Best Knight Ever (A Kinda Fairytale Book 4)

by Cassandra Gannon

  “You have fifteen seconds.” Trystan told him flatly.

  “I remember the first time I ever saw you, skinny and dirty and screaming for your clan. I remember how my brother hesitated about turning you over to Uther.” Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “And I remember how that fucking tiger killed him and not you.” He yanked the gun free, hoping to catch Trystan off guard.

  Trystan wasn’t caught off guard.

  He threw the axe at Marcus’s forehead before the man even got off a bullet. The axe spun, end over end, and slammed into Marcus’ forehead, the weight of it propelling him backwards. The blade imbedded itself into his skull, bisecting his face and killing him instantly. His body fell into an uncoordinated heap in the street. Dead.

  Marcus Sunchase was finally dead.

  Trystan blinked at the anticlimactic finish to so many of his daydreams.

  For a moment, there was silence.

  “Shit.” Konrad lamented. “That was the least exciting fight I’ve ever seen.”

  “Um…” Some brave soul cleared his throat and looked at Trystan. “Can we get back to the race, now?”

  Oh.

  Right.

  Trystan stepped out of the tortoise’s path, using the toe of his boot to flip it right-side-up, again. The turtle scrambled for purchase for a beat and then continued on its waddling way. It truly was a competitive beast. Inspired by that confident example, the hare and the men joined it, as well. All of them resumed their lives like nothing had happened.

  Trystan went back to staring at Marcus’s body. He didn’t know what he’d expected to “feel” after killing the man, but, now that it was over, all he felt was… hollow. It hadn’t felt satisfying or like the fulfilment of something important. It just felt like a total waste of time and effort.

  “So, I was looking into it, and I can probably find some more Yellow Boots for you to kill. Perhaps the next fight will be more thrilling.” Konrad came up beside him and spared Marcus’ corpse a dismissive look over the tops of his sunglasses. “You still want to kill more Yellow Boots, right?”

  Trystan kept staring at Marcus’ body.

  So many people had died trying to keep Trystan safe as a child, believing that he was worth the sacrifice. Was this what they had hoped he’d do with the gift? (Well, perhaps Lunette. She would be pleased that any Yellow Boot was dead.) But would any of his clans have been truly proud of his mission?

  No.

  They would want him to go forward, not dwell in the past. That was what he’d want Avi to do, in his place. To keep going forward, carrying his stories and finding peace.

  Trystan suddenly found the idea of tracking down all the other Yellow Boots pointless.

  Galahad had been right, the night before. Being away from Camelot would mean giving up time with his clan that Trystan would never get back. The very first feeling Trystan had ever identified in himself was the unhappiness he felt when he was away from them. Now he wished to make himself unhappy for years? How could he watch Avi grow, if he wasn’t in Camelot to watch her grow? How could he teach Midas how to rule a kingdom, or spend his afternoons bickering with Gwen over nonsense, if he was thousands of miles from them? He couldn’t. He would miss all of that in favor of killing assholes and feeling hollow.

  This entire revenge mission was pointless.

  What did he want most? What was his dream?

  Galahad had asked him that, after they left Ayren’s village, and suddenly Trystan knew the answer wasn’t to kill his enemies. He wanted his clan. He wanted to wake each morning with happiness and hope for the day. He wanted his mate and possibly some young to raise and a future.

  He dreamed of Galahad. That was the true answer.

  More than anything he wanted the knight beside him and content in his care. Even if Trystan took the man with him on his mission, Galahad did not wish for that life. He wished to be in his homeland, making terribly written TV shows, and playing games with Avi, and building a school for pitiful artists. It would make Galahad so much happier if Trystan did not leave on the mission, at all.

  Trystan’s mate wished for him to change his plans.

  So, Trystan changed his plans.

  Once he realized how easy the choice was to make, it seemed ridiculous that he hadn’t made it before. Galahad would prefer to stay in Camelot and so they should stay in Camelot. Of course they should! Hell, Trystan would prefer to stay in Camelot. A future with his clan surrounding him and his perfect, irritating mate smiling up at him was worth all the days of Trystan’s past combined. That was the path he wanted.

  Why would he obsess over darkness, when he had moonlight?

  The War was over for Trystan. All of it. He chose to let it go. He would not linger in the shadows, with hatred and hopeless memories. He would not dedicate even a moment more to vengeance. He would never kill all the men on his list. (Some, but not all.) And he would live his life in the kingdom he’d once hated above all others. In Camelot. He knew all of that suddenly, although he should have seen it long before. He would always choose Camelot. He would stay in that strange foreign land forever, because Camelot held every dream that mattered to him.

  Trystan took a deep breath and felt… better.

  His eyes flicked over to Konrad. “I have no need to track down any more Yellow Boots.” He said with utter certainty. “I already hold what I want.”

  Konrad studied Trystan for a beat and then nodded. “This is the better path.” He agreed, quietly. “The one I would make, if I were lucky enough to find a mate. When you are handed a gift, you do not squander it on insignificant dickheads.”

  Konrad was often smarter than he seemed.

  Trystan extended his palm to him and they clasped hands in the way of gryphon warriors. “Farewell, Konrad. If you wish to settle in a more peaceful land, Camelot is open to all gryphons and the Redcrosse Clan is especially welcome.” He paused. “So long as Caelia does not kill any wingless.”

  Konrad’s eyebrow arched. “Have you met my sainted mother?” He slapped Trystan’s shoulder. “Now, hurry and retrieve your knight, before Mordy steals him away.” He went strolling after the tortoise and hare. “I need to go figure out how much money that bunny is going to cost me. Shit man… Never gamble while drunk on a magical elixir. All I can remember is karaoke and being invisible for half the night.”

  Like with so many things Konrad said, there was no possible response to that remark, so Trystan didn’t even try to think of one. He just headed into the Seven Husbands, eager to find Galahad and tell him everything that had happened in the short time they’d been apart. He barely processed his surroundings as he marched through the club’s entrance and down the hallway towards the main room. He would hold the man, and breathe in the scent of his shimmery hair, and look into his violet eyes, and tell him…

  Trystan’s thought skidded to a halt as he suddenly found himself face-to-face with a horse.

  A taxidermy palomino was preserved under glass, a museum-like sign affixed to the huge case. It read: Llamrai- Beloved Childhood Horse of Sir Galahad.

  Trystan blinked and looked around the club’s interior, growing increasingly more confused. At first glance, it appeared like any other tacky bar, with poles for strippers and garish décor. …Except, there were pictures of Galahad everywhere. Clips from his TV shows played on overhead screens. Replicas of his armor were displayed against the walls. The curtains of the raised stage were color-matched to the exact shade of his eyes.

  What the hell was this about?

  He would’ve asked someone to explain it, but no one was really around. Just a couple making out at one of the booths. Two men seemed to be seconds away from ripping each other’s clothes off. Their mouths were suction-cupped together, they’re bodies graphically gyrating and their hands tugging at their clothes. Trystan’s eyes flicked over them without much interest, scanning for Galahad.

  It took him a full second to realize that he’d found him. His gaze jerked back to the passionate couple, belatedly proc
essing the reality of the situation.

  Galahad was kissing another man.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The gryphons know where the graal is! They’ve known they whole time. I don’t buy any of the sob stories about it being lost or inaccessible. How could you lose a fucking graal?

  Give me a break.

  No, they’re just biding their time, waiting for the perfect moment to use it against us. Half of our kind is in on it with them, too. Trust me. This is all like a puzzle that only the true knights among us can see.

  “Stopping the Savages” Podcast

  Sir Dragonet of Camelot- Former Troubadour of King Uther and Host of the Program

  St. Ives- The Seven Husbands Strip Club

  Trystan was genuinely too stunned to even be angry. He froze, trying to process what was happening. “Galahad?” He barely recognized his own voice. It sounded like it was coming from far away.

  “Shit!” Galahad jumped away from the stranger he’d been kissing, startled to see Trystan standing in the club. “Wow! I totally didn’t hear you come in.” He stood up and ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it down. “Sorry. I guess I was lost in the moment with Eric.”

  Trystan didn’t move. “Eric?” He repeated blankly.

  “Yeah, this is Eric.” Galahad waved a careless hand in the other man’s direction. Eric looked to be barely out of his teens and wore an overly-designed flannel shirt. “He works in the kitchen here.”

  “Yo!” Eric gave Trystan a casual salute. “How you doin’, dude? Cool wings.”

  Trystan very slowly blinked at him, then swiveled his attention back to Galahad. “What is going on here?” He asked in the calmest voice he’d ever used. “Explain it to me. Now.”

  “Right, well, the thing is…” Galahad shrugged. “We’ve had a lot of fun together, but I think it’s time we move on. Eric and I just had this instant chemistry. Honestly, I feel like I owe it to myself to see where this thing goes with him.”

  “Instant chemistry.” Trystan repeated, trying to make sense of the words. “With Eric.”

  “Yo!” Eric said again, nodding at his name. He lounged in his tacky silver seat, looking only vaguely aware of the world beyond his nose ring. “I usually bang chicks, but what the hell, ya know?” He ate a Gala-Chip from the bowl sitting in the middle of the table. “I support equality in all forms of fucking.”

  Was he going crazy?

  Trystan thought maybe he was going crazy.

  “Galahad,” Trystan let out a controlled breath, trying to stay in control, “is this due to our argument? Because you were very clear on the idea of dating other men being abstract and hypothetical, yes? Are you now trying to strike out at me, because you were so… bothered outside?” He shook his head, grappling for a foothold. “I assure you, there is no need to go so far.”

  Galahad looked confused. “Um…” He floundered for a beat and then gave his hair a toss. “No. Shit. This isn’t about that… thing… before. This is about now. About me and Eric pursuing something real that’s sprung up between us. Right, Eric?”

  “Yo!” Eric agreed, momentarily distracted by picking at his black nail polish.

  Trystan was beginning to break free of his shock and feel the stirrings of many, many somethings inside of him. “This realness sprang up in the fifteen minutes I was outside killing Marcus?” He demanded. “This is what you’re claiming?”

  Eric’s head snapped up, forgetting about his manicure. “Wait… Hang on, everybody chill for a sec. He kills people?” Eric frowned over at Galahad. “I agreed to help you, dude, but you didn’t say this winged-guy kills people.”

  “Do you wish me to kill Eric?” Trystan kept his eyes on Galahad. “Is that your aim here? Is this a test of some kind?”

  “No, it’s not his aim!” Eric yelped, his bugged-out eyes flashing to Galahad. “Yo, man, tell him that’s not your aim!”

  “Maybe Eric is my True Love.” Galahad shouted, sounding a little desperate. “Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to him. Stop standing in the way of my happiness and accept the fact that I don’t want you anymore!”

  Trystan hesitated, his emotions screaming at him now. Eric was Galahad’s True Love? The knight had recognized him and now felt compelled to be with him? Was that possible? He wasn’t sure but the idea triggered every insecurity he had about their relationship.

  Galahad saw him pause to consider the idea and seemed pleased. “Now, I’m super sorry about this, but what can I do, right?” He ate one of Eric’s Gala-Chips, like he wanted to show how unaffected he was by all of this. “The heart wants what it wants.” He shrugged. “If gryphons had emotions, you’d totally get that.”

  Trystan barely heard him, his mind racing. Shit, how was he going to fix this? He couldn’t kill Galahad’s True Love. On the surface, it was a marvelous plan, but the knight would never forgive him. In the end, it would gain Trystan nothing. He gazed at the tabletop, thinking it all through and not seeing any obvious solution. If this was real, how could he convince the knight to forsake Eric and…?

  The Gala-Chips were caramel-and-whey flavored.

  Trystan suddenly processed that fact, recognizing their golden-colored sugar-sprinkles from the night before. They were definitely caramel-and-whey and the knight hated caramel-and-whey. Why was he eating caramel-and-whey?

  His eyes slowly traveled back up to Galahad’s face, new thoughts occurring to him. “Are you and Eric going back to Camelot, then?” He asked, carefully studying the man’s reaction.

  “Who knows? We have a lot of traveling to do, getting to know each other.” The man smirked a smirk that was not Galahad’s smirk. It lacked the magic and mischief and joy. “You probably won’t see us again for a while.”

  Trystan’s head tilted. This man’s eyes did not glow with Galahad’s exact twilight-sky combination of blue and purple. There was no light in him, brightening the world by simply being in it. None of the thoughtful pauses that came from peering into misty realms that no one else could see.

  As his initial shock and panic and confusion and fury and heartbreak receded, Trystan began to see things clearer. Now, he added up all the pieces and found them… wrong. No. This man was wrong. Whatever was happening, it was all very, very wrong. Every instinct told him so and Trystan trusted his instincts. The memory of Avalon’s voice sounded in his head, the last words she’d shouted at him during their phone call in Ted-ville.

  Be careful of the wrong Galahad.

  “We have to get going, actually.” Wrong-Galahad tugged at Eric’s arm. “Let’s go.” He hissed.

  “What about the cash you offered….?”

  “Now, you hipster idiot.” Wrong-Galahad hauled him from his chair and shoved him towards the door.

  Trystan’s eyes narrowed, silently watching this unGalahad-ish Galahad… Watching as he turned away from Trystan with no hesitation… Watching as he prepared to leave for parts unknown with no goodbye for Avi or Gwen. …Watching as he deliberately picked up a hat from the chair beside him and pulled it on over his not-quite-shimmery-enough hair.

  Nope.

  Trystan lunged forward, his hand clamping down on the Fake-Galahad’s neck.

  “Stop!” The unidentified man squealed as he was lifted off the ground and slammed into the wall. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Eric took off running, sprinting out of the building, too scared to even look back.

  “Whoever you are, you have made a mistake.” Trystan told the imposter flatly. “The real Galahad cannot be duplicated, replicated, or replaced. And he is not someone I will ever walk away from.” He leaned forward so their noses nearly touched. “Ever.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, you psycho!” The stranger tried to fight back and it was pathetic. The actual knight would have been free by now. “You can’t attack me, just because we’re breaking up! Why are you acting so crazy…?”

  Trystan interrupted the wailed protests by crashing the stranger into the wall again, so h
ard that the building rattled. “Galahad is my mate.” He snarled. “I would recognize him blindfolded and he is not you.”

  Faux-Galahad froze and Trystan could see his mind working.

  “Return my knight to me now,” Trystan warned, “or I will level this whole fucking town.” It was a wrathful promise. “I will kill anyone and everyone who stands between me and the true Galahad of Camelot. …And I will start with you.”

  The duplicate swallowed hard. “Gryphons don’t have feelings.” He ventured, looking pale. “You can’t be sure about any of this.”

  “I am sure of that man, as I am sure of nothing else in creation. I know Galahad, inside and out. He is a part if me.” Trystan arched a brow, his fingers tightening on the charlatan’s throat. “And he does not like hats.”

  Imitation-Galahad clawed at the hand crushing his windpipe, trying to breathe. “Upstairs.” He gestured towards the ceiling with his eyes.

  “He is upstairs?”

  “No, Mordy is upstairs!” Not-exactly-violet eyes filled with tears. “My husband. They took him prisoner!” The pretend-knight started bawling. “They said that if I didn’t convince you to go away, they’d kill him and all my other husbands. What else could I do? They’re my family! I love them!”

  P’don.

  Trystan loosened his grip on the man, letting his feet touch the ground. “Someone came in here and captured Mordy? Why? Where is my Galahad?”

  The look-(kind-of)-alike was bawling too hard to answer. He sank to the floor, weeping about saving his family.

  Since there was no getting a straight answer out of the man, Trystan turned his attention upstairs. He was in too much of a hurry to take the winding steps. Using his wings, he launched himself upward, flying onto the balcony above. His heart slamming in his chest, he began opening doors. Each one led to a different bedroom and each bedroom was decorated with photos of one of Galahad’s body parts. His shapely backside. His muscular chest. His wide shoulders. But, Trystan didn’t find any sign of the actual, fully-assembled Galahad.