Enchanted Warrior

Angmar watched his expression with open curiosity, looking away only when a pair of roughhousing boys shoved their way past. “It’s long past time for the Round Table to awake. Where are your brothers in arms?”

“Why? Are the fae so impatient to take revenge on us that they sent you to make a wake-up call?”

“Merlin’s spell injured us more than you know,” said Angmar, his voice now tinged with anger. “But I’m not here to discuss that. I have a warning for you. Assemble your fellow knights, because LaFaye and Mordred are on the move. The war Arthur foresaw is here.”

Gawain flinched. King Arthur’s vile stepsister, Morgan LaFaye, had brought Camelot to its knees. Her chief conspirator had been her son, Mordred. Both were powerful, with witch and fae blood mixed in their veins.

“What is their interest in this fight, besides an opportunity to cause chaos?” Gawain said, tension ruffling the hair at his nape. “How is this war connected to them?”

They fell into step, wandering shoulder to shoulder down the pathway between the booths. The sweet scent of frying dough curled through the air. Gawain’s mouth watered, but he ignored the hunger gnawing his gut.

“You have been asleep.” Angmar cast him a narrow glance. “After you and your companions turned to stone, Morgan LaFaye staged a coup and took the crown of Faery.”

“She did what?” Gawain snarled.

“It’s not so strange as you may think. Her father was one of us.” Angmar frowned. “Afterward, she bided her time for centuries, consolidating her hold on the throne. Ten years ago, she began plotting a campaign against the mortal realms. Then a few months ago, she gave the final order to infiltrate this world. She claims she wants justice, but I say she simply wants more power.”

Angmar’s tale explained why Gawain had risen when he did—probably it was the same moment when the first of the fae had touched mortal ground. “Those are evil tidings.”

“It gets worse. She’s put Mordred in charge of the campaign,” said Angmar.

Pure fury surged through Gawain, robbing him of sight for an instant. LaFaye was bad, but Mordred was a snake without conscience. He was also Gawain’s cousin—proving one could never pick one’s relations.

Angmar went on. “Mordred is using stealth, not armies, and his first priority is finding the tombs to stop the Round Table from rising. You need to find your friends and wake them at once.”

“By all the saints!” Gawain’s vision went red, but he held on to his temper. He needed his wits, not the fury of battle. Then he took a deep breath, turning back to the fae. He had a thousand questions but settled on the most immediate. “Why are you warning me?”

Angmar shrugged, but lines of tension framed his mouth. “Not all the faery kingdom has forgotten who we are. My people love beauty and justice. We are not indiscriminate murderers, and we should not be Mordred’s toy soldiers. Those of us who have resisted his power are turning to the Round Table to ensure our freedom. Merlin created this situation. In some measure, Arthur and Camelot bear that responsibility.”

“Why trust us? Why not overthrow Mordred and his mother yourselves?”

“The rebel fae are scattered, disorganized, and afraid. We need Camelot’s leadership and its might.”

The words were barely out of the faery’s mouth when a black-feathered arrow whistled past, striking the side of a barrel. It was short and thick, a crossbow bolt rather than a true arrow. Angmar jerked aside, breath hissing between his teeth. A thin line of blood bloomed across the front of his sweater. Gawain grabbed his arm, pulling him behind a Dumpster.

A quick glance told Gawain the shot had gone unnoticed among the hubbub of the crowd—and an archer strolling through Medievaland would hardly be noticed. The assassin had chosen the perfect place to do his work. A second glance at the arrow told him it was faery craftsmanship.

“Was that for dramatic effect?” Gawain asked drily. “A little extra push to make me agree to help you?”

“No.” Angmar clutched the front of his sweater, red oozing from between his fingers. “I thought I’d dodged Mordred’s lackeys. If they know I’ve warned you, they will silence us both.”

“Let them try.” Gawain pulled Angmar’s hand away to see the sweater had been sliced by the bolt’s passage. Through the gap in the cloth, he could see the injury was long but shallow. As long as the tip wasn’t poisoned—and one never knew with faery weapons—Angmar would survive. Gawain shed his jacket, stripped off his shirt and pressed the wadded fabric against the wound. “Hold that. It only grazed you.”

Angmar obeyed while Gawain pulled on his jacket again. “One would think you’d done this before,” the faery said drily.

“Can you walk?” Gawain asked by way of reply.

“Yes.”

“Good. You need cover. I need a word with the archer.”

As Gawain peered around the corner of the Dumpster, he could see crowds packed the sidewalks, half of them children. He was more than willing to fight, but not where innocents could be harmed. But as he reached for his sword, his hand closed on empty air. He swore viciously. Of course he wore no sword. Every instinct he possessed was centuries out of date.

Angmar gave him a feral grin, drawing a gun from a holster beneath his jacket. “This time has different ways to kill, Sir Knight.”

“Perhaps,” Gawain growled. “But there are laws in this age that will make this awkward. We cannot do honest battle here in the open, where all can see.”

“So true.” With a graceful flick, Angmar drew a shape in the air that burst in a blaze of rainbow light. The same instant, everything froze, the sound of the fair cutting off as if shears had sliced it. Time itself had stopped. A juggler’s clubs hung in the air. Fluttering pennons stilled as if they were painted against the sky. Only Gawain and Angmar still moved. “This should make things easier.”

Gawain moved to help Angmar to his feet. The faery shifted awkwardly with the bundle of shirt pressed against his stomach. Despite the shallow cut, it was soaking through. Gawain gave up the effort to move him. “How long can you hold the spell?”

“Longer if you do the chasing.” Angmar pressed the Smith & Wesson into Gawain’s hand, holster and all. “Leave me here and go quickly.”

Gawain buckled it on and turned to go, but the fae caught his sleeve. “One thing more.”

Gawain turned. “What?”

Angmar’s face went rigid, as if he pushed down an inner storm. “I said Merlin’s spell changed the fae. This assassin is no doubt one of us. Do not expect compassion or mercy or any feeling at all. My people are no longer capable of it.”

For an instant, Gawain forgot everything but the faery’s words. “How did Merlin’s spell hurt you? Arthur would never say.”

Angmar’s face twisted. “The magic tore away our souls. A few of us escaped—I was not at the battle when the spell was cast—but the rest of my people are damaged beyond recognition. The new queen has used that to turn us into monsters for her war. We need Camelot’s protection to keep us from becoming the stuff of nightmares.”

Gawain stared as he remembered Angmar’s words: My people love beauty and justice. We are not indiscriminate murderers, and we should not be Mordred’s toy soldiers. Horror crept over him as the enormity of their plight became clear.

The faery gave him a gentle push. “Now go, and do what you can to save us. All of us.”

Numb with shock, Gawain ran along the strip of grass that wound behind the pavilions, searching the possible vantage points where the archer might be hiding. Concentration cleared his thoughts. The angle of the bolt had been low, suggesting the bowman had been on the ground rather than a rooftop. Moving cautiously, Gawain approached the most likely spot from behind.

Gawain ducked beneath a sparrow that had been caught midflight by Angmar’s spell. It was eerie, passing through the still and silent fairground. The packed sidewalks were filled with living statues. A child had been blowing bubbles, and they hung in the air like iridescent jewels. Gawain was struck with wonder, but he had too much experience to let down his guard. The bowman might be frozen like the rest of the crowd, and then again he might not. With every motion, Gawain was making himself an obvious target.

He was right to be cautious. He heard the snap of the crossbow’s mechanism just as a black-feathered bolt streaked his way. Split-second reflex made him dive to the side. He rolled to his feet in one smooth motion and began sprinting in the direction from which the arrow had come. It was a dangerous move, but he counted on the fact that crossbows were slow to load.

Gawain should have known in this day and age an assassin would also carry a gun. He was still weaving through a family frozen in place when he heard the shot, loud as a thunderclap in the silence.

The assassin had fired straight into the crowd. All Gawain could do was cover the child beside him and let the bullet pierce his own flesh. It ripped along his arm like a savage claw, tearing through cloth and skin. He hit the ground, the child beneath him. Gawain scrambled to his feet, bringing up his own weapon just as he saw a dark-clad figure slip away.

The enemy was using the crowd as cover. Cursing, Gawain shouldered through the fairgoers. Blood slid between Gawain’s fingers as fiery pain washed his vision with a red haze. “Hold, coward!”

The figure’s dark head bobbed through the frozen tableau. Gawain followed him down a long alley of merchants—bakers, leatherworkers, calligraphers, and an armorer’s booth. As he passed the armorer, Gawain palmed a blade as he went by and holstered Angmar’s gun. He needed his injured right arm to shoot straight, but he’d trained since boyhood to use a blade with either hand.

He’d barely gone another dozen yards before he realized they were heading in a circle. The place where Gawain had left Angmar was just ahead. He heard a whisper of movement from the left and another bolt hissed past his ear, missing by a fraction. Gawain smiled, a brief, deadly flash of teeth. The shot had given the enemy’s position away. In a fluid motion, Gawain threw the knife. He dove forward, using the side of a hut for cover.

A sharp cry said Gawain had thrown true, but it was followed by the sound of running feet. Gawain sprang into motion again, aiming for the Dumpster where Angmar was hiding. He heard the curses and scrapes of a struggle. A moment later, Gawain glimpsed two figures locked in combat.

He pounced, knocking the attacker backward against the side of the overstuffed Dumpster with a dull thud. An avalanche of garbage slid down around them, sending up a noxious stench. Gawain drew the gun and held it to the enemy’s throat. Then he froze.

His adversary’s lips drew back, showing sharp canines. “Hello, cousin.”

“Mordred.” Gawain snarled the name like a curse. Loathing welled up at the sight of his kinsman’s pale, narrow face. Lank black hair straggled across a broad forehead, framing pale gray eyes that reminded Gawain of dirty ice. With some disappointment, Gawain realized his knife had only grazed his cousin’s cheek.

“It’s been too long,” Mordred purred. “It was your brother’s execution, wasn’t it? Poor old Agravaine.”

“Be silent,” Gawain said between clenched teeth, but he still couldn’t stop the wave of regret and fury. He’d found what Agravaine’s sword had left of their mother.

“Can’t blame old Aggy. He was just avenging your father. Mom poisons Dad—what’s a son to do?” Mordred said with a cruel smile. “Trust me, I know about family squabbles.”

Rage swirled through Gawain’s brain like powerful whisky. Blowing Mordred’s skull apart would be far too quick. Gawain curled his free hand around the other man’s throat. “You were Agravaine’s closest companion. I blame you for his downfall. The serpent in Eden could have taken lessons from your slithering tongue.”

Mordred began to gasp, his face turning red, but the time-stopping charm ran out. With an almost physical force, the cacophony of the fair slammed against Gawain’s ears as they were plunged back into a sea of motion. Mordred used the distraction to break free and stumble backward to where Angmar was sprawled facedown in the dirt, apparently unconscious.

Gawain crouched, weapon in hand. Mordred mirrored his stance, eyes calculating. Now that Angmar’s spell had broken, they had only moments before someone discovered their fight. Gawain had to act now, but public murder would put an end to his freedom.

He hesitated an instant too long. Mordred dropped to his knees beside Angmar, grabbed a fistful of the fallen faery’s hair and whispered a single word of power. The air shimmered as if heat were pouring over them in waves—except it was cold conjured by Mordred’s magic. Ice flowed like water across the ground, making Gawain slip and fall to one knee. Mordred gestured, and a blast of blinding cold shocked him, stealing the strength from his limbs. Frost suddenly coated Gawain’s sleeves, and the gun dropped from his numb fingers.

“Stay where you are!” Gawain roared, already knowing he had lost. “Angmar! I will bring you home! I swear it!”

The two men vanished in an ear-popping rush of magic.

Gawain crawled to his feet, biting back a torrent of curses. He had to find out where Mordred had taken the fae. And once he had, he would require the swords of his fellow knights to take Mordred down.

But to do that, he had to find the tombs. Tamsin Greene had to provide that information, and quickly. Without it, he was lost.

Chapter 3

Ten minutes after Tamsin had watched Gawain vanish, she was still sitting on the steps outside the church, her chin in her hands. A cloud passed over the sun and she looked up, grimacing as she caught sight of the gargoyles perched over the porch staring down at her. The weather was freezing cold, but she couldn’t bring herself to go back inside. Gawain had targeted every one of her vulnerabilities. He’d overpowered her, aroused her, challenged her and, in the end, rejected her. The moment he’d detected her talent, he’d shut down and moved her from the box marked “woman” and put her in the one marked “witch.” Untouchable. Repulsive. Dangerous.

The memory of it left her shaking with fury.

Her cell phone rang. “Hello?” She snapped as she answered it, not able to keep her mood from leaking into her voice.

“What are you doing in Washington State?” Tamsin’s sister demanded, fear edging the frosty words. “I went away for a week. Just one week and you skipped town like a fugitive.”

“I got a research job. It came up unexpectedly and I jumped on the opportunity.” Immediately, Tamsin’s anger collapsed into homesickness. She pressed the cell phone tight to her ear, as if that would bring her closer to Stacy. “It’s at Medievaland Theme Park.”

“Are you serious? Fake jousting and wenches with beer?”

“It’s better than it sounds. The church has a fabulous collection of early manuscripts. You know old documents are my thing.”

“Carlyle is on the other side of the country,” Stacy protested. “You’re thousands of miles away.”

Tamsin leaned against one of the stone pillars of the porch, grateful of its ancient, sturdy support. “I got approval from the Coven Elders to take the job.”

“You did?” Stacy sounded shocked.

“I’m not a fool.” The old witch families kept their members close, and breaking their rules was a serious mistake. Their punishments had been the same for centuries—loss of a witch’s powers and a lifetime of servitude in the Elders’ cold gray halls. “They want me here examining the collection. The coven hasn’t had a researcher since Dad passed.” Her breath hitched at the mention of her father, even after a decade with him gone.

Stacy heard it and paused before continuing. “What about, you know, Mom’s plans?”

“What plans?” Tamsin asked, though she knew perfectly well what her sister meant.

“Mom worries you’ll end up alone. She says she’ll talk to the Elders about a match for you.”

Tamsin blew out an exasperated breath, rubbing at the tattoo on her wrist. Elders arranged marriages when and where they saw fit, but that hardly ever happened in the modern age. Still, Tamsin planned to minimize that risk by proving herself valuable as a loremaster—and staying as far out of the Elders’ sight as possible.

“Talk her out of it,” she begged. “Please.”

“I’ll try, but Mom treats me the same way,” Stacy said. “It’s not just about finding a husband. She worries something bad will happen if I go to the corner store. A witch needs her coven’s protection, especially these days. The shadow world is stirring.”

Tamsin pulled the cell phone from her ear. A dark cloud of energy shimmered around it, the magical echo of Stacy’s unhappiness. Tamsin swallowed hard, shards of emotion caught in her throat. It would be so simple to give in and run home, like a chick diving beneath the coven’s protective wing. But then her future would end at the edges of their small, isolated town.

After a deep breath, Tamsin held the phone to her ear again. “Tell Mom I’ll come home for Thanksgiving. But only for a few days. I need this job.”

“Okay, okay,” Stacy said softly. “I’m worried about you.”

The cloud of energy around the phone turned to a faint rose color—a sign of her sister’s concern. “Call me if you need me,” Stacy added. “Anytime, you hear?”

Tamsin smiled through sudden sadness. “I hear you. I know how to keep myself safe.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, sis.” Tamsin ended the call and slipped her phone into the pocket of her costume.

Tamsin rubbed her arms, unable to let go of the heaviness the phone call had left behind. The Elders didn’t reveal much about the shadow world, but Tamsin’s father had. There were other magic users beside the witches—faeries and ogres and who knew what else just beyond the comforting lights of the modern world. Once there had even been demons.

Not that anyone believed those old tales. It had been surprisingly easy for witches to move from an everyday fact of village life to the local bogeyman and then to no more than a Halloween costume. Humans had lost track of the shadow world, and when they encountered it, they rarely reacted well.

Like Tamsin’s last lover, who had also been her first serious relationship. He’d been a teaching assistant, a few years older and an expert in European history of the Middle Ages. It had been like dating a daydream—everything she could wish for, every box checked. She’d laid her heart at Richard’s feet, and for a time he’d seemed to do the same. They’d been sleeping together for almost a year when she’d forgotten to hide what she was. The slip had been minor—she’d lit a candle with a word of power.

Richard’s reaction had been instant. He’d rolled out of bed and pulled on his pants almost in one move. When he’d looked up, the light from that fateful candle falling across his features, she’d seen real terror. And then he’d uttered the words she’d least expected to hear: “Get away from me, witch.”

The episode had happened well over a year ago, but it still stung horribly. All the rage and hurt of that breakup gathered afresh in Tamsin’s soul. She curled her hands around her knees, nails digging through the soft fabric of her skirt. She would not be treated that way, ever again. If Gawain did show up demanding answers, she’d tell him what he could do with his wretched monuments.

Tamsin jumped to her feet and hurried back inside, where she retreated to the chapel’s vestry. Her tiny office was set up there, although it looked less like an office than a fort made of file boxes. A musty smell drifted from decades of paper records waiting for her attention. Most dated from the seventies, when the crumbling church had been moved over from England. Despite some public objections, the building had been sold to Medievaland’s founder, who had promised to restore it once he had moved it to Washington State.

Switching on her computer, Tamsin scrolled through what little information she had on the recent history of the Church of the Holy Well and searched for anything about the tombs. All she found was a mention of the crypt—it had been filled in, but one hundred and fifty grave monuments had been packed and shipped with the rest of the building. The records stopped there.

Tamsin sat back in the chair, mystified. So where were the tombs? Had every single one been sold or loaned out to other places? She didn’t particularly want to help Gawain—he hadn’t been kind or pleasant to her at all. And yet, he had raised some very interesting questions. She hitched forward on the sagging computer chair, put her fingers on the keyboard and began searching for clues.

By closing time, Tamsin had a headache from staring at the screen. The remainder of the afternoon had flown by, but she’d found no answers. Still pondering the mystery, she crawled into her ancient Camry for the drive home.

This wasn’t the first dead end Tamsin had found in the past week. Beneath its colorful, family-friendly surface, Medievaland had hidden depths. She’d heard rumors that its library—purchased along with the rest of the crumbling church—held books of magic so old they were rumored to have been handwritten by Merlin the Wise himself. But no employee she’d talked to had heard anything about this most valuable part of the library’s collection. If it existed, it was kept well out of sight.

Tamsin meant to find the truth, and not just because the Elders wanted answers. Her father, Hector Greene, had been the coven’s loremaster before her. He’d traveled the world, searching out rare manuscripts about magic until a drunk driver had forced his car off a cliff when Tamsin was thirteen. There had been little left to bury.

Tamsin pulled into the driveway of her apartment building and, a few minutes later, locked the dead bolts to her studio apartment. She collapsed onto her bed, pulling a blanket over her because the heater never quite did the job, and finally began to relax.

She reached over the side of the bed to where she’d dropped her backpack and rummaged for the side pocket where she kept the book her father had given her. This had been his favorite grimoire, an ancient text with a peculiar collection of spells. She untied the leather thong that held it shut and began to turn the worn pages as she did at least once a day, letting the familiar words comfort her. Handling it was like having her father close again.

The yellowed pages crackled as she turned them. She traced the red-brown handwriting with her fingertips, feeling the depression where the nib of a pen had stroked the page. A charm against roaming spirits. A spell to attract a familiar. A chant to protect against pox. She turned the page again and stopped. Although she had looked through the book literally thousands of times, every so often it showed her a new spell. Tonight was one of those occasions. A Charm to Awaken Those Who Watch. Tamsin raised a brow. The watchers couldn’t be very effective if they were sleeping on the job. She scanned the ancient words, recognizing a language so old it had been all but forgotten in Merlin’s time. She wondered why the book had produced the spell now, but it did that sometimes. Old books of magic had minds of their own.

Tamsin read until the light faded and then put the book away. She had started to drowse when she heard the stealthy slide of the balcony door. She bolted upright, nearly falling when the blanket twisted around her ankles. Tamsin kicked it aside and scanned the apartment. There was a kitchen nook and a bathroom, but it was basically one large space with nowhere to hide.

The balcony door was open, the night wind pouring through a two-foot gap. It was possible for a good climber to get from the fire escape to the balcony, which was why she kept the door locked—but no lock was foolproof. Fear was an icy explosion beneath her ribs. There had been burglaries all over the neighborhood, some of them violent.

She cleared her throat. “Take what you want. I don’t have much.”

“I’m not here for your property.”