victim could well be blamed for murder.

Modern humans had no grasp of what they were facing. They needed protection. And so did the fae, whether they realized it or not.

Gawain had to find the tombs. Souls depended on it.

* * *

Tamsin dropped her purse and backpack in her office. Since she wasn't working with the public that day, she was dressed in jeans and a sweater, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. It felt weird to be in the twenty-first century.

Exhaustion hazed her vision, making colors a touch too bright. She hadn't slept much after Gawain had left. Even now, if she closed her eyes, she was back in that last moment before he'd disappeared through the balcony door. He'd shot Tamsin a glance that said he wasn't done with her. She didn't doubt it. The power of that smoky blue gaze had gone straight to her core like a drug. Her heels had actually dug into the floor, as if she'd needed something solid to brace herself.

Now, back in the light of day, Tamsin pressed her fingers to her temples and pushed back a tide of anxiety. Her life didn't feel as if it was hers anymore. Gawain's tales of crazy stalker fae had her eyeing the shadows, although he was the one she should be worried about. Even if his wild stories were true, he had broken into her apartment and violated her privacy—and then tried to possess her in ways he had no right to. He'd forced her to use her magic to defend herself. That was utterly unacceptable.

If this had happened to a friend, she'd advise them to call the police. But, despite all common sense, she'd found herself drawn to Gawain's story. There was no reason to believe him—sure, she was a witch and knew magic was real, but seriously? Fae had vanished from the earth centuries ago. The knights of Camelot were a legend. Even if they were real, what would they be doing in Carlyle, Washington? Swilling craft beer, wearing flannel shirts and cheering on the Seahawks? That image alone had kept her wide-awake.

Nevertheless, there was something important in his tale, something her sixth sense told her to pay attention to. It felt like pieces of a puzzle coming together, but she had no idea what picture it was forming.

The fastest way to find out was to locate those tombs, and that meant getting down to work. She sipped black coffee from her travel mug and switched on the aging computer. Stacks of paper boxes filled with old, uncataloged records reached halfway up the wall beside her desk. Most of the papers had to do with the study and restoration of the many architectural features of the church, but a few concerned the sale and loan of items. It was completely possible her answers were buried in those old papers. Tamsin opened a box at random, grabbed a handful of files and started searching. The papers were at least thirty years old and smelled of mildew, and many were routine office records—like a bill for a typewriter repairman. Not quite ancient history, but as close as Tamsin could get to the day-to-day operations of Medievaland's first owner, an eccentric millionaire who'd lost interest in the project the moment it was up and running.

She looked up at the clock a few minutes later, only to discover that hours had passed. A rumble from her stomach confirmed it was noon. Tamsin was unzipping her backpack to rummage for her lunch when her cell phone rang.

“Hey,” said Stacy. “What's going on?”

“What do you mean?” Tamsin replied.

“Something happened after I talked to you yesterday.”

Tamsin immediately thought of Gawain and shivered at the remembered brush of his rough hands. She wasn't ready to talk about that yet. “I'm in a medieval church, remember? No one here but us history buffs. What could possibly go wrong?”

Stacy sighed. “There are disturbances in the aether all over the West Coast. They were particularly strong near Carlyle all afternoon and last night.”

Tamsin frowned. “How do you know that?”

“Mom. She had her crystal ball out and was scrying the energy fields in your area.”

“Scrying? You mean spying.” Tamsin wanted to smack her head against the wall. “I hate it when she does that. It's like having a drone on my tail at all times.”

“Maybe, but she's always right. She says there have been significant spikes in magical activity right in your area.” Stacy listed off a handful of times, and then her voice dropped to a whisper. “Mom even thinks someone or something stopped time for a moment. No one's used that kind of magic in centuries. What, by Merlin's magic wand, is going on in Carlyle?”

Tamsin sat back in her chair, skin prickling with alarm. “I don't know. I'm a healer. Sensing the aether was never my talent. I don't notice an anomaly unless I'm looking for it.”

“Surely you have some idea. Mom might be obsessive and paranoid, but she can read energy from a distance better than any other witch in the eastern covens.”

Which meant—what? That Gawain was right, and there were evil fae romping through the streets? “I honestly don't know.”

Stacy's tone grew impatient. “You know Dad always thought Carlyle had a significant archive of magical materials. There have to be some serious practitioners out there, and they're up to something.”

Tamsin cleared her throat. “There are supposed to be some very special books here, ones I know Dad was interested in, but I haven't found them. They seem to have disappeared along with...”

“What?”

“Other things.” Tamsin put a hand to her forehead. She was hot, possibly because her head was exploding. “There are items that should be in the church but seem to have gone missing. I'm trying to find them.”

“Magical items?”

“I dunno. Maybe. I'll let you know if I find anything.”

“Oh, Tamsin,” Stacy groaned, sounding pushed to her limits, “hurry up and come home where it's safe.”

Tamsin sighed. “I'd better get to work. I'll call you later.”

“Be careful.” Stacy hung up.

Tamsin thumbed the End button and sat staring at her phone for a moment as the dark cloud of Stacy's anxiety faded. Her mother's observations bothered Tamsin. Something was definitely going on.

Tamsin needed a break. She grabbed her coat and strode through the cool dimness of the church. Outside, it was bright and sunny, and Tamsin breathed in the air and cheerful, gaudy colors of the theme park. She waited on the porch as an actor rode by in the full armor of a knight, the feathered hooves of his horse clop-clopping on the pavement. Children milled about the beast, who bore the noise and commotion with gentle patience. Tamsin couldn't help but smile.