“What could another woman give me that you cannot?” Lancelot whispered. It was more like a groan.

She sat back on her heels, looking down at him from under slitted lids. “Safety. She would bind your life around with the garlands of comfort and surety. She would keep your hearth and home and fill it with kindness. Your future would be known and beloved, a tale well told and filled with love and laughter. I foresaw this future for you in my gazing crystal, long before you went into the stone sleep. I had hoped you would have found her instead. Perhaps you still can.”

“She sounds marvelous. A paragon. Undoubtedly a good wife and mother.”

“Many long for a crumb of such happiness as she could give.”

“Well,” said Lancelot, “when we find her we should introduce her to Beaumains. She sounds like his type.”

Nimueh let out an exasperated breath. “Why not you?”

“I have you.”

SHARON ASHWOOD is a novelist, desk jockey and enthusiast for the weird and spooky. She has an English literature degree but works as a finance geek. Interests include growing her to-be-read pile and playing with the toy graveyard on her desk. Sharon is the winner of the 2011 RITA® Award for Best Paranormal Romance. She lives in the Pacific Northwest and is owned by the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness.

Enchanted Guardian
Sharon Ashwood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness, conqueror of fuzzy slippers and bane of the computer mouse. Long may your reign of terror continue.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

In case you’re wondering, heroes and villains are real. So is magic, and so are monsters. They’re not just children’s tales or relics of a long-ago past.

Take Camelot, for example. It belongs to the present just as much as it did to once upon a time, and its story goes like this:

Long ago, King Arthur won a mighty battle against the demons, but what should have been victory quickly turned to Camelot’s doom. Some say it was evil luck and others say it was the enchanter Merlin’s arrogance for, in his desperation to defeat the enemy, Merlin tried magic no one had seen before. The result was disaster. The final spell of the war ripped out the souls of Camelot’s fae allies and reduced them to emotionless shells.

The Queen of Faery swore vengeance against Merlin, the king and all the mortal realms. In defiance, the warriors of Camelot sacrificed everything they had, or loved, or ever hoped to be in order to keep us safe. Merlin cast an enchantment, turning the mighty Knights of the Round Table to stone statues upon their empty tombs. There they lie ageless and undying, ready to rise when humanity’s hour of need is greatest.

Yes, heroes are real, and so are the villains. The pitiless Morgan LaFaye is ruler of the beautiful and deadly fae. Once allies, now they feed on mortal souls because they’ve lost their own.

Now the Queen of Faery is poised to invade. If she has her way, our world is about to end.

It’s time for Camelot to rise.

Chapter 1

Run.

Her feet flew over the pavement, swift and all but silent. She ran like a deer, leaping over obstacles and dodging from path to lane, road to filthy alley. She ran like the wind because her death was behind her. She ran like prey.

Hide.

She found cover at last, though it was barely enough. There were two stairs down to a basement door, just enough of a dent in the narrow road for concealment. Crouching low, she made herself as small as she could. When that wasn’t enough, she huddled on the ground, her knees and palms on the dirty concrete.

Words came out of the dark, soft and cruel. “Where are you? I want to see your beautiful face.”

She held her breath, clamping both hands over her mouth to keep from gasping. Her lungs burned with exhaustion, crying out for a soothing gulp of air she dared not take.

“Nimueh, where are you? Nim—oo—ay.” Her pursuer’s voice lilted upward in mockery. “Oh, resplendent Lady of the Lake, hear my call. The queen wants a word.”

A word? Queen Morgan LaFaye wanted her dead. At least she’d paid Nimueh the compliment of sending one of her private assassins instead of any old thug. Nim squeezed her eyes shut. There was no traffic after midnight in the commercial district and no one she could run to for help. Not that the fae ran for help from humans.

“You took the enemy’s side,” he added. “Nobody liked the prince, but he was her son. You participated in the murder of the heir to the throne of Faery.”

As if Nim needed an explanation for the Queen of Faery’s wrath. Before this, she’d been one of LaFaye’s advisors, and she knew defying Morgan LaFaye was seriously stupid. But dread of Prince Mordred had overtaken Nim’s fear of his mother. After a tour of the prince’s dungeon, she’d decided someone had to put an end to the maniac. Better that than end up one of his broken toys.

“Come, my lady. Let’s finish this.” A note of boredom crept into the assassin’s voice even as he spun his long knife in the air, making the fine steel sing. “Your magic won’t help you now. Weave a spell and I’ll scent it like blood in the water.”

If that was true, he had one of the queen’s tracking amulets. No doubt that’s how he’d found her tonight, though for months she’d barely used her powers in her effort to hide among the humans. To complicate things still more, the amulet protected the wearer from magical attack, so Nim couldn’t blast her way to freedom.

She silently cursed. The assassin had her. Fae were immune to age and disease, but a blade to the heart could still end her life. For all her natural advantages, right now she was as vulnerable as a human.

Think.

Without lifting her head, Nim scanned her surroundings, counting on her dark clothes and a knit cap to blend into the night. Like much of the neighborhood, the brewery where she hid was a derelict nest of trash and cobwebs, half the windows boarded up and the other half gaping mouths with teeth of jagged glass. Something crawled over her hand and she flicked it off before she could stop herself. Nim silently cursed, afraid her pursuer’s sharp eyes would detect the sudden movement.

The next few seconds were an agony of suspense as she waited to feel that blade kiss her spine, but instead, his unhurried footfalls echoed in the empty street. The skin between her shoulder blades twitched. Then stopped. A hesitant scuff of shoes on pavement told her the assassin was looking around, his gaze slithering over the street to find her. She waited, silently willing her nerves under control.

Unexpectedly, he gave an impatient sigh and moved to the left, his footfalls leading away from her refuge. Luck? No. What little luck she’d known had slipped through her fingers long ago.

Nim counted out long minutes before emerging from her hole, silent as a shade gliding against shadow. She glanced around, finding a street number on the gate across the road. Ironically, she’d been on her way to this neighborhood when the enemy had picked up her trail. He’d all but chased her to her intended destination, a run-down warehouse three blocks away. If she could hide there, she would be reasonably safe until daylight filled the streets with humans again. The rules of lore and magic were clear about hiding the shadow world from mundane eyes. Not even the Queen of Faery’s assassin would parade their world’s existence before humans. At least, not yet.

Nim crept forward, calculating the safest route. If she kept close to the building, she could avoid the few pools of light from the windows above. She made it as far as the corner before the assassin sprang, knife flashing. Instinct saved her as she spun away and flung up an arm. Pain seared as fae-forged steel sliced her leather sleeve. Her breath whooshed out in shock, every nerve screaming. For an instant, she teetered on the edge of panic but, even with her magic sidelined, the Lady of the Lake fought for her life.

Nim used the momentum of her spin and slammed a booted heel into her attacker’s shoulder. She was half his weight, but the force of the blow made him drop his weapon and stagger back a step. She scooped up the knife, driving the point into his hip until it ground against bone. The assassin’s mouth stretched in a silent scream. Even now, the brutal training of LaFaye’s private guards held fast. No one ever heard their cries.

Nim quit while she was ahead. She wrenched the blade free and fled, every step making her arm throb. The warehouse she wanted, a century-old hulk of brick, was straight ahead. She had to get in without telltale magic, but that worked to her advantage. Her opponent wouldn’t expect a fae noblewoman to use plain, old-fashioned burglary skills.

When Nim reached the foot of the wall, she slid the knife through her belt and climbed. Her injured arm was almost useless, but she was a fae raised in the ancient woods of the Forest Sauvage and climbing was second nature. Nim used the knife to jimmy open the window, slipped inside and dropped lightly to the floor. Dust flew up in a choking cloud.

There was just enough light from the grimy upper windows for Nim to make out the shapes around her. Boxes and crates were stacked in haphazard rows and, according to her research, they housed part of a private art collection that was strewn across the country in hidden treasuries like this. The owner was dead, the heirs locked in a legal battle that had already lasted decades. No one was absolutely sure where all the loot was stored.

Nim had investigated quite a few warehouses before her hunt had led to Carlyle, Washington—right back to where her search had begun. Who’d have thought even a rich eccentric would stash priceless treasures in a town where the most notable industry was a medieval theme park? But then, if she’d thought about it, the collector had been born in Carlyle. An elementary mistake, forgetting humans were sentimental that way.

But the hunt was behind her. Now she just had to find the one item that mattered.

She walked slowly up and down the rows, her feet silent on the carpet of dust. She was still wound tight, all too aware the assassin was outside, but this place was better than any cloaking spell. Low-level magic hummed among the artifacts, covering any trace of her presence. The collection came from Babylon, the Egypt of the pharaohs, Greece, Rome and the cold Viking fjords. And there were pieces from medieval Britain.

She stopped before a large, steel-strapped crate and dusted off the label. It was torn, but there was enough text left to tell her she’d found what she was looking for. The crate was too tall to reach properly, so she dragged another box close to use as a step stool. She used the assassin’s long knife to pry up the lid until she could force the fingers of her good hand into the crack. Fae strength did the rest. The top came off with a squeak of wood and nails. She set it aside gently, making as little noise as she could just in case someone—like her assassin—was within earshot.

It was a primitive packing job, nothing like the customized containers used to ship art from proper museums. There was a waterproof lining, but then loose packing material filled the empty spaces. The rats had been inside, chewing the fibrous fill to dust. She brushed it away in long sweeps of her bare hand.

Her fingers slowed, meeting the kiss of cold stone inside the crate. It was here, literally in her hands. For a human, the moment would have brought triumph, hope or even anger, but Nim was fae. All she could manage was a muted shadow of feeling, for her people felt no love, no desire, none of the wild passions that had made the immortal fae what they were. Their vital fire was in ashes—unless they turned to utter and complete monsters, willing to commit any atrocity to regain what they had lost.

Still, Nim had curiosity enough to quicken her movements, clearing the features she’d known so very well once upon a time. She leaned deeper into the crate, finding stone hands, a sword hilt that in life had been studded with rubies, and the curve of an arm. Bit by bit she uncovered a knight—her knight—frozen by Merlin into a stone effigy. Finally, she looked into the face of Lancelot du Lac.

“Oh!” Her soft exclamation hung in the dark space, strangely forceful against the dusty silence. She hadn’t seen him since before the demon wars. Whatever she had expected, it hadn’t been this sudden compression of time, where the heartbroken woman she had been collided with the ruin she was now. And all these centuries, Lancelot had remained unchanged.

His features had never been meant to be so still, so robbed of color. His hair had lingered between autumn brown and gold, changing with the seasons and the sun. A beautiful youth, he had matured into a sternly handsome man. The lean angles of his face were the same as she remembered, all aristocratic cheekbones and a long, straight nose. Lancelot was King Ban of Benoic’s son, from a bloodline as old and noble as it had been impoverished. What they had lacked in coin they had made up for in pride. She could see it in the cut of his lips and the clean angle of his jaw. The one thing that had softened his expression were his deep-set eyes. The darkest brown, they had shone with every impulse he’d ever had. It took a measure of innocence to be as noble as Lancelot had been when she’d first met him. She wondered if any shred of that boy had been left when he’d finally been turned to stone upon his empty grave.

Despite herself, Nim traced Lancelot’s face, relearning the contours with her fingertips. His lids, the planes of his cheeks, the dip beneath the bow of his lower lip. In repose, his cheeks were smooth, but there were creases when he smiled. Once, he had smiled often.

He’d been called Lancelot du Lac for her sake, for she was the Lady of the Lake. He had been her protégé, her lover and her champion before ambition had drawn him to Arthur’s side—and before the young queen, Guinevere, had stolen away his love. Before he betrayed... Nim’s breath hitched, snagged by memory, but the strange sensation didn’t last. It was only the echo of remembered jealousy—once fierce as a ravening tiger, now cold as grave dirt.

And yet bitterness had a way of leaving its taste behind even now. How ironic that the man she’d loved so fiercely was before her and utterly at her mercy. Guinevere was long dead. Nim was at long last fully in control. She could shape their future together, remake everything exactly as she’d wanted—if only she wasn’t cold inside.

If only he hadn’t stopped smiling long before he’d been turned to stone.

Nim leaned down, balancing carefully so that only her lips brushed his. She exhaled, her warm breath bouncing back almost as if he’d sighed against her. But she was not fooled. The shape of his mouth was right, but there was none of the yielding pleasure of its soft touch. There was no demand, no promise. Nothing. He was as cold and stiff as a fae.

Nim frowned. Like all her kind, she knew exactly what she’d lost. Without souls to leash their powerful natures, the fae could easily turn into nightmares. Of course, the queen was counting on that very quality to conquer the mortal realms. She’d honed the fae’s loss into a weapon.

A few at a time, Nim’s people had returned from their home in the magical realm called the Hollow Hills. They infiltrated human cities in positions of influence where their grace and charisma—and lack of compassion—could do the most damage. When the queen was finally ready, the takeover of the mortal realms would be unstoppable. Brutal. Absolute.

Nim was no warrior, but she could not watch her people transform into monsters for LaFaye’s pleasure. Nim still remembered who they’d been before confusion, fear and addiction had made them slaves to the queen.

Blood dripped from her wound onto Lancelot’s cheek. She wiped it away, suddenly conscious the stone effigy was in truth a living man. Without taking her eyes from Lancelot’s face, she fished in her coat pocket for her phone, scrolled through her contacts and selected a number.

Morgan LaFaye’s only real foe was her kinsman, Arthur Pendragon, who had become the king. The family tree was complicated, human, witch and fae families intermarrying until few could make sense of the bloodlines. LaFaye had always believed Arthur had stolen the crown of Camelot, but had never been able to seize it for herself—especially not after Nim had given Arthur the sword Excalibur, the one weapon that could kill the fae queen. If Nim wanted to fight LaFaye, her best bet was to help Camelot.

That was why she was here in this warehouse. The one hundred and fifty tombs housing the Knights of the Round Table had been scattered. So far only a handful of knights had been awakened from the stone sleep—but now she’d located one more.

Lancelot had always been Arthur’s champion, and that was, Nim told herself, the reason she’d worked so hard to find him. It had to be more than the need to see his face one more time, and to know that her heart was truly dead. Being a fae didn’t guarantee a fairy-tale ending.

But now she was done, and it was time to seek help to disappear so completely that not even LaFaye’s assassins could find her.

The phone rang twice before someone picked up.

“Medievaland Theme Park,” said a deep male voice. “Come for the fantasy, stay for the feast.”

Nim cleared her throat, her gaze inexorably returning to Lancelot’s face. With the merest whisper of magic, she disguised her voice and caller ID. “I have an anonymous tip for your king.”

Chapter 2

“Ugh,” said Gawain in disgust. “You’re barely two months out of your stone pajamas and you think you know how the modern world works.”

“They hadn’t invented pajamas when Merlin turned us,” replied Lancelot du Lac to his fellow knight, “and all I’m saying is that I find it hard to believe we are breaking the law by patrolling the streets for murderous fae.”

“The human authorities are particular about executions. They like to do it all themselves.”

Dulac—he was Dulac among the men, never Lancelot—shook his head. He’d awakened to a drastically reduced Camelot in a new and strange world. “Then what are we supposed to do? Pat the fae on the head and tell him to run along back to his homicidal queen?”

They were walking the night-dark streets of Carlyle. According to Gawain, it was unusually warm for this part of the world, and Dulac took his word for it. The heat had developed a second life as the sun sank like an exhausted balloon, leaving skin sticky and tempers short. The taverns promised iced drinks and easy laughter, but that would come later. Dulac and Gawain had work to do.

“We do all our work in secret. The rules of lore and magic are...well, let’s just say people think everything we stand for belongs in books for wee kiddies.” Gawain’s Scottish accent deepened to a burr. “It’s demoralizing. Explaining that enchanted knights are waking up because Queen Morgan has mobilized revenge-happy faeries to attack and destroy the mortal realms—well, my lad, that’s a speedy trip to the madhouse.”

“I’d already be there if it wasn’t for you and Arthur,” Dulac said honestly. “I don’t know how you managed when you were the first to wake up.”

“It got better once I found Tamsin,” Gawain said, referring to the witch who was his lover—the same witch who had revived Dulac from the stone sleep. “Before her, I only had the spell to fall back on.”

Merlin’s spell had provided a wealth of basic information, bridging centuries of change in language and a thousand mundane details, such as how to work an elevator or what a stoplight was for. There were still gaps, but Dulac was quickly figuring them out.

It was the larger changes that bothered him. “Nothing here is friendly. There are barely any armorers. Very few horse markets. I’m not certain this time requires a knight like me.”

“Of course it does,” Gawain said gruffly. “And you have to admit there are advantages to this day and age. I do like indoor plumbing.”

“I’ll give you that one,” Dulac agreed. “And coffee.”

Dulac had shed his sword and armor for smaller blades, a battered leather jacket and jeans. He stopped at a corner, waiting for a low black car to drive by before he crossed. The rumble of its engine called to something inside Dulac. He’d owned powerful chargers, reveled in their speed and power. These vehicles were the warhorses of the modern age. He wanted one badly enough that his palms itched. It was hard to save the world when your only option was public transit. He stepped off the curb, swearing when a cyclist nearly clipped his toe.

“I’m going north from here. There’s plenty of problems up around the White Hart,” said Gawain once they were across. “South is yours to patrol.”

Dulac nodded, paying close attention to what Gawain had to say. This was his first time out on his own since awakening, and he would take nothing for granted.

“Listen, there’s been an increase in fae sightings in Carlyle and we don’t know why,” said Gawain. “Don’t assume a lone fae is actually alone. Keep your fights out of sight of humans, and come back in one piece.”

With that, they gripped one another’s forearms in salute and parted.

Once Dulac went south, the road grew darker and his mood along with it. He’d seen little of the fae after the demon wars, but he’d got an education since awakening in Carlyle. There was no question that Camelot’s one-time allies were now a fearsome enemy and, as Gawain had said, getting far too common on Carlyle’s streets.

Hugging the shadows, he closed the distance between himself and a fae male walking ahead. Ordinarily, they were easy to spot. Most were tall and slender, with skin ranging from olive to the rich brown of ancient oak. Their eyes were brilliant green, their hair as pale as moonlight. All were inhumanly beautiful. This one, however, wore a sweatshirt with the hood drawn up and his body bent forward. Obviously, he didn’t want to be recognized.

Dulac didn’t need to ask why. The male was following a dark-haired woman who walked briskly through the puddles of streetlight, handbag swinging in time with her steps. There was an air of impatience about her as if she was late and rushing to an appointment. At that distance, Dulac couldn’t see her well, but caught the impression of a willowy beauty. Moving swiftly, the fae kept back just enough to remain unnoticed, but moved imperceptibly closer with each block. He was hunting her just as Dulac was hunting him.

Abruptly, the woman turned and trotted up the steps of a community hall brimming with noise and lights. Dulac relaxed, slackening his steps now that she was safely inside—until the fae turned and followed her through the doors. She was more than a random victim; she was a target.

On full alert again, Dulac jogged to catch up. The signboard outside the hall announced the event was a wedding celebration. Was the woman a guest?

He took the stairs two at a time and shouldered his way inside. The doors were propped open to let in fresh air, although the breeze wasn’t putting a dent in the sweltering atmosphere. The place was dim and echoing, the walls and floor plain wood. The ceiling, crisscrossed with crepe paper streamers, was open to the rafters. The milling press of bodies set Dulac’s nerves on edge, confirming the reason he was there. Events like these—where people were crowded together, unguarded and a little drunk—were a predator’s favorite hunting ground.

Dulac straightened his spine, feeling steadier now that he had a job to do. As long as there were villains, there was a purpose for knights like him.

He strode into the center of the room, searching the crowd. Blasts of amplified sound blared from the small stage where a band was setting up. Finding no sign of the fae, Dulac pushed through the crush at the back of the hall to discover a bar.

He was rewarded almost instantly when he saw the woman from the street perched on one of the stools. Her hair was dark and cropped at the shoulders, her bangs cut in a severe line across her brow. Her dark blue dress was crisp and businesslike, the only feminine touch a pair of extravagantly high heels that made her legs seem endless. But there was something that caught his eye besides her elegant figure. The way her long, slender limbs moved, or the curve of her spine, or the tilt of her head—something about her was extraordinary. Instantly, his body tensed in pleasure and warning.

The woman was fae. Then she turned her face in his direction, and he was looking at his Nimueh.

* * *

“It would take a soulless monster to hate a wedding like this,” said the young human in a daring yellow dress. “Don’t you think?”

The Lady of the Lake had barely sat down after hurrying through the streets to get there. She sipped her drink and manufactured a smile. “Have you taken a poll?”

The woman—barely more than a girl, really—leaned against the bar, her eyes shining in a way that went beyond the champagne. She was on a romance-induced high. “A poll?” She had to speak up to be heard above the happy crowd.

“Of soulless monsters. I’d be interested where they fell on the bell curve of wedding-haters.”

The girl gave a surprised laugh. “Right beside the father who had to pay for it all.”

She held out a hand and smiled, showing tiny white teeth. “I’m Susan, Antonia’s cousin.”

Nim saw it at once—the girl had the bride’s red hair and milky skin. “Nim Whitelaw. Antonia’s boss.”

“Enjoy the party.” Susan picked up her ginger ale and fluttered off toward the stage, a violin case in one hand. Obviously, she was one of the musicians.

Nim watched her go with faint interest. Speaking for soulless monsters everywhere, it was hard to hate weddings—or like them, either. Once upon a time, fae weddings had been swathed in starlight and garlands of living butterflies. The bride and groom would have slept in the woods on a bed made from the down of griffins to give their love the strength of lions. But that was all in a past that Nim was slowly forgetting.

“Top you up?” asked the bartender, holding the bottle above her glass. His look was filled with an invitation that had nothing to do with chardonnay.

“Thank you,” Nim said to be polite, even though she’d barely had time to touch her wine.

“Don’t you own that bookstore?” the bartender asked as he poured a generous measure. He was staring at Nim’s neckline and would have missed the glass if she hadn’t given it a magical nudge to the left. She’d gone nearly six weeks without using her powers, and the tiny push felt good.

“I do. Antonia is my employee.” Nim had always been careful to honor those who served her well. By coming here, Nim kept at least that much of herself alive.

It was also one of the last things Nim would do in Carlyle. After months of searching—and hiding from any potential assassins—she’d finally located the contact who’d promised to help her disappear for good.

“Tony’s my sister-in-law. She said you’ve been away on vacation.”

“I just got back last night.”

Bored with the man, Nim glanced toward the dance floor. The music hadn’t started but Antonia, with a white lace veil over her curling red hair, was the magnetic center of the crowd, laughing and hugging everyone who came to greet her. The groom stood at her side, shaking hands and grinning as if he’d won the richest lottery in all the mortal realms.

Nim had never felt as alien as she did in that moment, witnessing that bond. She didn’t belong at a wedding, with her empty, silent heart. She set down her glass and slid off the bar stool, suddenly sure she had to escape. All that happiness was just too much to witness.

It was then she saw him. She did a double take, sure it was a perverse trick of memory that summoned the face of Lancelot du Lac, that the wedding atmosphere had stirred the dying embers of old dreams. But then she realized Arthur must have acted on her information. Lancelot had risen from the stone sleep, and was before her in warm, living flesh.

Even for this modern age Lancelot was tall, his broad shoulders filling out a worn leather jacket as easily as they had a warrior’s garb. Her first thought was to slip away but, with the uncanny intuition of an expert swordsman, he looked straight at her. As she watched, he went rigid, a flicker of shock widening his eyes. Clearly, he’d just recognized his old lover beneath the hair dye and contact lenses.

It had been one thing to see his statue, his features frozen in stone. Lancelot alive and breathing was completely another story. His dark, liquid gaze skewered Nim, looking deep into places she’d forgotten.

Shock took her, and Nim took a step toward him before she knew what she was doing. A sudden, irrational urge to throw her wine—or perhaps a fist—overtook her. She wasn’t capable of anger, but she owed that vengeance to her younger self. He hadn’t just broken her heart when he’d left her for Camelot. He’d pulped it. The ghost of those emotions ached like a limb lost in battle, reminding her how she’d wept in lonely grief.

He pushed away from the bar and prowled her way. The summer sun had bleached streaks into his dark gold hair, and he swept it from his eyes in a gesture she remembered well. But familiarity ended there. There was a hardness around his mouth she didn’t remember. When his gaze held hers, assessing every line of her face, his expression was too guarded to read.

“Nimueh.” He shook his head as if willing himself to wake from a dream. His deep voice brought the past rushing into the present. She remembered hearing that voice in the dark, when it had gone soft and lazy after the intimacies of love.

“Nimueh,” he said again, this time with more strength. She hadn’t heard that accent for centuries—it was French, but not the French she heard now. It was something older and rougher that went straight to her core. Once she had adored the way he said her name, caressing each syllable as if she was something good to eat. Then he’d set about proving it with his generous mouth on every inch of her flesh.

“Nimueh,” he said one more time, as if her name was a prayer. Emotions chased across his face—shock, grief, happiness, guilt.

She held his gaze, willing his feelings to stop. She couldn’t return any of them and she didn’t want to answer his questions. “These are modern times. Just call me Nim. Nim Whitelaw, bookstore owner.”

He tensed at her words as if the flat statement had surprised him. “That doesn’t sound like you. It’s too plain.”

“That’s the point.” Instinctively, she looked around at the crowded room, wondering who might see them together. But no one seemed to take the slightest notice of their conversation.

He was looking her over. “You look almost human with brown eyes and dark hair. Why change your appearance?”

It was a good question, but it was none of his business. She leaned closer, lowering her voice in case fae ears could eavesdrop over the din. “Walk away. Leave. It would be far better if you never mentioned our meeting. Understand that, if you ever cared for me.”

“What do you mean? Of course I cared for you. I still do.”

“Oh.” Words deserted Nim, making her feel like an awkward child. It was a most unpleasant sensation—her insides felt oddly fizzy, as if she’d swallowed an entire case of champagne. A dim memory said the sensation was panic or perhaps excitement. Such feelings couldn’t be, but Lancelot had a way of making the impossible happen. After all, once upon a time she’d fallen in love with him—a penniless mortal with nothing more than good looks and a steady lance, pun completely intended.

She waited a moment, hoping she would think of something to say, but her mind remained blank. Or crowded. She couldn’t decide which, but the sensation was overwhelming. The need to run and hide ballooned inside her, threatening to stop her lungs.

“Goodbye.” She spun on her heel to leave.

Chapter 3

He caught her arm, pulling her up short. Nim scowled down at the long, strong fingers. Fine scars ran along his tanned knuckles, evidence of a life around blades. Heaviness filled her, a primitive reaction to the strong, aggressive male taking control of her in the most basic way. Once it might have grown into anger or lust, but now it confused her.

“Take your hand off me,” she said, letting her voice fill with frost.

“No.” He pulled her closer, turning her to face him. “You will answer my questions.”

Nim jerked her arm free. They were so close, she could feel his warm breath against her skin. “About what?”

His nostrils flared as if scenting her. Still, Nim studied his tense jaw and the blood flushing his high cheekbones. The heat of his emotions made her feel utterly hollow. His hand closed around her wrist again, almost crushing her bones.

“There are too many people here,” he growled.

“There are enough people here for safety. Perhaps I don’t want to answer you.”

His eyes held hers a moment, dark fire against the ice of her spirit. That seemed to decide him, for he pulled her close and took a better grip on her arm. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

He didn’t reply, but steered her toward the door, moving so fast she skittered on her heels. She thought about calling out—she knew people there, even if they weren’t actual friends—but it went against her instincts for secrecy. When he pushed her down the stairs and back into the night, the velvet dark seemed to muffle the sounds around them. He paused at the bottom of the steps, seeming to consider where to go next.

She took the opportunity to pull against him, but this time he held her fast. “Don’t.”

The threat was real. Her fighting skills were nothing compared to a knight’s. Lancelot could crush or even kill her with a single blow. Still, that didn’t make her helpless, and she would not let him forget that fact. Rising up on her toes, she put her mouth a mere whisper from his ear. “You forget what I can do. My magic is nothing less than what it was when I was the first among the fae noblewomen. I can defend myself against your brute strength.”

Just not against what he’d done to her heart. She closed her eyes a moment, feeling his breath against her cheek and remembering the past for a long moment before she denied herself that luxury. “Let me go,” she repeated.

In response, he pulled her to the side of the building, refusing to stop until he was deep into the shadows. The ground was little more than cracked concrete there, tufts of grass straggling between the stones. He pushed her against the siding, her back pressed to the rough wood. “Not until I’ve had my say.”

He had both of her arms now, prisoning Nim with the hard, muscled wall of his chest. Anyone walking by might glimpse two lovers in a private tête-à-tête, but Nim drew back as far as she could, something close to anger rising to strike. No one handled her this way, especially not him.

“Then talk,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Aren’t you even surprised to see me?” he demanded.

“Why should I be? Your friends are awakening, why not you?” She wouldn’t tell him it was she who had traced his tomb and called his king. She needed to squash any personal connection between them. Even if she was whole and their people were not at war, he had betrayed her.

He put a hand against her cheek, his fingers rough. She jerked her chin away, burning where his touch had grazed her.

His expression was bitter. “You know why we wake.”

The threat of her queen. She dropped her voice so low he had to bend to hear her. “I’m not your enemy. Not that way.”

“Aren’t you?” The skin around his eyes and mouth grew tight. “I was told you work for Morgan LaFaye now.”

“I did,” she confessed. “Not anymore. She does not have the interests of the fae at heart.”

But he was relentless. “I’m told you were caught by Merlin’s spell along with the rest. I know what the fae have become.”

Soulless. As good as dead inside. Lancelot didn’t say the words, but she heard them all the same. “It’s true,” she replied. “It’s all true.”

His expression was stricken as if hearing it from her lips was poison. Good, she thought. Better to be honest. Better that he believe her to be the monster she was.

“Maybe that’s true for some. I don’t believe that about you. You still have too much fire.”

With that, he claimed her mouth in an angry kiss. Nim caught her breath, stifling a cry of true surprise. The Lancelot she’d known had been gentle and eager to please. Nothing like this. And yet the clean taste of him was everything she remembered.

His mouth slanted, breaking past the barrier of her lips to plunder her mouth. The hunger in him was bruising, going far beyond the physical to pull at something deep in her belly. Desire, perhaps, or heartbreak. She wasn’t sure any longer, but she couldn’t stop herself from nipping at his lip, yearning to feel what she had lost. A sigh caught in her throat before she swallowed it down. Surely she was operating on reflex, the memory of kisses. Not desire she might feel now. The warmth and weight of him spoke to something older than true emotion. Even a reptile could feel comfort in the sun. Even she...

Still, that little encouragement was all the permission he needed to slide his hand up her hip to her waist and she could feel the pressure of his fingers. Lancelot was as strong as any fae male, strong enough certainly to overpower her. That had thrilled her once, a guilty admission she’d never dared to make. She’d been so wise, so scholarly, so magical, but an earthy male had found the liquid center of heat buried under all that logic and light. They had always sparked like that, flint against steel.

But then his hand found her breast and every muscle in her stiffened. This was too much. Memory was one thing, but she wasn’t the same now and she refused to have a physical encounter that was nothing more than a ghost of what it should be.

Nim pushed him away. “I don’t want this.”

Something in her look finally made him stop, but his eyes glittered with arousal. “Are you certain about that?”

Nim went very still and cold inside. Whether it was anger or the absence of it was irrelevant. It was all she could do not to touch her powers and simply make him leave. “Be careful, mortal.”

He put a hand on her hip again as if staking a claim. “Morgan LaFaye tricked me from your side.”

“And Queen Guinevere tripped you into her bed?” she asked drily. “Do you think me a child to feed me such tales?”

His eyes snapped with temper. “It’s not what you imagined. I looked for you back then. I searched for months.”

“And now?”

“I want you back.” His grip tightened.

“I’m not who I was.”

“You are. I felt your heart in your kiss. You haven’t changed.”

That wasn’t true. This conversation had to end for both their sakes, so she aimed every word like an arrow. “This is who I am, Lancelot. Merlin’s spell tore my people apart. The fae crave the souls of mortals to fill the void where our own used to be. We are the monsters Arthur’s knights seek to destroy.”

His lips parted as if to speak, but she pushed on.

“We won’t stop hunting humans. We can still feel enough fear to survive the perils of the world, but nothing more. Feeding on souls makes us whole again, gives us back joy and sorrow, but the mortals die and the effect never lasts. Even so, it’s easy to become addicted, needing more and more souls to cling to some semblance of who we used to be. That’s how the queen buys our loyalty. If we invade the mortal realms there will be no end of humans to feed us. It will be our paradise.”

She’d known herself too well to risk tasting such ambrosia, but she’d seen others fall prey to soul-thrall, living only to hunt. Once, they’d been honorable, valued friends. Now they were little more than beasts.

Lancelot looked as if he might be ill. “I know all that.” He finally let her go.

“Then you know why you must forget me.”

“But you’re different.” The words were firm, but somewhere in their depths she heard a plea for reassurance.

“Don’t be naive.” Nim turned and walked away.

This time he let her.

* * *

Barely able to breathe, Dulac watched the swing of her hips as she walked away. The sight of that very female motion, combined with the lingering taste of her lips, had him aching against his jeans. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, desperate to clear his thoughts from the fog of lust scattering his every last wit.

Dulac had sought her for so long. He’d searched before the demon wars and then after, when he’d discovered her castle had vanished from the Forest Sauvage. That had been a sure sign she’d left for the Hollow Hills, but he hadn’t stopped even then.

Many of Camelot’s knights had been wary of Merlin’s sleeping spell, but Dulac had jumped at the opportunity to travel into the future. Nimueh was immortal. He was not. If Merlin’s magic worked, the knights would rise healthy and in their fighting prime when the fae returned to the mortal realms. Then, after crossing centuries, he could take up his quest anew.

Of course there were risks—what if the spell had failed or Nimueh never came back? Still, the stone sleep was his best chance. Dulac had sacrificed all to come forward in time—his name, his lands, and his wealth. In the end, the gamble had been a success because now he’d found her.

Except Nimueh had just walked away. Walked. Away. Not a tear. Not a word of regret after he’d spent centuries as a piece of stone for her sake. Heat crept up his body, anger mixing with incredulity. His skin prickled as if he might burst into flame.

He watched her turn right and disappear into the night. She didn’t go back to the celebration inside, which was as clear a message as any that she didn’t want him following her for another round in the dance of emotional push and pull. Maybe she was as dead inside as she claimed.

But Dulac wasn’t a boy or a new-fledged knight any longer, and he knew his lady. “I don’t believe you,” he said into the hot and sticky night.

This wasn’t over. When it came to bed play, Nimueh was made of fire. Dulac had felt that same spark in her now, faint but no less real. His body remembered hers, every move of their familiar dance unlocking their treasured past in his heart and flesh as much as memory. Surely it worked the same way for her—it had to.

So why hide it from him? Had he so utterly destroyed her trust?

Of course he had.

A door inside him slammed shut, sealing off the pain beneath his anger. It had a poor seal, that door, and regret leaked around every edge of it. Dulac stalked back to the sidewalk in front of the hall, wishing he was still at the bar. He needed something to dull the roiling storm inside him—but he’d learned long ago there was no cure for the addiction named Nimueh.

Wedding guests lingered on the steps of the hall, vainly seeking fresh air. Just as Dulac put one foot on the stairs, the hooded fae hurried down and disappeared in the same direction Nimueh had just gone. Dulac narrowed his eyes, aware he’d allowed himself to be distracted from his original mission. Then again, now he knew it was Nimueh the hooded figure followed. Both his missions were the same. He waited a few seconds, then glided after them.

As if the fae sensed the knight’s interest, he turned to look over his shoulder. Dulac ducked into the shadows, swift enough to evade detection. But the fae had tricks of his own. By the time Dulac emerged from hiding, the fae had vanished.

Cursing, Dulac searched the street but both Nimueh and her tail were lost to sight. Nevertheless, Dulac pushed forward, going on instinct alone. Within a block, the condition of the neighborhood declined. Streetlights highlighted the faces of the buildings, picking out broken windows and peeling paint—and then the lights, too, were smashed. Fierce protectiveness rose in Dulac. What business would Nimueh have walking into a place like this? She should have been somewhere safe.

Scanning the street, and then a playground, Dulac looked around for his quarry one more time without success. Wind nudged litter down the gutters, the skittering noise loud in the darkness.

Dulac heard a cry and scuffle coming from a building site surrounded by a chain-link fence. Holding the knife in his teeth, he quickly scaled it and dropped lightly to the ground. It was darker here, walls of the neighboring buildings blocking most of the ambient light. He rose from a crouch, knife in hand and with every sense alert. Someone was panting hard.

The noise was coming from behind a half-built wall. Dulac approached silently, pausing every few feet to check for movement. He had hunted all manner of creatures in his time—demons, trolls and even a dragon—but modern weapons were just as deadly. He’d never had a bullet wound and had no desire for the experience.

When he slid around the corner of the wall, he immediately saw Nimueh huddled on the ground. Above her stood the male fae, his hood thrown back to reveal long white hair. The pale color was a stark contrast to his dark skin and bright green eyes. Dulac stiffened when he saw the fae had one hand on Nimueh’s hair as if holding her in place. What chilled him most was the anticipation in the male’s expression, as if he was going to enjoy killing her the way another would enjoy a gourmet meal.

“Hello, mortal,” said the fae. “Have you come for the show?”

Chapter 4

Fury rose like an incoming tide. Even in the dark, Dulac could see Nimueh’s features had gone sharp with fear. Somewhere along the line, she’d shed her high heels and her bare feet looked achingly vulnerable.

“Let her go,” Dulac demanded.

“No,” Nimueh cried, her voice cracking as she met his eyes. “Leave me. This is not your concern.”

That just made him angrier. “You’ve always been my concern.” He took a step forward.

“Don’t!” she shot back, her eyes widening until he saw white all around the iris. “It’s too dangerous. You don’t understand any of this.”

“Who is this man?” the fae asked in a bored tone.

Dulac took another step, calculating his odds.

Instead of answering, she attempted to writhe out of her captor’s grip. Dulac closed the distance, but he wasn’t fast enough. In the time it took to get halfway there, the fae’s long fingers closed around Nimueh’s throat.

Her attacker turned his head, the movement so graceful it was alien. The fae were elegant, long-boned and so slender they looked almost delicate. That was an illusion. They were tough as cockroaches.

“Use your magic!” Dulac demanded. She should have reduced her attacker to a grease spot.

She shook her head, struggling against her attacker’s grip.

“She can’t use her power,” the fae said, sounding almost apologetic. “I bear the faery queen’s amulet.”

Dulac caught sight of a star-shaped medallion at the fae’s throat. The last time he’d seen it, Morgan LaFaye herself had worn it, the ruby gem brilliant against her creamy white throat. LaFaye never bothered with mere trinkets, so no doubt the gem had magical properties.

“Leave us, boy,” said the fae. “I am on the queen’s work.”

He gathered up a fistful of Nimueh’s dyed black hair and used it to give her a cruel shake. She gave a moan of pain. The sound was too much. Dulac sprang forward, every instinct honed to protect.

“Don’t be a fool!” Nimueh cried, her voice half-strangled.

The fae raised a hand, releasing a thread of magic. Light twisted through the air, gone in a blink, but it hit Dulac squarely in the chest. A white-hot sunburst of pain dropped him to one knee. Every nerve blazed with electricity, numb and raging by turns. Dulac tried to stand, but nothing would obey. Still, he got his feet under him, forcing his muscles to push through agony.

The creature’s lips drew back. It was impossible to say what the expression meant—it wasn’t laughter or fear or even contempt at Dulac’s struggle. Nevertheless, he let go of Nimueh. She shot forward, diving under her attacker’s arm.

“Go!” Dulac ordered. “Get out of here.”

But the fae was too quick, grabbing Nimueh’s ankle to trip her. As she stumbled, the fae grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her in a brutal grip. She lurched to her knees with a shriek of pain. The fae dug his other hand in her hair once more, wrenching her head back to expose her throat. “Make another move, and I will punish her. She’s already escaped me once, and I’m tired of hunting. I won’t let her go again.”

Dulac pulled himself to his hands and knees, every limb trembling with the shock of magic. He had a sudden memory of deep green silk bedding, Nimueh’s long white hair spread across it, across his chest. He wanted that moment back so badly it hurt worse than anything the fae could conjure.

“What shall I do with you, mortal?” asked the fae.

In another being, the words might have been sarcasm, but the fae made it a problem of logic. Dulac studied him as he dragged one knee forward, setting off a fresh burst of pain along his limbs. If he could just get to his feet—the fae seemed to favor his right side, as if his hip had been hurt. That meant vulnerability. He could use it.

But the fae spotted his motion and flicked another spell his way. Dulac doubled over, too blinded by the hot fire in his core to even cry out—but his fingers clenched around the handle of the knife hidden beneath his coat.

Dulac lifted his head, ignoring the sweat drenching his body. Despite the sensation of claws tearing his flesh, he staggered to his feet. “You will leave her in peace.”

The fae’s expression hardened. “Don’t presume to order me, human. I am something new in your world.”

Dulac’s vision swam, but he stood firm. “Where I’m from, the fae are old news.” The words nearly choked him when an unbidden rush of memory constricted his chest. The first fae he’d met had been Nimueh. She had made everything new. “The Lady of the Lake is mine.”

“You, a mere human, know the lady’s true name?” A blink of those cat-green eyes—as close to surprise as the creature could likely get. “So who are you?”

Dulac ignored the question, watching the enemy’s every breath. It would be like their kind to toy with a mortal only to crush them when they tired of the game. Still, neither fae looked away from Dulac, as if he was the one factor that could tip the balance of fate.

“You must be one of Arthur’s knights,” the fae said slowly as he worked it out. “Are you the one called Lancelot? I heard the king has his champion wolf again.”

Dulac frowned at the description. “And I heard your kind is skulking in the shadows. It seems our informants are correct.”

“Not quite,” returned the fae. “I do not skulk. Tramar Lightborn simply takes what he wants.”

Dulac had heard the name before. Before Merlin’s spell, Tramar had been a lord among the fae, famed for his wisdom and depth of learning. Was it possible this was the same man?

Tramar ran his fingers down Nimueh’s face. It was a purely clinical touch, accompanied by a whispered spell. Nimueh trembled with what looked like genuine terror. A high, thin, keening sound escaped her lips along with a wisp of pale blue smoke. She began to shudder, the muscles in her neck corded with pain, the noise she made escalating to an agonized scream.

The sound tore through Dulac, but Tramar was deaf to it. His eyelids flickered, an ecstatic expression suffusing his features. When his gaze returned to Dulac’s, there was mockery in them that had been lacking just moments ago. Real, savage emotion.

The emotion Nimueh should not have had to give.

“I didn’t think she had any soul left to take,” Tramar said with a slow smile.

Nimueh sagged in his grip, suddenly limp.

The sick feeling in Dulac’s gut snowballed to rage. He jerked forward a step, the bone-crushing pain suddenly irrelevant—but it was still like forcing his way through solid brick. That single move had taken him within yards of the fae, but it wasn’t enough. Dulac snarled, his voice dropping deep into his chest. “Step away.”

“Oh, come, it’s barely a sip and the queen will destroy her. Why waste it?”

That was too much. Dulac was human, with no magic, but he was Camelot’s knight. With an act of will, Dulac shut down the pain in his body and sprang into the air. The fae’s eyes widened in affront, but he was too surprised to respond in time. Dulac hauled him away from Nimueh, wrenching him off balance.

Nimueh fell to the ground, but the impact seemed to wake her. With no wasted movement, she covered her head with her arms and rolled away from the fight. Dulac wanted to check on her, but Tramar was on him again, forgetting his magic to deliver a cracking punch.

With a swipe of his foot, Dulac knocked Tramar to the dirt and gravel, planting a knee on his chest to keep him still. The attack was quick and brutal, leaving the fae no time to resist. Dulac’s knife sliced through the chain of the amulet and kissed the soft flesh beneath Tramar’s chin.

The amulet fell with a clatter and skidded into the shadows. Dulac paused for the barest sliver of a second. As far as he knew, fae did not age. There was no telling what wonders Tramar had seen in his long life, what knowledge would be lost with his death. But he’d learned in a few short weeks how badly Merlin’s spell had destroyed the fae, and Tramar had tried to consume what was left of Nimueh’s soul. That had earned him his death.

Tramar’s eyes held Dulac’s. There was understanding in those cat-green depths, and the fae gave the slightest of nods. Dulac saw bravery, but also relief. Perhaps the worst tragedy of the fae was that under the influence of a stolen soul, they knew just how far they’d fallen.

Dulac slashed the blade, quick and sure. The skin of Tramar’s throat parted with a flare of red. Hot blood sheeted from the wound, slick against Dulac’s fingers. The fae gasped once, and it was over.

The fae’s body fell. Dulac remained where he was, breathing hard.

“Stand back.” Nimueh’s voice came from behind him.

He looked up to see her standing barefoot, her limbs smudged with dirt. Her eyes seemed too huge for her face, her cheekbones sharp against the frame of her coal-black hair. The buttons had torn from the tight skirt of her dress, giving him a flash of slender, olive-skinned thigh.

Though she shook with the aftershock of the fight, in every other way Nimueh seemed calm. She raised a hand, fingers spread, muttering words beneath her breath. The breathless summer night grew thick and close, almost as if an invisible fist were crushing them. Her hair fluttered around her face in a breeze that he couldn’t feel. A faint blue glow gathered around her, sparking and twisting as if it were alive.

Dulac felt a faint pop in the air. A sudden wave of heat made him spring aside. Moments later, Tramar’s body burst into white-hot flame, releasing an acrid cloud of smoke. They both stared at the fae’s body for the few moments it took for it to turn to a smear of ash. He could hear her panting as if she’d run a race. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied.

He spun to face her and grabbed her shoulders so he could look her over, but he never made it past her face. Tears tracked down her cheeks. “You’re in pain.”

“It hurt,” she said, her voice husky. “Losing my soul was agony the first time, like someone ripping my bones through my flesh. This time it was even worse. I knew what it would be like.”

He pulled her close, needing to hold her even though she would surely push away. To his surprise, she simply rested her head against his chest, her faint exhalation almost a sigh.

They’d stood together this way once before, the morning he’d left her. She’d curled against him just like now, her hair the color of the palest dawn light and her eyes wet with a grief she’d refused to admit. Go. Her voice had been soft. I cannot keep you to myself anymore.

He’d never returned. Shame burned him like white-hot fire.

As if Nimueh shared that memory, she drew away, putting space between them. She shook herself slightly as if recovering from a temporary lapse. “I’m fine,” she said coolly. “Thank you for your assistance.”

The formal words checked him before he could gather her back into his arms. He bit back sudden anger. “Why was Lightborn following you?”

“The queen sent him to kill me.” She met his eyes, her own defiant. “He’s tried before. LaFaye blames me for her son’s death. In truth, it was only partially my doing, but that does not matter.”

He’d heard the story from Gawain, but it wasn’t what he wanted to discuss now. “You’re not safe. Eventually she’ll send another assassin.”

“I know.”

“Nimueh,” he said, the word turning to a plea.

A moment passed, the night falling into a hush so complete all he heard was his own heartbeat. He could sense the pull of Nimueh’s presence, as if her blood and bones called to his. Perhaps it was mutual because, unexpectedly, she reached out her hand and clasped his. Her cool fingers were so slight they barely covered half his palm. He froze, certain that the smallest movement on his part would collapse the bridge she’d permitted between them. It was the first time since they’d met tonight that she’d reached out.

Dulac took a breath, but let it escape without speaking. Once, words had flown between them with barely a pause as if there wasn’t enough time in all eternity to share everything they’d wanted to say. Now he wasn’t sure what to say beyond the obvious: assassin, kill, danger. A barking dog could have imparted the same thing. He squeezed her hand gently, trying to give comfort.

She allowed the pressure, though she didn’t return it. Then her fingers slid away and she took three quick steps, scooping up something from the ground. When it flashed in the errant light, he saw it was the amulet. She slid it into a pocket, then paused to regard him, her expression matter-of-fact. “Don’t tell anyone this happened. Don’t even mention you saw me.”

It was then he saw the dark stain on the side of her dress. He hadn’t seen blood on Lightborn’s knife, but somehow she’d been cut. Adrenaline jolted him one more time and he lunged forward, but she was too quick, sidestepping him with fae grace.

“You are wounded.” The words came out angry, but Dulac was past caring about manners. “You need a healer.”

“Let me go. You’ve done enough.” The words were quiet, her face utterly composed. “The only thing more you can do is keep silent, even to Arthur. A careless word will only help the next killer who comes looking for me.”

He knew that already, and knew these days Arthur would be merciless when it came to any fae, even her. An overwhelming need to keep her safe sped his already pounding heart, but frustration made him savage. “Then tell me where you are at all times!”

Her brows raised. “Pardon me?”

“Don’t be a fool. I can’t protect you if I don’t know where you are.”

Her eyes closed as if gathering herself. “Goodbye, Lancelot.”

There was a movement in the dark. By the time he realized she was leaving, he was alone.

That was all it took for Dulac’s control over his pain to slip. The adrenaline left his body in a rush. Immediately, he collapsed, retching as the residue of Tramar’s spell blew past his control. All the agony he’d pushed aside by sheer will flooded back with interest.

His body retaliated, lashing out through every nerve. Dulac rolled to his side, gasping and cursing under his breath. This punishment was the price of his gift—if that’s what a person called his bloodthirsty urge to fight.

How long he sprawled there, he didn’t know, but eventually Tramar’s punishing spells dwindled without the fae’s magic to fuel them. Only then did the pain fade.

Clammy with sweat, Dulac’s skin grew cold, his shirt clinging to his back and chest. He raised himself on an elbow, shaking his head to clear it.

A jumble of ideas crowded in on him, but two stood out above all the rest. Nimueh still had a piece of her soul and Morgan LaFaye wanted her dead. He took a deep, shaking breath.

There was a reason he’d come through time. Nimueh needed him.

Chapter 5

Nim ran and ran and ran, her single thought, to put distance between herself and the scene of Tramar’s death. The agony of having her soul ripped apart returned in a flood of nausea. She retched into the gutter, the wine she’d drunk coming back in a hot, acidic flood. But as soon as she could stand, she sped into the darkness again. If she’d had any doubts about leaving Carlyle, they’d vanished. Death she could face. She couldn’t risk another attack like that one.

Miles passed before Nim slowed her steps. She wasn’t sure where to go. She’d had to park some distance from the reception and had been on her way back to her car when Tramar had chased her. Now the car was miles in the opposite direction. Her shop and apartment were too far away to walk, and she’d lost her shoes. She didn’t trust cabs or the bus—she couldn’t bear to be enclosed with no way to run. If there were more assassins with more amulets, using her magic might well be a death sentence.

At that last thought, she came to a complete stop, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. The night had finally cooled, but her skin was slick with sweat from running. Making a slow circle, she looked around, considering her options. The street was deathly silent, empty but for the flickering aura of a slowly dying streetlight.

Her thoughts scattered, refusing to order themselves. Only one remained front and center. I nearly died tonight. Her hand went to her side, where a sharp pain clawed her. Her fingers came away warm and wet. She stared at the blood, briefly stupefied. She couldn’t remember when the injury had happened. Maybe in those last moments, when her would-be killer had wrestled her to the ground. Tramar.

She hadn’t known Tramar Lightborn had been the assassin following her for the last weeks, but when she’d finally seen his face, it had all fallen into place—his voice, his movements, even his scent. They’d played together as children, dunking each other in the icy streams of the Hollow Hills and chasing the goats that played among the gently rolling hills. Not that such bonds meant anything among the fae these days. He’d just tried to steal whatever traces of soul she had left before he killed her, and she’d just annihilated his remains. No thoughts of burial or mourning had crossed her mind, just a need to keep the human police ignorant and herself free from an accusation of murder. And Lancelot, who’d actually done the killing. She owed him that much protection for saving her life.

Nim searched her heart, looking for grief but finding only stunned silence. Her childhood friend deserved more, but she had nothing to give. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Pain scrambled her thoughts. There was no way to know how deep the wound was, but it was bleeding freely. Healing magic wasn’t her strength, and using it might beckon to a second assassin. Holding her side, Nim began to walk aimlessly, not knowing where she was going but aware it was stupid to remain in this seedy part of town. Her bare feet hurt, already scraped raw by the hard pavement.

Nim turned a corner, instinct guiding her toward the light of a busier street. She made out the sign of a liquor store, a late-night pharmacy and a diner. Like a moth, she craved the comfort the brightness promised. She clutched her side, the pain of her wound mixing with exhaustion. It felt as if she’d cried until her ribs ached even though she hadn’t shed a tear.

A memory came uninvited: Lancelot, sitting on the dapple gray mount she’d given him, his face set in obstinate lines. He was lingering with her before a ride. He always did, except this time it was only for the moment it took to say goodbye. It was too short a time for everything she wanted to say.

So very brief for the end of everything they’d known together.

“I cannot remain with you,” Lancelot had said to her, looking down from the tall steed. The sun had turned his hair to burnished gold, giving him the look of a warrior angel. “Camelot awaits. I can make a name there. I can become somebody.”

As if he was nothing when he was with her. As if all their love was a mere ripple upon water. They had embraced and she had let him go, playing the generous lover. She’d refused to cry, at least until he was out of sight. Then she’d stood in that forest path, barefoot among the autumn leaves, and wept until she could no longer stand.

The image hit Nim like an electric shock. She reached out to brace herself against the side of a building, every nerve ending on fire. Even in her broken state, the pull of the past was intoxicating. She couldn’t give in to it, and the fact that some corner of her wanted to made it all the more imperative that she leave. Lancelot would die to defend her, and that would destroy whatever was left of the woman she’d been.

Tonight’s events meant she had to go now. She’d finally made contact with the individual who could make her disappear. Not just mundane practical aid, but the magical kind. There were only two people she knew with as much or more magic than she already had. One was LaFaye, and the other was Merlin Ambrosius, once enchanter to Camelot’s king. Nim was one of very, very few people who knew Merlin still lived.

All at once, Nim realized what street she was on and where her feet had been taking her. Perhaps part of her had known where she was going since the moment she’d begun to run. Her contact wasn’t expecting her until tomorrow, but he’d just have to deal with an early appointment.

An old-fashioned neon sign in the shape of a coffee cup blinked across the street. It marked the place where she hoped to find safety. Her fingers slipped into her pocket, fingering Tramar’s amulet. At least she had a bargaining chip.

* * *

Nim pushed through the glass door of the all-night diner, an electronic chime announcing her presence. The place smelled the way it looked—tinged with decay and antiseptic at the same time, as if it couldn’t quite decide whether to rot. There was only one patron at this hour, but that was on purpose. Merlin kept his office hours in the dead of night.

The waitress behind the counter looked up but didn’t comment as Nim walked directly to the booth in the back. Nor did she so much as blink at the fact that Nim was barefoot and her dress soaked in blood. That said a lot about the clientele.

When Nim reached the darkest corner, she slid into the vinyl booth, her skirt catching on the duct tape that repaired the cushion. A dark-haired man already sat across the table, his chin resting in his hand. He had a lean build, but the play of muscles in his forearms spoke of a hidden strength. He looked no more than thirty, but Nim knew they were about the same age. Nim had been born a fae, but she had no idea how Merlin had achieved immortality and wasn’t about to ask.

“You could at least look surprised.” She grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser and pressed them to her wound. “Our appointment was for tomorrow.”

He watched her wipe the blood from her hands. “And the other guy?”

“Lancelot killed him.”

“So your path finally crossed with Dulac’s, eh? That boy always had a way of complicating your day.” Merlin leaned back and gave her an appraising look. “Love the battlefield chic.”

“I need help.”

“Ya think?”

“I need your kind of help.”

The sorcerer narrowed his eyes, a challenging glint in their golden depths. “I don’t help anymore. These days I’m a hired gun. Or wand, if you prefer to be literal about it.”

Nim stared at the sorcerer, glad for once she felt nothing. She had every reason to hate Merlin—his bad judgment had destroyed the fae and Camelot both. Only her cold heart gave her distance enough to realize he wasn’t actually evil. He’d been desperate, and she recognized a crumb of what might have once been pity inside herself. Otherwise, she would have burned him to ash before she’d even sat down. That would have been unwise, given how badly she needed his help. “Then I will pay you for your time.”

With a grimace, he waved his fingers and she felt a pulse of heat in her side. The pain eased and the blood stopped flowing.

“Thank you,” she said, crushing the wad of bloody napkins in her hand.

“That was for old time’s sake. The rest is on the meter.” He picked up his cup, smelled it, then set it down again. “My clientele doesn’t respect freebies.”

“You must have interesting clients.”

“I like them interesting. There’s no point working for lightweights where all anyone wants is a unicorn that poops rainbows.”

They paused while the waitress filled their coffee cups and left menus. “I wouldn’t recommend the chili,” said Merlin once they were alone again. “Last time it tried to grab my spoon.”

The dimpled half smile would have been charming on anyone else. On Merlin, it was vaguely sinister. She wondered for a moment if she’d made a mistake coming here. Merlin was arrogant, bitter, and a schemer. These days, his customers came from a black magic underworld she could barely imagine. And yet, who else could she turn to who could actually help her?

“I’m looking to disappear. I need to be completely untraceable.”

He tilted his head, looking very much like a curious crow. “Any particular reason?”

“LaFaye sent one of her personal assassins after me. Tonight he nearly succeeded. The next one probably won’t miss.”

He made a sympathetic noise. “The queen is nothing if not persistent. She enjoys her little games too much.”

“I don’t know how her assassin found me.” She folded her arms, instinctively protecting herself. “I’ve only been back in town since last night.”

Merlin finally tried a sip of his coffee, his mouth twisting in disgust. “You can leave Carlyle, run and hide on a desert island, but LaFaye’s creatures can still track you. Hunting is their specialty and every magic user gives off a unique power signature the way a rose sheds its scent.”

“Magic is traceable?” The night Lightborn had chased her to the warehouse, he’d mentioned tracking her. Then she remembered burning Tramar’s body and silently cursed. Any magical bloodhounds in the area would surely scent that.

“It’s the simplest way for the queen to find you,” Merlin agreed.

“But that’s not possible. I’ve not been using spells,” she protested. “Not before tonight. Since I left LaFaye’s service, I’ve been living the life of a human. No magic for months. Not much, anyway. Just a bit.”

“Just a bit. To be sure.” Merlin’s smile grew rueful. “Out in the modern world, we’re like chain-smokers down to the occasional cigarette in the bar. That doesn’t mean we’re not lighting up.”

Unfortunately, it made sense. Nim lifted her chin. “I can quit completely.” She sounded confident, but the idea seemed bizarre. Magic was part of who she was, as integral as the color of her eyes—and yet she’d done what she could to disguise that, too.

Merlin shook his head. “You’ve got too much power to stay off the radar. You shed it whether you’re casting spells or not. Self-control won’t be your salvation.”

Something very much like panic bloomed in her chest. She could feel Tramar’s grip on her again, sucking away everything inside her. “There’s got to be a way.”

“I can help you bind your power. Then you can leave town and live your life as a human for real. That’s the only true way to disappear.”

Nim fell silent. The enormity of what Merlin suggested loomed like a forbidding mountain, poised to crush her. “I don’t know.”

“You can keep going on as you are,” Merlin said reasonably. “The one advantage you have is assassins prefer to kill in private. Your business is probably safe because there are always staff and customers. Your condo—up to a point. Your real vulnerability is when you walk alone. LaFaye’s bullyboys hunt like big cats, waiting for the ideal place to ambush their prey.”

Nim buried her face in her hands, her battered body throbbing. Merlin waved away the waitress when she approached to take their food order. When Nim didn’t say more, he leaned forward. “Safety is frequently overrated.”

“I thought you could give me a different choice. A spell so LaFaye would look elsewhere or maybe a better disguise.”

“Those spells mask your trail, but they don’t eliminate it. Sooner or later they fail.”

That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Nim picked at her hands, revolted by the blood still caked around her nails. “The fae can still feel fear,” she said in a small voice.

He leaned forward, his expression uncharacteristically gentle. “I know. I’ve been told some fae still have pieces of their soul, as if shreds were left behind.”

“Tonight he tried to steal what little I still have.” She bit her lip, panic hot inside her.

“My poor lady.”

She wasn’t anyone’s poor anything. She refused to be. She swallowed hard. “Can I unbind my magic if I choose?”

One corner of his mouth curled up. “Absolutely.”

“Are you sure? I could unleash it if things got bad?”

“Of course.”

She met his eyes. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Merlin’s smile faded. “Before we go a step further, answer me two questions. In the past, you’ve been Camelot’s friend. Are you sure you want to leave Carlyle?”

“I’ve done what I can for Arthur. I helped Gawain destroy Mordred, didn’t I? I made Excalibur, the only weapon that will kill LaFaye.” Nim swallowed hard. “Morgan laughed to have the maker of her nemesis at her beck and call!”

“And?”

“I found Lancelot for Arthur. That’s three things, a magical number by the rules of lore and magic. More than any loyalty demands. I’m done. Now that I’m in the crosshairs, the only thing I am is a magnet for danger.”

Merlin folded his hands, his expression troubled. “I have one other question. Are you really so ready to surrender everything you are? Binding my magic would be my very last choice. I might live in squalor as a mercenary to the worst bottom-feeders of the magical realms, but I will not live a lie.”

“That’s your choice.” Nim could feel Tramar sucking out her soul, the nova of pure agony stopping her heart. “I need to run.”

Merlin nodded slowly. “If this is what you wish, I will do it. You can trust me.”

“I trust you to earn your pay,” she said sharply, weary of his attempts to counsel her. She took the amulet from her pocket and slid it across the table. “I’m sure you recognize this.”

Merlin’s eyes flared, the amber depths suddenly bright. “LaFaye’s jewel.” His fingers closed around the amulet. The chain clinked across the tabletop. “Are you sure you wish to part with this?”

“I’m trying to vanish. I don’t think the queen’s toys will help me become inconspicuous.”

“Of course.” He pocketed the amulet. “Do you want time to think this over, or to take care of loose ends?”

“I’ve been planning this for weeks. I don’t need time.”

Merlin rose, leaving money for the coffees next to his half-empty cup. “Then follow me.”

He turned, not toward the door, but to the back wall of the diner. There was a framed poster of Elvis hanging against faded red wallpaper, but no exit Nim could see. Nevertheless, the sorcerer made an elaborate gesture in the air, and then stepped forward—and vanished as neatly as if he’d been sliced out of the world.

A faint internal tug reminded Nim of regret. There had been a time when magic was her calling, the one thing that defined her. And maybe once she would have fought for love, but that was beyond her now. These were just more losses in an endless string of goodbyes.

Nim followed Merlin into his lair.

Chapter 6

The next afternoon found Nim at her bookstore. Mandala Books rambled through an old house, piles of new and used volumes overflowing shelves and stacking the stairways like a literary avalanche. The place was bright and clean, but it was crowded. The store was filled with browsing customers and the scent of new ink as the staff unpacked a shipment of paperbacks.

Nim stood behind the front desk, her mind curiously blank after the barrage of unexpected events the night before. Last night’s attack had been painful enough, but Merlin’s spell had hit her like a cudgel. A pounding headache made her queasy, enough that all she wanted was to lie down and whimper. But there was no time to be ill—she was putting her escape plan in motion that very day.

The paperwork was in place so that Mandala Books would transfer to Antonia’s oversight the instant Nim gave the word. In the little while she’d owned it, Nim had revived the business and wouldn’t abandon it without a new caretaker. Jobs depended on the store, as did the many, many loyal customers.

She closed her eyes, her headache pounding as her thoughts scattered like loose marbles. Merlin and Tramar had played their roles in reducing her to a state of confusion, but she really blamed Lancelot. She raised a hand to her lips, fingertips brushing where the knight’s mouth had touched hers. His breath had been hot, his kiss hungry and urgent. By all the stars, what had he hoped to gain with that kiss? Did he believe himself so fine a man that his caress could restore her soul after centuries of loss?

Arrogant fool. She pursed her lips, hiding the movement behind her fingers as she relived the moment. Then she dropped her hand, astonished by her sudden lapse into daydreams. She was overwrought, addled by trauma and Merlin’s magic. She checked for witnesses but thankfully no one was looking her way.

The service desk sat opposite the wall painted with a huge, colorful image that gave the store its name. From there she had a view through the bay window that overlooked the sunny street. At that moment she saw Lancelot walk up the steps, wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans that hugged the muscles in his long, strong legs.

“No, no, no,” she muttered under her breath as he sauntered in. How on earth had he found her store?

“Looking for something to read?” she asked in a bland tone.

“Are you a bestseller?” He leaned on the shelf beside her desk, seeming to take every inch of space around the desk. His T-shirt strained with the movement, showing off the thick muscles of his chest.

“What is that supposed to mean?” She performed a quick visual survey, determining that he was unhurt from the night before. Of course, Lancelot had always been the kind to hide his injuries out of an impractical manly pride. Once, it had driven her into a frenzy.

“You’re the only subject I’m interested in at the moment,” he said, drawing her gaze from his chest to his face. “Not my best opening line, but it’s the truth. We need to talk.”

He was so close, she had to crane her neck to look up at him. “Again? I thought you’d said your piece last night.”

“Yes, again,” he said, bending down to speak softly. “And it’s about what happened last night.”

“Why? As you can see, I’m fine.”

He was looking at her the way she’d looked at him, checking for bruises—except his eyes heated as they traveled over her form. The corners of his mouth flattened in an expression she couldn’t interpret. “We need to decide where we’re going from here.”

“I’ve moved on.” She straightened the items on the desk, suddenly in need of order. “I can’t go back to the Dark Ages.”

His dark eyes flashed. “I’m not asking you to.”

“Oh?”

“We can do better than that.” He reached out, brushed the back of his rough fingers to her cheek. The contact was electric, sending chills all the way to her toes with a mere graze of skin on skin. That should have been impossible, given what she was.

Needing to take charge of the situation, Nim stepped out from behind the desk. “Let’s have this conversation in private.” She signaled to the staff member stocking books to cover the till.

Lancelot took a step back in response to her crisp tone, but followed her when she led the way up the stairs to a small office. She closed the door and turned to face him. “You saved my life last night. I salute your prowess,” she said, deciding to be blunt. “I think that covers everything that needs saying beyond goodbye.”

He looked uncertain a moment, but then seemed to recover. “I’d rather begin our recap with the fact that you kissed me.”

Her breath caught, but she hid the reaction. “I think that was the other way around. You dragged me into the dark like an apprentice lad at his first May Day Fair.”

“Perhaps, but you kissed me back.”

It was a gentle tease and if she was utterly, mercilessly honest, she had to admit there had been a flash of feeling during that kiss. There and gone, it had passed as swiftly as the sun dancing off a blade—but it had happened. A strange, hollow feeling grew inside her, leaving her with the sense that she might fall into some inner abyss. “Don’t waste your time.”

His fingers skimmed over her shoulders, the touch beginning light and deepening to a caress. She spun away from him before he could see her shiver. She could feel his breath then, warm and strong on the back of her neck. Closing her eyes, she let that strength wash over her. She’d forgotten what comfort there had been in these moments where Lancelot had blotted out all the demands of the world. For a heartbeat, everything was simple, just the meeting of a man and his woman.

He turned her slowly so she faced him once more. When she felt his lips against her brow, she hissed in a breath.

“Hush,” he said, his kisses brushing her nose, then her eyelids.

Her eyes automatically flicked open, needing to see what he was going to do next. His hands caressed her shoulders again, his skin pale against her dark olive complexion. She’d always found the contrast arousing. Lancelot had been exotic, other—the only human she’d ever taken to her bed.

His warmth fanned across her lips, and instinct made them part. But Lancelot didn’t crush her with his kiss this time. Instead, he continued his featherlight touches, teasing her until she leaned in to capture more of his mouth. Then, and only then, did he unleash the passionate eagerness she’d once craved. Her mouth opened under his, responding to his hot tongue. Granted permission, he plundered her.

A skitter of fear reminded her of being face-to-face with Tramar, his mouth just above hers. But this was the opposite of what he’d done. Rather than ripping out her soul, Lancelot was trying to make her whole. For a moment, she let him, waiting for a spark to ignite in her. It had been so long, surely she would combust in an instant. And yet—a ghost of sadness claimed her.

“Take your time,” he said softly. “You’re only just remembering how to be with me.”

“Don’t be arrogant.” She pushed him away.

“I know the way your body bends into mine, the sound you make deep in your throat when you surrender.”

“I didn’t surrender. I don’t.” She stepped back to put distance between them.

“No, but you thought about it just now.” His gaze grew bolder.

When he reached for her hand, she grabbed his wrist and pushed him away. “You aren’t the first to get a reaction from me. It doesn’t mean I’m whole.”

His eyebrows rose. “Care to explain?”

“Prince Mordred enjoyed torture. For a moment, I remembered what it was to hate and now the Queen of Faery wants my head on a spike for betraying her son. So yes, I had an instant of caring. It will probably mean my death.”

Clearly troubled, he considered her for a long moment. “That’s why LaFaye sent Lightborn? Vengeance?”

“Yes.” Nim leaned against the desk, glad of the support of its heavy oak. The nausea that had plagued her earlier roared back with redoubled force. “I knew it was coming and planned to vanish. If I’d been quicker about it, you and I would never have met.”

The silence that followed pushed at her like a physical force. “You ran last night,” he finally said. “I could have helped you.”

“No,” she said again. “I didn’t stay the lonely fae woman you met at the edge of the lake. I don’t need you.” More to the point, she couldn’t depend on him. One day he’d leave again and the lack of a soul wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t survive it.

“Nimueh.” He reached for her, but she stepped back out of reach.

“Please go,” she said. “This discussion is pointless.”

A tiny claw seemed to catch at her voice, but not so much that the words sounded anything but cool reason. Confusion crossed Lancelot’s face, but it quickly froze into a mask she knew too well. She’d finally managed to push him away.

“Do you not trust me?” he asked, his voice gone hard.

“You would never betray me. It’s not in your nature,” she said, and then remembered Guinevere. There had been plenty of rumors about Lancelot and the queen. “I mean, you wouldn’t turn me over to LaFaye.”

The lines around his mouth deepened as if he’d read her thoughts. With a muttered curse, he turned and stalked to the door. Nim sagged against the bookcase, watching his broad, strong back. Unfamiliar tension crawled through her chest until she could not breathe. Lancelot had always pushed her to impossible places, good and bad.

He’d just reached for the handle when the door swung open from the other side.

* * *

In a temper, Dulac barely jerked to a stop before he mowed the newcomer down. The bride from the wedding stood in the doorway, wearing an expression no newlywed woman should ever wear. With a muttered apology, Dulac stepped aside. It spoiled his grand exit, but something had happened and intuition told him he needed to know what that was.

The bride glanced up at Lancelot, her blue eyes growing large before her gaze shifted to Nimueh. “I need to talk to you.”

“Antonia,” Nim said, a faint edge of surprise in her voice. “You should be leaving on your honeymoon.”

“I can’t.” The words were grim.

Dulac watched Nimueh’s reaction, struggling to be objective about what he saw. As with the other fae, her expression was oddly flat. The flow of normal emotion created thousands of barely seen muscle movements—ones that he’d only noticed now that they were missing. And yet, as she gave a slow nod to the bride, urging her to continue, he was certain Nim cared. He hadn’t lied about feeling the heat in her kiss.

“I can’t leave.” The bride—Antonia, he reminded himself—paced the small workroom, her arms hugging her chest. “My cousin Susan didn’t come home last night.”

“I spoke to her,” Nimueh replied. “She was the redhead with the violin.”

Dulac searched his memory, but found nothing. He’d only had eyes for Nimueh.

“Are you sure she’s not staying with a friend?” Nimueh asked.

“Susan’s not like that.” Antonia shoved a hand through her riot of fiery curls. “Not that she’s a saint, but she’s not stupid. She would have left a message if she went home with someone. The police told us it’s too soon to say she’s missing.”

Nimueh cast a glance at Dulac. He could tell she was making up her mind what to do. She’d always been elusive, a scholar more likely to retreat than engage in life’s battles, but people had always turned to her for thoughtful advice. Evidently, that at least hadn’t changed.

“What do you need me to do?” he asked. Whatever she said, he was still hers to command.

When Nim frowned but didn’t answer, he turned to Antonia. “Do you have any idea where Susan might be?”

“I talked to her friends already. After the wedding reception, the diehards went to the White Hart.”

“The bar downtown?” Nim asked.

Dulac frowned, remembering what Gawain had said. There had been problems there before.

“Susan’s bandmates saw her in the parking lot around two o’clock,” Antonia continued. “One moment she was there and the next she was gone. Her car is still there. She’d left her violin on the hood. That’s how we know something’s wrong. She’d never leave her instrument sitting out where it might be stolen. It’s her baby and the most expensive thing she owns.”

Dulac drew closer, folding his arms. He was next to Nimueh now, their shoulders nearly touching. “Go on.”

“Right before that she was talking to a pair of strange-looking young men.”

“What do you mean by strange?” Nimueh asked.

“Tall, with their hair bleached white.”

He exchanged a glance with Nimueh. Fae. He did a quick calculation. Tramar would have been dead by that time. This was a different pair and from the sound of it, they were hunting. A young, pretty human female would be a choice target—sport and a soul to drink in one convenient package.

Nimueh’s fist clenched in the fabric of Dulac’s sleeve. “Please give us a moment,” she said to Antonia in a voice that brooked no argument. “Wait for us downstairs.”

Confusion settled over Antonia’s features, but she left, closing the door behind her. Nimueh turned to Dulac. “You were leaving.”

“I was.”

She pressed her hands to her temples, as if her head was aching. “You should have left this room before Antonia came to me just now. I should have left Carlyle before you found me here. I desire nothing more than to disappear from sight, and yet at every turn I find you back at my side.”

He folded his arms. “The forces of lore and magic seem to want us together.”

She gave him a dry look. “Either that or you simply will not go away.”

“Admit that you need my sword. I’m a knight and there is a job to do.”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes. “I need your help. These hunters hurt my people.”

The words might have confused someone from the twenty-first century, but Dulac understood. The Lady of the Lake protected those who served her, no matter what century it was. Anyone who touched her staff or their families was asking for swift retribution. Beneath the disguise she wore—so plain, so banal, so human—he could see the shining creature she’d been, the sorceress and lady of a white stone castle deep in the Forest Sauvage.

Time meant nothing in that moment, and he was again the penniless young knight who had adventured from France into the wilds of the Western Isles. He’d been nothing—desperate to make his name and restore the honor of his family. His armor had been so dented and mismatched he’d been called “the ill-made knight.”

One day, he’d gone deep into the Forest Sauvage and there he’d found a lake as still as glass and crowned with mist. He had stood on the shore, his old horse cropping the long, lush grass, when a silver boat had come soundlessly across the water, barely a ripple creasing its surface. And then he had beheld the Lady of the Lake, sitting in the prow and wrapped in a cloak of gray, her long white hair unbound and flowing like a second cape. All Lancelot’s cares had melted away beneath a wave of dumbstruck awe. He’d never seen a fae before. After Nimueh, he would have sworn he’d never seen a female. She’d eclipsed every woman before and since.

And here she was again, at her best in defense of someone she cared for. The trials she’d suffered hadn’t changed this one essential thing. This was the lady he knew.

“A human won’t survive the loss of her soul. The pain alone—” Nimueh broke off, leaving Dulac to imagine what she might have suffered the night before. “The pain alone will rob her of reason. Fae sometimes keep their victims alive for days, drinking them a sip at a time so they can savor the rush of sensation. Death will only be the last torment this young woman suffers.”

She stood with her fists clenched as if holding something back with sheer will. Dulac would have called it grief or fury, but she would deny emotion and he didn’t know what to believe. He would reach her far more easily with a practical solution. “Where is the White Hart?”

“Across town. It’s near an abandoned house the neighbors say is haunted. I would say it’s haunted by rogue fae and we should start looking there.”

“Wouldn’t that be the first place Susan’s friends would go? It’s an obvious hiding place.”

Her face was set and pale. “All the more reason to get there first. We will survive an encounter with hunters. Ordinary humans will not.”

The “we” wasn’t lost on him, but he kept his expression cool. She’d given him an opening and he wouldn’t ruin it by spooking her now. He pulled out his smartphone—as marvelous a device as anything Merlin had ever dreamed up.

“What are you doing?” Nimueh asked, almost with suspicion.

Lancelot tapped his contact list. “I have a few friends who jump at any chance to rescue fair maidens. They would never forgive me if I kept this all to myself.”

Chapter 7

The Price House, also known as the most haunted house in Carlyle, looked precisely the way Nim would have expected. It dated from gold rush days and had three stories fronted by an impressive porch. Time had left it sagging, with much of the ornamental scrollwork rotted away. Even in broad daylight, the place looked forbidding.

She parked her Audi S3 sedan down the block. Lancelot sat in the passenger seat, his long legs looking cramped despite the roomy interior of the sedan. She studied his handsome profile for a long moment, wondering at his ability to overset every plan she made. If he’d shown up at the bookstore an hour later, she might well have been on her way to the airport. Instead, here she was miles from where she had intended to be and sitting outside a supposedly haunted house containing an unknown number of murderous fae.

“What now?” she asked.

He held up his smartphone, reading what looked like an entry from an online encyclopedia. “It says here the original owners were great collectors and after their death the house was turned into a museum. Then it went bankrupt and was sold to a land developer who in turn lost all his money in the economic downturn of the 1980s.”

“I’m not sure how that helps us.”

“Neither do I, and yet there is something bewitching about the amount of useless information these little devices can provide.” He tucked the phone away, his movements as graceful and precise as a hunting cat’s. The closer Lancelot came to a battle, the more he took on the predatory aura of a lion. She knew without asking that he anticipated a fight.

“I’m going to look around,” he said, getting out of the car. “My friends have to cross town. They won’t be here for a few minutes.”

Nim stayed where she was, the experience with Tramar chaining her to her seat. “Be careful.”

Lancelot circled the car and opened her door. “I know you want to keep out of sight of the other knights, but until they arrive you’re coming with me. I’m not leaving you alone on a deserted street.”

He was correct. Many of the knights knew her face, and she didn’t want gossip leading the queen her way. Furthermore, Nim didn’t want to leave the safety of the Audi, but she accepted his large, strong hand and got out of the car. As soon as she was standing beside him, she knew it was the right decision. He was a knight, and his physical presence was as good as a shield—but more than that, he radiated the will and confidence she couldn’t seem to find. Everything would be better with him by her side.

The house was on a large lot, but it was one of a row of vacant, crumbling places waiting for bulldozers. The opposite side of the street was nothing but empty fields, and the White Hart the nearest business beyond that. It was little wonder that the fae had chosen this place—there were no neighbors to speak of for several city blocks, and yet there was hunting enough in the crowded apartment complex a bare mile away. There was privacy and opportunity both.

As they drew near their target, Nim stretched her magical senses, probing for signs of life. It was only after a fruitless attempt that she remembered her magic was bound. Stars! A sense of helplessness sucked the breath out of her. She was safe from detection, but she had no more power than the victim she hoped to rescue. Sure, she could undo the binding, but then she’d be visible again and waste the value of LaFaye’s amulet. Nothing seemed to be a good solution.

She reached instead for the Smith & Wesson tucked at the small of her back, touching it for reassurance. Her other hand reached out, her knuckles brushing the folds of Lancelot’s coat for the same reason. He made her feel physically safe.

Lancelot was a consummate fighter, the best anyone had ever seen—even from the moment he arrived outside her castle in the Forest Sauvage. Mortals had sometimes wandered by her lake, and she’d given them a meal and a bed for the night. Lancelot had repaid her hospitality with a demonstration of his fighting skills. It was all he’d had to offer.

It was then she’d seen something special in the young knight with the bad armor. As a noble, it had been her prerogative to offer him a place in her household. She’d given him a fine horse and fine weapons, taught him languages and educated him in the ways of the court. By the time he’d left her, he’d been a paragon of chivalry.

They had not become lovers at once. Not, in fact, for some time. She was a creature of the mind, given to books and spells and slow to trust the needs of the flesh. But while she’d shown him the intricate world of the intellect, he’d guided her to the blazing fires of mortal passion. She had learned the difference between existence and life.

No, Nim corrected herself, Lancelot was far from safe, for she’d never been content with anyone else ever after.

He stopped, catching her hand. Nim’s thoughts returned to the here and now and the moldering mansion straight ahead. The broken windows looked down at them like squinting eyes.

“Won’t there be guards watching the street?” she asked, although as soon as she said it, she guessed the answer. These weren’t LaFaye’s personal assassins. These fae weren’t even professionals—these were trash. Soul addicts tended to hunt at night and sleep off their fevered madness during the day, oblivious to anything but the rush of stolen emotion.

“We’ll soon find out if there are sentries,” Lancelot replied lightly. “I see a single front entrance. I’d like to find out what’s in the back.”

With that, he glided down a crooked wire fence that ran between the derelict houses. Nim followed, careful not to lose her footing on the lumpy ground. There was a garden at the back that had been swallowed by a tangle of wild blackberries. Lancelot crouched in the long grass, pulling Nim down beside him so he could keep his voice low. “Two exits at the back. One looks like it leads into the cellar.”

A figure passed before a main-floor window. A tall, thin figure with white hair. She heard Lancelot suck in a breath. He’d seen it, too. They’d only guessed that Susan was held here, but they’d been right about the house being a haven for rogue fae. So far their predictions had held true.

Nim studied the place, trying to figure out the layout inside. There had to be fifteen rooms in a place of this size. They could imprison a human almost anywhere inside. Then movement drew her eye up to a second-floor window—the only one that still had curtains. The sash was up and the hot summer breeze was stirring the light panels, tossing them wide to show a glimpse of the derelict room beyond.

“In a house with barely a chip of paint left, why the curtains?” she asked. “Is there something special about that room, I wonder?”

“Do you believe they’re holding Susan there?”

“I don’t know. The second floor is more secure, but an open window is not. It’s worth investigating.”

He shook his head. “The house is full of dry rot. Climbing in or out of there would be risky.”

She turned to meet his deep brown eyes. “And waltzing through a house full of fae criminals is not? Look at the advantages. If we go in an open window, we don’t need to pick the lock.”

One corner of his mouth curled up. “I’m more likely to carry the day when I’m not falling from twenty feet up. Even the brickwork around this place looks like it would crumble under my weight.”

“I’m lighter. I could do it.”

He frowned, but in a considering way. He’d never underestimated her abilities. “I’m sure you could, but even if those fae aren’t like Lightborn, they’re dangerous.”

And I should be sitting in the airport by now. But this time, the thought had less power over her. Her fear had faded because she was there for a good reason and Lancelot was a solid, steadying presence beside her.

Nim was wishing for binoculars when she saw something move behind the lace curtains. It was impossible to see what it was, just a streak of moving color. Her acute senses had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with her fae blood, and binding her powers hadn’t dulled them. Still, they had limitations.

She strained to catch the movement again, afraid her mind was supplying images she wanted to see instead of what was truly there. Then a feminine voice splintered the afternoon heat—a muffled cry of protest, barely audible even to fae ears.

Nim wheeled to Lancelot. “I’m going in.”

He grabbed her arm. “Wait. The other knights will be here any minute. There’s no need to risk yourself.”

“You have no idea what losing your soul is like,” she said, her voice a bare whisper. Tension thundered in her ears, but the image of the girl in the yellow dress blazed through her anxiety. “She’s just a young human. A minute is far too long.”

Nim pulled away from him and ran to the side of the house, keeping low. She reached the foot of the wall, looking up to see the curtain billow out against a cerulean sky. To her left was a drainpipe, but it was covered in rust. To her right was the chimney, the mortar crumbling from between the bricks. She dug her fingers into the chimney and began to climb, the soft soles of her sneakers gripping the bricks with ease.

She moved in near silence, her agility and strength greater than a human’s even without her powers. It didn’t take long to scale the first dozen feet. A quick glance over her shoulder told her Lancelot was guarding her ascent, his long knife in one hand and a gun in the other. The sight of him made her climb faster, eager to finish the job and get them all out of danger. She’d reached the sill when she heard the slam of a door and a sudden movement on the grass below. The urge to look down was like a blade against her spine, but she dared not waste the time. If someone saw her clinging to the bricks, they would shoot.

She drew level with the window and reached out for the sill. A stick propped up the sash, so she was careful not to disturb it as she steadied herself to look inside. However, when she put weight on her outstretched arm, her hand came away with a fistful of dust and splinters. The frame was crumbling with age and neglect. Lancelot had been right about the risk of climbing.

She scaled another few feet and this time hooked a foot through the window, using an awkward lunge to crawl through the opening. She knocked the prop holding up the sash and the frame dropped on her shoulders with a vicious thump. With the wind knocked from her lungs, Nim slithered onto the grimy floor.

The room was empty of fae, but neither were there prisoners conveniently awaiting rescue. She cursed softly, but was distracted by sounds of fighting rising from the yard outside. As she jumped to her feet, she glanced outside to see men running, some with swords, others with guns. When she recognized Gawain, she knew reinforcements had arrived. She pulled back from the window, keeping out of sight.

Now it was up to Nim to do her part. She took a second, slower look around, wrinkling her nose at the smell of ancient filth. There was no furniture except for an old mattress on the floor, a blanket rumpled at its foot. Nim stepped forward and pressed a hand to the mattress. The room was warm, but this was damp with sweat. Someone had been there, and recently. A pair of bright yellow shoes—the same shade as Susan’s dress—were carelessly tossed in a corner.

Nim started to rise from her crouch when she felt something beneath the blanket. She pulled back the cloth to see a chain of dull silver ending in a broad cuff. That answered why it had been safe to leave a window open.

Was this where the fae kept their humans until it was time to feed? Was the cry she had heard Susan, as the girl was unchained and taken away for another session of unthinkable torture?

The image that formed in Nim’s mind obliterated everything else. She drew her gun and glided toward the door, wincing when a floorboard creaked. She reached for the brass handle, turning it slowly. It was unlocked. She listened, leaning toward the crack as she opened it an inch. There were plenty of sounds, but they were all coming from outside. She let the door drift open, willing the hinges not to creak.

When she reached the corridor outside, it was empty but for stairs leading to the rooms above and below. Where had they taken Susan? It had to have been just minutes ago. Nim listened to the sounds around her. There was fighting downstairs, spilling in from the yard. Not the first place she’d take a prisoner. She glanced up, but the condition of the ceiling said there’d been considerable water damage on the third floor, perhaps from a leaking roof. She’d try her luck in the immediate area first.

Six doors faced onto the hardwood hallway, including the room Nim had just left. A few stood open and one was missing altogether. Most of the rooms were little more than stinking burrows, telling the tale of how far these fae had sunk in their addiction.

The fourth room she peered into was different. The window had been boarded up, but a single candle threw a pool of light over the space. Some attempt had been made to furnish it with a sagging sofa and a moth-eaten rug. Unfortunately, what it had acquired in fabric it had gained in the stink of mildew. Nim stifled a sneeze.

One of the shadows moved. A male fae rose, holding Susan to his chest. Nim couldn’t tell if he meant to protect her or use her as a shield, but when she looked into his eyes all became clear. His expression was filled with fury—and that was only possible if he’d drunk from her soul.

“Who the stars are you?” he rasped. He was shaking, a telltale sign of the damage addicts suffered. Next on the list was incurable madness.

Nim kept the gun to her side, unwilling to risk shooting Susan. The violinist looked barely conscious, as if she would collapse if her attacker released the arm he clutched around her waist. The fae himself looked barely able to stand, overcome by the emotions swirling inside him.

Nim kept her voice soft and calm, but she knew better than to beg him for Susan’s life. If the fae had still possessed a better nature, he wouldn’t be there in the first place. “I’m here to save you.”

“Oh?” he scoffed.

“From dishonor,” she said in the same even, implacable voice. “You blacken our people’s name.”

“Does it matter?” His lip curled. “They call this house haunted. What are we fae but ghosts?”

His barb struck home, echoing Nim’s darkest thoughts. But she took a step forward, knowing every inch closer to her target improved her aim. “Even so, remaining true to our best selves is the test of our worth.”

Fine words, considering the suitcases already packed and waiting at her condo. They were both running in their own ways, this man with his addiction and Nim with her plans to vanish. They were both running to meaningless ends. The thought made Nim falter, and the fae must have seen it in her step.

He thrust Susan forward. The girl stumbled forward, but Nim’s reflexes were too swift. She pushed Susan onto the sofa and stepped aside in the same moment. Susan fell hard into the dusty cushions, but now Nim had the opening she needed.

She took aim, but was a split second too late. The fae had a gun, too.

Chapter 8

They both fired, and though the fae’s hand shook, his aim was good enough. Hot pain scored Nim’s shoulder the same instant as she fired.

The fae stumbled backward, crashing into the furniture. He hung there, clinging to the jumble behind him for a long moment. Finally, he collapsed a bit at a time, first dropping the gun and then folding limb by limb until he sank to the filthy floor. Nim stumbled forward, picking up his weapon and thrusting it into her belt. There was a neat hole in his forehead, assuring her that he was dead. She refused to look at the mess on the wall where he’d been standing.

Only then did she look down at her own wound, feeling a wave of sticky heat rise to her skin. It was the second wound in two days, but thankfully it wasn’t deep. She bled, but the bullet had only scored her upper arm.

“What happened?” demanded Lancelot.

She spun to see him filling the doorway. Someone had brought him an ax, and he was covered in dirt and blood, his hair slicked back from his broad forehead. He’d lost his jacket, and his heavily muscled arms glistened with sweat. Tension slipped from Nim’s shoulders, making her wound throb afresh as her muscles released. There was no doubt that she could have got Susan out of the house on her own, but now that Lancelot was here everything would be so much easier.

“I found her.” She pointed to the couch.

His gaze was slow to shift from her bloody arm to Susan’s prone form.

“I’m fine,” Nim said. “She’s alive.”

“And he’s not.” Lancelot nodded to the body of the fae. “That was a clean shot.”

With some surprise, Nim felt a pang of regret. “Perhaps it was a mercy.” Yet those words tasted false, so she tried again. “It was a tragedy.”

Working quickly, Lancelot thrust the ax into a leather hanger strapped to his belt and carefully rolled Susan over. As Nim had suspected, she was gagged with a strip of cloth. Nim loosened the knots, cursing the fingers of her left hand. The wound was making them clumsy.

“There’s fighting on the stairs,” Lancelot said, his tone brisk. “I had to fight my way up here. We can’t descend carrying an unconscious girl.”

Nim finally got the knots undone and pulled off the gag, wincing at the angry marks the bindings left behind. Susan didn’t revive, even when Nim tapped the girl’s cheeks. “Stars!” Nim cursed. “After what’s been done to her, there is no telling if she’ll ever wake up, or if she’ll be right when she does.”

She met Lancelot’s eyes, nearly falling into their deep brown depths. There was sadness there she’d never seen before. Whatever he’d endured since they parted had left traces behind. She looked away, the room suddenly feeling too small.

“A house this size would have had servants,” she said. “Perhaps they had a back staircase for the staff to move about the house. We could take her out that way.”

Glad to have a concrete goal, she returned to the hallway. Lancelot followed, Susan draped in his arms. Nim forced open the remaining doors. The smallest was in a recessed niche off the main corridor, and the settling house had jammed it shut. One slam of Lancelot’s boot sent it crashing open.

It was indeed another staircase, but the opening showed a cobwebbed nightmare. Nim could almost hear the scuttle of spidery feet in the yawning blackness. “This looks old. It might not be safe,” she said.

But then they smelled smoke. “Fire,” said Lancelot. “This place will go up like paper.”

Nim looked over her shoulder and saw flickering light in the direction they’d come from. “There was a candle in the room where I found Susan. It must have tipped over in the fight.”

Even as she watched, the flames licked the dry, crumbling wood outside the room. Lancelot was right. The old place would go up in minutes, and the fire was between them and the main exit.

“Go,” he said, his voice firm. “We don’t have a choice.”

One hand held up to protect her face, Nim took a step into the stuffy blackness. The stairs creaked ominously beneath her foot. “I don’t like spiders,” she said.

“I know.”

She could hear Lancelot’s feet searching for the steps behind her. Although she had better night vision than a human, she was all but blind once they were halfway down the old staircase. How he managed was a mystery. Once or twice she heard a scrape against the wall as he misjudged and Susan touched the plaster.

And then she thought about what she’d said. She wasn’t supposed to like or dislike anything. And yet—a cobweb snagged over her hair and she frantically flicked it away—she really did not want to encounter anything with more than two legs. She felt it with an intensity that went beyond a fae’s self-preserving fear.

She coughed, smoke sticking to her tongue and throat. It was too dark to see how thick it was, but she could feel the rising temperature around her. She’d lost any sense of how far they’d come, but it was plain they had to hurry. Her thoughts were interrupted when her foot plunged through the wood of the staircase. She threw her weight back, hoping to retreat to the last step, but it gave as well. Shards of wood stabbed her ankle as she pitched into empty air and tumbled over and over into the claustrophobic dark.

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