Enchanted Guardian
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.”