Enchanted Guardian

“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.”