Enchanted Warrior

by Sharon Ashwood

  Which meant—what? That Gawain was right, and there were evil fae romping through the streets? “I honestly don’t know.”

  Stacy’s tone grew impatient. “You know Dad always thought Carlyle had a significant archive of magical materials. There have to be some serious practitioners out there, and they’re up to something.”

  Tamsin cleared her throat. “There are supposed to be some very special books here, ones I know Dad was interested in, but I haven’t found them. They seem to have disappeared along with...”

  “What?”

  “Other things.” Tamsin put a hand to her forehead. She was hot, possibly because her head was exploding. “There are items that should be in the church but seem to have gone missing. I’m trying to find them.”

  “Magical items?”

  “I dunno. Maybe. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

  “Oh, Tamsin,” Stacy groaned, sounding pushed to her limits, “hurry up and come home where it’s safe.”

  Tamsin sighed. “I’d better get to work. I’ll call you later.”

  “Be careful.” Stacy hung up.

  Tamsin thumbed the End button and sat staring at her phone for a moment as the dark cloud of Stacy’s anxiety faded. Her mother’s observations bothered Tamsin. Something was definitely going on.

  Tamsin needed a break. She grabbed her coat and strode through the cool dimness of the church. Outside, it was bright and sunny, and Tamsin breathed in the air and cheerful, gaudy colors of the theme park. She waited on the porch as an actor rode by in the full armor of a knight, the feathered hooves of his horse clop-clopping on the pavement. Children milled about the beast, who bore the noise and commotion with gentle patience. Tamsin couldn’t help but smile.

  And then she thought of Gawain, which wiped away every trace of lightness. She jumped down from the porch and began to walk briskly through the grounds, using the exercise to take the edge off her nerves.

  The morning’s work had made one thing clear. As a historian, she’d been trained to value meticulous research, but in this case the fae army might overrun the mortal world before she made it through all those boxes of paper. There had to be a way to fast-track a solution to this problem.

  Tamsin was pondering the question when she reached the booth where brown-robed friars sold paper cups of hot chocolate. She bought the largest size and walked back into the church, ready to resume work.

  Except Gawain was sprawled in her desk chair, feet stretched out and arms folded across his massive chest. She started at the sight of him, releasing a sticky dribble through the hole in the lid of the cup. Knuckles smarting from the burn, she set the drink on top of her filing cabinet and licked the sweetness from her fingers.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light despite her suddenly pounding heart. Emotion from last night flooded back—trepidation, anger and, illogically, desire. Somehow the taste of dark chocolate merged with the sight of his big body, sending a burst of need through her synapses. She wanted to touch the stubble on his cheeks to see if it was as rough as it looked—which was utterly ridiculous.

  He looked up slowly, eyes traveling from her feet to her face as if committing her to memory all over again. With a quick shove, he spun the chair to face her. The lines of his face were harsh with fatigue. By the rumpled state of his clothes, he’d been up all night.

  “I told you I’d come back for answers.” His voice was rough, almost a rasp.

  “You lost the right to answers.” Tamsin shed her coat, hanging it on the hook behind the door.

  His jaw went tight. “For your own sake, for everyone’s, I beg you to reconsider.”

  “Right,” she muttered. “Evil fae, wicked queen, stone knights.”

  “I promise you, I will not touch you again. You have nothing to fear from me.” Gawain rose from the chair, stepping aside as best he could in the tiny, cramped office. The movement was graceful, reminding her he was more than he appeared. A knight. A prince. Or perhaps a very good actor.

  Tamsin folded her arms, protecting herself but determined to stand her ground. She wasn’t prey, and she wasn’t about to run—although her knees were trembling a bit. He might say he was harmless, but she didn’t buy it. His presence filled the room like a physical force. He gestured to her empty chair with courtly grace.

  Refusing to show how much he spooked her, she retrieved her chocolate and sat down. Only then did she notice a newspaper folded and positioned in the middle of her desk. “What’s this?”

  “Proof of what I’ve told you.”

  She picked up the paper and glanced at the headline. “It says there was a mugging. What does that prove?”

  In a single, lightning-fast movement, he snatched the paper and slammed it down on the desk. “This happened last night. I was there. Read it carefully.”

  Suddenly he was too big, too physical. The fury rolling off him pinned Tamsin to the chair. “Look!” He jabbed a finger at the paper. Then he visibly reined himself in. “Please.”

  At first she couldn’t. It was as if her spine had fused with fright. Then, one degree at a time, she managed to move her head. There was a picture of a narrow alley, the outline of a body marked in chalk. The owner of the gas station next door had found the unidentified corpse. “This is awful, but I don’t understand the significance.”

  “The deceased male was a fae. There were two, but apparently the other survived and walked away. Now read the article below.”

  She did. A man had been found wandering the streets last night. He was hospitalized now, suffering from amnesia.

  “The fae attacked him,” Gawain said. “I saved his life, but I could do no more. They were consuming his soul.”

  Tamsin looked up from the paper, bewildered. “They were what?”

  “The fae were robbed of their souls, so now they devour those of innocent strangers. If I cannot find my king and brother knights, there will be no way to stop their army from taking what they want. I cannot begin to guess how many mortals will die.”

  The harsh regret in his words shook her. She picked up the paper, studying the eerie scene again before she set it facedown on the desk. The articles weren’t exactly proof, but the times coincided with some of the disturbances Stacy had reported. That had to mean something.

  He was utterly somber, nothing but pure determination etched on his face. “Will you help me?”

  She hesitated, and not because she begrudged him her aid. Even if he were mad, it would be straightforward enough to find one of the tombs and send him on his way. But maybe—just maybe—she was starting to believe him. “What are you going to do if I find your king? Hover over his effigy and wait for him to wake up?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  Tamsin imagined him sitting by a tomb for days, weeks, even years, waiting for his lord to cheat death. He had that kind of single-minded purpose. “Why spend the time looking for Arthur?” she asked. “Why not lead the attack against the fae yourself?”

  “For the same reason you do not hire a blacksmith to etch the head of a pin,” he said, matter-of-fact. “We all have strengths. I am the best fighter, but Arthur is the strategist. And there are other reasons.” He looked as if he wanted to say more but didn’t. He obviously wasn’t ready for full disclosure.

  Even so, his words made sense to Tamsin. She fiddled with the edge of the newspaper, fraying it between her fingers. “I’ve tried looking in the files. It’s going to take forever to get through them, and if what you say is true, we don’t have that kind of time.”

  She heard his indrawn breath. She hadn’t exactly said she would help him, but she’d given him hope. A mix of emotions made her palms go clammy. Agreeing to this meant spending more time in his company, and that was a terrifying prospect. Worse, it had a dark appeal that made her insides grow war
m with anticipation. Tamsin wasn’t sure how far she trusted herself.

  Gawain found a second chair beneath a stack of files and sat. His eyes were on her face, reading her every expression. “Go on.”

  “There might be another way,” Tamsin said slowly. “I came to Carlyle because rumors say there is a collection of ancient books of magic in town. I want to find it and study what’s there.”

  Gawain frowned. “You don’t know where it is?”

  “No. Strange as it may seem to outsiders, that’s common among my people.” She took another sip of her chocolate. “Covens guard their archives jealously. Most of the real information on magic was lost after the war against the demons. Merlin’s spell compromised our powers and, well, let’s just say magic users weren’t popular after he was through. Years of persecution followed and most of our books were burned.”

  Tamsin paused, wondering if she should be telling him her plans. At the same time, an idea was forming as she spoke. “The only books that survived were well hidden. Scholars like my father, and now me, have to talk our way into collections to study the materials. There is no coven in Carlyle, which makes me think the books I’m looking for might be in a private library.”

  “And what does this have to do with the tombs?” Gawain asked, the tension around his eyes reminding her of how little he liked magic.

  She set the cup down. “I’m getting there. The rumors say the books were originally part of this church’s property and came with it when it was moved. They might have belonged to Merlin the Wise himself.”

  That got Gawain’s attention. “You seek Merlin’s books?”

  “I do. Since Merlin enchanted your tombs, the books may help us find your knights. I could try locating them by magic. One seeking spell might even find both at once.”

  Gawain didn’t speak, but leaned forward in his chair, waiting for her next words.

  “So that is how I can help you,” Tamsin concluded. “Now I’ll tell you how you can help me.”

  His response was clipped. “Name it.”

  Tamsin took a deep breath, bracing herself. “A seeking spell requires an object connected to the thing or person you’re looking for. You’re the closest thing I’ve got to those tombs.”

  “You want to use me?” Gawain bolted from the chair, blue eyes wide with wrath—or maybe it was alarm. “I am to take part in your witch’s spell?”

  “It’s up to you,” Tamsin said, her throat so tight it hurt. “How badly do you want to find your king?”

  Chapter 6

  It was dark when Gawain arrived at Tamsin’s apartment building a few hours later. His steps slowed as he approached the front walk, for he did not want to be there—not at all. Not when the reason for the visit was to cast a spell. He would rather have faced an enraged ogre than be in the same room with a witch at work—and yet somehow he had agreed to it. That had to be proof of his desperation.

  Gawain knew well enough that magic could heal as well as harm. If the stakes were high enough, he could and would endure its presence for the greater good. After all, he had allowed Merlin to turn him to stone so he could follow his king into the future. It was just...

  Memories of his childhood crowded in. His mother, Queen Morgause, had been as beautiful as a night-blooming flower—or at least that’s what the poets had said. All the recollections Gawain could dredge up were of nightmares. The nameless, many-legged things she kept in her workroom and called her pets. Her deadly potions. The sight of her strangling his hound so she could use the unborn pups for a curse. And then there was the way she had died—slain by her own son, Agravaine. Gawain’s younger brother’s mind had not survived the twisted evil in their home.

  And Gawain, alone of all his brothers, had inherited the potential to create that darkness anew. That was not a future he was willing to accept. As soon as he was old enough, he’d picked up a sword and ridden off to serve the young king, believing an honorable death would cleanse his soul. He’d survived, but never allowed himself to use the least hint of his inherited magic. Not after—well, he refused to think about certain events.

  Which begged the question of why he was knocking on a witch’s door, about to help her with a spell. If Gawain had thought of any other way to find the Round Table in time to destroy their enemies—anything at all—he’d have leaped on it like a wildcat upon a hare.

  Gawain reached the front door of Tamsin’s building and found it locked. He knew enough about modern times to search the panel beside the door for Tamsin’s name. He pressed the button next to it and waited.

  “Hello?” Her voice crackled out of the speaker, making him jump.

  He cast a glance around, hoping no one had noticed his less-than-manly surprise. “It is Gawain.”

  “Come on up.”

  The door clicked, and he tugged on the handle. This time it opened, and he stepped into the lobby. Fortunately, he’d already learned about elevators and made his way to her floor.

  The door to Tamsin’s suite was open, letting out the scent of herbs and good food. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he was hungry. He lingered on the threshold a moment, savoring the aroma.

  A moment later, Tamsin put her head out of the tiny galley kitchen and gave him a bright smile. “Make yourself comfortable. Dinner’s just about done.”

  “Dinner?” he asked suspiciously. “I did not expect this.”

  “I hope you don’t mind. I can’t perform a ritual on an empty stomach.”

  Gawain approached the tiny table where just last night Tamsin had bound his wound. There were place settings already laid out, and he studied them carefully. He’d been thoroughly trained to take his place at Camelot’s high table, but he was well aware that modes and manners had changed. Gawain felt an unaccustomed flicker of stage fright.

  Tamsin bustled out of the kitchen with a bowl of greens. “It’s just pasta and salad, nothing much. My mother would tell me I’m a terrible homemaker.”

  He almost smiled then, a rueful turn of lips. “You realize, of course, that I have not been invited to dine in someone’s home for nearly a thousand years.”

  Tamsin raised her brows. “In that case, you’ll be excited to learn about this new thing called a fork.”

  Gawain looked away from her pretty, open face. “You’re mocking me.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “You assume I have the manners of a mad hermit.”

  “Have you used a fork before?”

  “Why should I?” His tone grew icy.

  “Maybe I should have ordered pizza.” She disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Gawain watched her retreating form, appreciating the sway of her hips. He knew she was just as wary of him as he was of her—and with more cause—but she refused to let it show. Whatever else she was, Tamsin Greene was not a coward. She was taking a risk, inviting him here. He would show her better courtesy tonight.

  “I’m a little behind,” she said. “My sister keeps phoning me about one thing or another. Today it was my mother’s plans.”

  “For what?”

  Tamsin’s shoulders hunched, as if the subject irritated her. “She’s threatening to have the Elders find a husband for me.”

  “Is she?” Gawain’s eyes narrowed. Every level of his being rejected the idea like poison.

  Tamsin gave Gawain a weary look, but there was a touch of anger deep in her eyes. “It’s just my mother. The Elders have better things to do with their time.”

  “What does your sister believe?” The knot in his chest tightened. He had never condoned forcing a maid to marry, whatever the reason.

  “She’s older and thinks she knows best.”

  He could hear the affection in her voice, but also deep exasperation. “I understand. I was the eldest of four brothers.”

 
“No wonder you’re bossy.” Tamsin set plates of food on the table. “Sit. Eat. I promise it is entirely magic-free.”

  He flushed slightly at her words, but sat and sniffed at the meal. It wasn’t food he’d tried before, but he had seen it in pictures. There were spirals of pasta drenched in a thick and meaty sauce that made his mouth water. Hesitantly, he picked up a piece of crusty bread and soaked it in the sauce. It was hot and savory, and all at once dinner seemed like an excellent idea.

  They dug in. He watched the way Tamsin handled the food to make sure he got the rituals of the table just right. Although he tried not to admit it, he enjoyed watching her delicate fingers hold the silverware and the way her lips closed around each bite. It made him think of other, more interesting things her lips might do.

  “You realize,” Tamsin began, breaking the silence, “that as a medieval historian, I’m fascinated to actually meet someone from the past.” She cast him a glance that was almost shy.

  “I expect that is true.” Gawain shifted in his seat, feeling uncomfortably ancient. It prompted him to change the subject. “You say you are in search of Merlin’s books at the behest of your coven Elders. Why did you take on this task?”

  She looked down, her face carefully schooled. “To prove myself. Loremasters can travel and conduct business on our own authority in a way other witches can’t. I am the first woman to take this position, even on a temporary basis. I want the job permanently. It’s the best chance I have for a position with so much responsibility.”

  No doubt it also ensured escape from a marriage she didn’t want. Gawain studied her face, now grown slightly flushed, as if she wasn’t used to speaking her mind to strangers. “Ambition in the right measure is an attractive quality. It shows independence.”

  Her eyes grew wide and she leaned closer. “Tell me about Merlin the Wise.”

  She’d changed the subject, just as he had. Fencing. Protecting herself. Not quite sure of him. It piqued his interest. “What do you want to know?”