Enchanted Guardian

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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