“Lancelot, listen, listen,” I began but he stopped me with a kiss. And after his mouth met mine, I had no more words, no more thoughts, only sensations. We began tearing each other’s clothes off and I had not been wearing much to start with. “What are we doing?” Lancelot asked at some point and I was so lost in sensation I couldn’t even answer. He didn’t ask again as he buried his head in my breasts. And that was when Mordred broke in on us, followed by Agravain and a few other men I recognized but did not know. We were roughly dragged out of bed and no one had the decency to even offer me a blanket to cover my nakedness. I heard shouts from down the hall and a moment later, Arthur entered the room, tying the sash of his bathrobe.
He stopped still when he saw us and the stricken look he gave us will haunt me for the rest of my life.
“Now do you believe me father?” Mordred said, triumph in his voice.
“Get out of my sight,” Arthur said. Mordred just laughed.
“You can’t hide this secret the way you hid me,” he said. “This time there are witnesses. This time there are men who can testify to your lady wife’s treachery and your best friend’s betrayal.”
Lancelot closed his eyes as if the word “betrayal” had hit him like a bullet.
“This is treason,” Agravain said venomously, and I could tell Mordred was annoyed he’d opened his mouth at all. Perhaps he had wanted to be the one to bring up the T-word.
“Surely not,” said one of the other men with Mordred. Bors, I think. “Infidelity but—”
“Treason,” Mordred repeated. With that, Lancelot lunged at the other man and had to be restrained by every other man in the room, save Arthur. With Agravain’s dagger at his throat, Lancelot looked like a cornered animal.
“Arthur,” he said a pleading note I’d never heard in his voice, “my lord—"
“Take him away,” Arthur said calmly, and the men hustled him out, stark naked. Lancelot looked totally helpless, completely confused by what had just happened. We’d hardly ever even spoken to each other, didn’t particularly like each other, so how had we naked together?
When the only people left in the bedroom were Mordred, Arthur and me, Arthur turned to his son. “I will deal with this.”
“No,” Mordred said. “No, not this time.” And then he plunged his knife into Arthur’s belly.
“No,” I said and ran to Mordred, trying to pull him away. But by then, Arthur had pulled his own weapon out of his bathrobe pocket, a sleek little pistol I’d never seen before. Mordred pulled me close to use me as a shield. “Close your eyes,” Arthur said to me and in the next breath he fired three shots into Mordred, who collapsed, still holding onto me so that I was dragged to the floor as well.
I freed myself and looked up at Arthur, who was starting to sway. “Arthur?” His only answer was a groan as he cupped his abdomen. I could see his organs were about to spill out of the bloody wound. “No, Arthur, no.”
I hit the panic button to summon our guards and heard running feet in the corridor outside.
“I love you,” Arthur said, gasping the words with his last breath. And then he was dead, and I was holding onto the empty shell of the man I loved.
When Gareth broke into the room, he found Mordred on the floor and me cradling Arthur’s body, rocking and keening, howling my grief.
I might have been charged with regicide—Agravain accused me of that and there were more than a few who were ready to believe it. But since I’d been in my bedroom, wearing nothing but my skin and Arthur had died of a stab wound and Mordred of gunshot wounds and my fingerprints weren’t on either weapon, I was never charged.
“Magic helped her get away with murder” was the kindest thing the tabloids said, but what did I care for the judgment of strangers?
Morgaine fled Camelot the night Mordred and Arthur died, swearing revenge on everyone in the castle, but nothing ever came of her threat. I’d like to think she’s in hell, but maybe she’s in Botswana, or some other place hospitable to exiled royals, plotting her comeback, biding her time.
Because Arthur died without an heir, the anti-royalist forces calling for the end of the monarchy finally had their way. Within a year, the government had transitioned from a constitutional monarchy to a republic.
Lancelot returned to France, where he built up the family’s vineyards and wrote a biography of Talleyrand
I fled the country, first to Bermuda, and then to Los Angeles where I lived in Suze’s spare bedroom for a year before I felt brave enough to show my face anywhere else.
Most of Arthur’s great projects never came to fruition but Lady Kay’s ODAAT Foundation became the model for ocean conservation worldwide, and she was honored for her work by every nation with an ocean border. We still keep in touch, but only by email.
No one knows where Emrys is, but I suspect I’ll run into him again someday. In a life as long as his, there are always more second acts.
Not all of us are so lucky.
Epilogue
Lancelot finished reading the manuscript and looked up. I set aside the glass of wine I’d been nursing for the last two hours while he read my manuscript. For a long moment he didn’t say anything, just tapped the pages with his fingers. They were manicured, I noted. Something new since his Camelot days.
“This is quite a story,” he said.
“I’ve been waiting a long time to tell it.”
“Do you have a publisher?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I’m not even sure I need to see it in print. I just needed to set it down.”
“You killed my best friend.”
I did not try to defend myself against this accusation because I couldn’t. “Forgive me?” I begged.
He shook his head. “I can’t.” He stood up. “I can’t because I can’t forgive myself.” He looked down at me, miserably twirling the empty glass I held by the stem. “We both loved him. We both lost him. That will bind us forever.”
“Cold comfort,” I said.
Better than no comfort at all.” He turned then and walked away from the table. Heads turned as he passed by. He still had that charisma, that nearly magical presence that could affect even the most jaded Angeleno. I felt a pang for what had been, for what was lost. For all the magic that was Camelot.
There is still magic in me. Sometimes I feel it thrum through my veins. Sometimes I hear it singing in my soul. I ignore it.
I will never use magic again.
About the Author
Kat Parrish is a former reporter who prefers making things up. Born into a military family, she has lived in seven states and two European countries and would sign up to colonize Mars if she weren’t so fond of summer. She is the author of the Shadow Palace Trilogy, the Bruja Roja series, and the upcoming Brotherhood of Stone and Artifacts of Chaos series. She lives in the Pacific Northwest near a haunted cemetery and several waterfalls.
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Raven Circle
By Karen M. Bryson
Fear the woman who has nothing to lose...
Maggie Moreno’s fragile life came to a crashing halt the day that her husband and young daughter were killed in a fire at Bookman College. All the experience she has working as a grief counselor doesn’t help her overcome the tragic loss of her family. Plagued with anxiety and depression, she feels like a failure personally and professionally. How can she help her clients when she can’t even help herself?
Then Maggie realizes that she can use her inherited folk magic to enact revenge on those who killed her family.
She just needs to find them first.
But when she starts to have feelings for the police officer investigating her case, she doesn't realize he's a witch hunter, and that she is one of his targets.
As a counselor, Maggie took an oath to do no harm, but what if they deserve it?
Chapter 1
MAGGIE
* * *
I’m cocooning under the covers when I
’m awakened by the sound of pounding on my front door. I’m not ready to face the world yet. So, I pull the blanket over my head and hope that whoever is there will give up and go away.
It doesn’t work.
The drumming continues. Stubbornly and persistently. POUND. POUND. POUND. It’s like an annoying gnat that won’t go away.
As I rise from the couch, I realize that I fell asleep with the television blaring. The person knocking on the door must hear it and thinks someone is home.
“It’s been a week since the tragic fire at Bookman College that took the lives of twenty people and authorities still have no leads in the case.”
Why is the newscaster smiling?
I grab the remote and shut the television off.
As I trudge over to the front door, I glance down at my t-shirt and sweatpants. After several days of wear, they’re starting to smell a little ripe. And I have no doubt that my long, dark hair looks like a fright wig.
I just don’t care.
My only goal is to get the knocking to stop.
“What do you want?” I gripe as I open the door.
“Maggie Moreno?”
The attractive man standing in front of me catches me off guard. How does he know my name? I don’t remember ever meeting him.
When I finally nod, he extends a hand for me to shake.
“I’m Detective Ben Walker. New Jersey State Police. I’m investigating the fire at Bookman College.”
My entire body stiffens. “I’m a little busy right now.”
He gives me a polite smile. “I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.” He glances down at the thick line of salt at the threshold then looks back up at me. “Do you mind if I come in? I have a few questions.”
“Sure.”
As I take a step back for him to enter, he points to the pile of mail in the box next to the door.
“Would you like your mail? The box is overflowing.”
He grabs the mail as he heads inside. Then hands it to me.
As he glances around, he shoves his hands into his pants pockets.
My daughter’s toys are strewn all over the floor. One of my husband’s jackets is slung over the back of a chair like he just got home and tossed it there. It looks like there’s still a family living here because I haven’t had the energy to deal with their belongings yet.
Ben’s eyes land on a framed photo of me, Nick, and Lizzie taken a few months before they were killed. We all looked so happy then. It seems like a lifetime ago.
I quickly turn away and swipe at a tear that has escaped down my cheek.
As I hurry into the kitchen, I try to straighten my mop of hair.
Ben follows on my heels.
Unfortunately, the kitchen looks even worse than the living room. There’s an open box of cereal on the counter. Unwashed breakfast dishes are stacked in the sink. A few of Lizzie’s toys lie next to the large pile of mail that has taken up residence on the counter.
I toss the mail I’m holding onto the huge stack. A few more days of unopened mail and the place will start looking like a post office.
“I know my house is a disaster.”
“I’m sure you’ve had a lot on our mind. I’m sorry for your loss.”
I blink back tears. The emotional breakdowns seem to come in waves. It’s not the ideal time for one of them right now.
“Ms. Moreno?”
“Yes…”
“I’ve recently been assigned to the Bookman fire case.” He removes a small notepad and pencil from his pocket. “I know this is difficult, but what can you tell me about your husband?”
“He died in the fire along with my daughter and eighteen other innocent victims.” When my voice cracks I grab a glass and pour myself some water. I take a few sips then continue. “His body was so badly burned they were only able to identify his remains by the engraved crucifix he was wearing. It was a gift from his godmother.”
“What can you tell me about his life prior to the fire?”
I stifle a sob. “We had a typical life. I’m not sure what you want me to say.” I fiddle with the cereal box on the counter, absentmindedly opening and closing the top. “I just want all of this to be over. I want to wake up and for all of it to have been a bad dream.”
For the first time since the interview started, he lets his guard down and I see some true compassion in his bright blue eyes.
“I hate talking about it, which is ironic coming from a grief counselor. I’ve spent my entire professional life trying to get other people to talk about the loss of their loved ones and it’s literally the last thing I want to do.”
“Easier said than done, I guess.”
“You have no idea.”
We exchange a quick glance. For just a moment there’s a spark of something between us, then just as quickly it fades away. Several deep scars on Ben’s cheek catch my attention. I try not to stare, but there’s something familiar about them.
Eerily familiar. But I have no idea why.
“What can you tell me about your husband’s work?”
“Not a lot. He was a special collections librarian at Bookman College. He didn’t talk about it much. And I have to admit that I didn’t ask about his work as much as I should have. I had my hands full with our daughter. She was three.”
I pick up Lizzie’s well-worn Teddy bear perched on one of the kitchen stools and rub its matted fur.
“Is there any reason why someone might have wanted to harm your husband?”
“What do you mean? Do you think someone may have targeted Nick? Why would they do that? Why would they kill innocent people? Kill children?”
“At this point, we’re following every possible lead.”
“My husband was a librarian. Why would someone want to kill him?”
Tears begin to stream down my cheeks. As I reach for a tissue, Ben moves the box closer to me.
“I’m sorry.” I blow my nose. “It’s been hard trying to hold things together.”
“No need to apologize.” He waits for a moment. When my tears stop flowing, he continues with his questioning. “What can you tell me about your husband’s family?”
I shake my head. “Not much. Nick was raised by his mother. She passed away shortly after our daughter was born. He wasn’t close to his father, Sal.”
“Sal is the owner of Moreno Industrial supplies?”
I nod.
“What can you tell me about the company?”
“Not a lot. Nick’s half-brother manages the day-to-day operations. I’ve only met him a handful of times. They didn’t get along that well.”
He removes a business card from his pocket. “If you think of anything else, please let me know.”
I take the card from his hand. “Do you really think someone wanted my husband dead?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” He turns to exit. “I can see myself out.”
When I hear the front door slam shut, I breath a sigh of relief. I’m finally alone again to wallow in my grief.
Except that for the first time since my husband and daughter died, I don’t feel like wallowing.
A small voice inside is telling me that maybe this is my reason to go on living. Maybe I’m supposed to find out what happened to my family. Maybe I’m supposed to seek justice for their deaths.
I know I have the power to do it. Or I used to. I need to see if I can get it back.
Chapter 2
BEN
I stare at a stack of files on the Bookman College fire investigation strewn all over my desk. I feel like there’s something I’m missing. I just don’t know what it is. I rub my temples as I try to connect the dots.
Alex Vento, one of the other detectives in our unit, points to my lunch. A half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich and a kosher dill pickle. “Are you gonna eat that pickle?”
“Take it.”
Without missing a beat, he snatches the kosher dill and shoves it into his mouth.
“Something
just doesn’t feel right about this case. I don’t know what it is.”
“High profile case like that. You solve it. You’ll be set for life.”
“Everyone has a theory. Some are saying the fire was racially motivated. The Bookman College Library held the largest collection of material for the study of Mexican American history and culture in the United States. Some are saying the fire was a political statement. Retaliation for the college firing a conservative professor for using a racial slur in class.” I rub my chin. “I think something else was going on.”
“And what makes you think that, hotshot?”
“If it was an act of terrorism, wouldn’t the group responsible immediately take credit for it? Isn’t that that the whole point? It’s been a week, and no one has taken credit for the blaze yet. What if someone, who was killed in the fire, was the target, and fire was used to cover up their murder?”
He laughs. “I think you’ve been reading too many Tom Clancy novels.”
I grab my jacket from the back of my chair. Just as I’m about to leave, Alex points to my half-eaten sandwich. “Are you going to finish that?”
“It’s all yours,” I yell back to him as I head out the door.
I stare at the charred remains of the Bookman College Library. There’s not much left. The scorched area is covered in soot and ash.
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