Enchanted Warrior

by Sharon Ashwood

  A slow smile spread over her lips. “Did you truly think me a wicked witch?”

  “Your magic called to mine from the first moment we met. You terrified me.”

  “Ah,” she teased. “You don’t think you’re too black hearted for me? Corrupting magic could go either way, you know.”

  “I believe you are my anchor, Tamsin Greene. As long as you’re at my side, no evil will ever have power over me.” Though he said it with a teasing smile, there was sincerity in his words. He truly needed and loved her.

  Tamsin felt the weight of his trust. She slid her arms around him, laying her head against his chest. “I love you, too, Gawain.”

  Their conversation unraveled after that, but in the best way possible. It deteriorated in the shower, where Tamsin took great pleasure in getting soapy for the second time that afternoon, and crumbled still further as they rumpled the crisp, clean sheets of her bed.

  He kissed her slowly, letting his lips linger over hers so that their breath commingled, warmth against warmth. “What sort of magic do you think we can make together?” she asked.

  His grin was suddenly sharp with mischief. It was an expression Tamsin hadn’t seen before, and it made her insides tighten with anticipation. He took her hand, kissing the tip of each finger in a way that made her squirm with pleasure. Who knew such a simple sensation could travel so deep into her core? Then his lips found her wrist, his tongue darting to mark the fine veins beneath her skin. The brush of his cheek was rough as he worked his way upward, nibbling the crease of her elbow, then the curve of her shoulder. Gawain had a way of devouring every inch of her, leaving nothing without savoring its delights. He understood what it was to claim a woman.

  Tamsin shifted, leaving a kiss on his chest as she rolled him onto his back. Indulgent, Gawain complied, even lifting her so that she straddled him more easily.

  “Let me,” she said, brushing his sex with hers. Already stiff, it hardened yet more at her touch, weeping as she swept across the engorged tip. Gawain grabbed her hips, holding her still. Tamsin settled, positioning herself to sink, inch by languorous inch, until she was stretched wide and full.

  Gawain reached up, cupping her breasts. His eyes were slits, the blue veiled by thick lashes until the color was lost in smoky shadow. Tamsin rocked slowly so she could lean into his touch. His neck muscles corded, throat working as he controlled his response. From above, she could trace the angles of his face with her gaze. She felt a lost, desperate tenderness for him then, a longing to be with him in every sense of the word.

  His fingers brushed the tips of her breasts, bringing her nipples erect. The sensation made her shiver, and that translated from her body to his. She rocked again, finding a rhythm that matched his kneading hands. The feel of his rough palms was too exquisite, too much, but he gave no quarter, driving her further into madness.

  “More,” she said.

  “Always.”

  He was thrusting, drawing her into a riptide she couldn’t resist. She was caught on a knife’s edge, wanting more, wanting less, rocking deeper to end the driving need for relief. She burned, her skin slick with sweat and the need to have him touch it all. Tamsin grabbed his strong, thick arms, using him to steady her movements. The first pulses of release shot through her, ripping a moan from her throat. Gawain pushed hard, driving her higher until she shuddered, every nerve igniting with pleasure. A moment of blind wonder took her.

  And yet it didn’t end there. They rolled in a tangle with her arms locked around his shoulders. Before the pleasure had even faded, Gawain was moving again, thrusting deeper, faster, returning her to ecstasy. She gripped hard, nails scraping skin as she arched against him. One last, strong stroke, and they fell into bliss together.

  “Tamsin,” Gawain murmured softly. “Tamsin.”

  She couldn’t move for the longest time. Didn’t want to. Her head was cushioned on Gawain’s shoulder. His arm curled around her, pulling her close.

  She laced her fingers through his. “That’s the sort of magic we’ll make together.”

  “That was just the first line of the spell,” he murmured, and caught her mouth with his. “Every word, every line, every verse will be a declaration of my desire.”

  “I heard they call you Silver Tongue.”

  “As long as they also call my words true. I am yours to command, Tamsin Greene. Whatever you desire, you shall have it.”

  She laced her fingers through his, utterly content. “I want this.”

  “Then on my honor, I am yours,” Gawain promised. “Forever.”

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from NIGHT QUEST by Susan Krinard.

  Afterword

  The legends about Arthur, Merlin and the knights of Camelot come down to us from a variety of times and places. Not surprisingly, various versions of the stories don’t always agree on who did what or why. The only thing that’s certain is that the folks in Arthur’s court led extremely complicated lives.

  I have simplified a few things and tweaked others to fit my story. The character of Gawain—hotheaded and proud, but unfailingly loyal—is fundamentally as I found him in legend. I’m glad I was able to give him a good home in our time with someone able to match his generous spirit.

  We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Nocturne story.

  You harbor otherworldly desires.... Harlequin Nocturne stories delve into dark, sensuous and often dangerous territory, where the normal and paranormal collide.

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  Night Quest

  by Susan Krinard

  Prologue

  Some thirty years after the signing of the Treaty between human and Nightsider, or Opiri, forces, human Enclaves and Nightsider Citadels maintained a sometimes uneasy peace. Territories were well established, and the neutral Zones between were regularly patrolled by Citadel and Enclave agents.

  The agents were of two specific genetic types. The half-breed Daysiders, or Darketans, day-walking Opiri, were born of human fathers and Nightsider mothers. Previously considered mutants, they had human coloring and extra-human speed and strength, but possessed the standard need for blood.

  The half-blood dhampires, offspring of human mothers and Opir fathers, were of a different genetic type, with “cat-like” eyes and the ability to walk in daylight, while also possessing full Opiri speed, strength and acute senses. A percentage were dependent on blood, while some were able to digest human food.

  Though both Daysider and dhampir agents were charged to prevent potential enemies from entering their respective territories, they could not prevent the establishment of illicit colonies.

  In California, humans and progressive Opiri founded mixed settlements in which humans and Nightsiders could live in peace and cooperation. These new colonies were for the most part left alone by both Citadels and Enclaves. Farther north, in the former states of Oregon and Washington, humans established heavily guarded compounds inhabited by militias more devoted to killing stray Opiri than maintaining the peace.

  Their victims were primarily exiled Opiri known as Freebloods. Most Freebloods were humans who had been bitten and turned into Opiri by powerful Bloodlords and Bloodmasters after the beginning of the ten-year War, first serving as vassals to their sires and then, after being replaced by other vassals, released from the bond created by the process of conversion.

  Freebloods within the Citadels were forced to compete for human serfs in order to establish a Household and
gain rank. But though, by treaty, the Citadels were compelled to send convicts to their former enemies, the supply of such convicts began to dwindle, and competition for the serfs became a significant problem.

  As a result, hundreds of Freebloods were exiled from the Citadels to survive in any way they could. These Freebloods, running in packs, became a significant threat to human and mixed colonies, often stealing humans or killing Opiri colonists.

  At the same time, certain Citadels began to see the necessity of changing the Opir way of life in order to deal with the ever-shrinking supply of accessible human blood. Some Opiri spoke of the need to abandon the taking of human blood in favor of animal blood, while others favored a new war. Meanwhile, the mixed colonies continued to grow and spread, offering a new alternative of peaceful coexistence based on the voluntary sharing of blood.

  It was, of course, inevitable that these competing philosophies would come into conflict.

  —from the Introduction to The Armistice Years: Conflict and Convergence

  Chapter 1

  Timon.

  Garret Fox knelt beside the footprints scattered in the dirt, tracing the smallest with his fingertip. They had paused here, the kidnappers, and the little person to whom the footprint belonged had briefly touched ground before being swept up again.

  Still alive, Garret thought. He dragged his hand across his face, scraping against the four-day beard he hadn’t had time to shave off, and got to his feet. Fear for his son made him ignore the deep ache in his muscles, the rawness of blistered feet, the heavy autumn rains that penetrated his coat and pried icy fingers under his collar. He hardly noticed the sting of the scratches across his face and hands where branches from trees and bushes had scraped his skin.

  Speed had been far more important to him than caution. He wasn’t interested in concealing his trail. Neither were the rogues ahead of him. They felt safe now, nearly two hundred miles away from the colony they had raided. Safe because they had left complete chaos in their wake, and every adult human or Nightsider had been needed to clean up the mess and protect the other children.

  The rogues believed they had nothing to fear from a single human.

  Garret adjusted his pack, reassured by the weight of the VS-134 rifle—the highly effective and notorious weapon known as the “Vampire Slayer,” whose use was strictly forbidden except in cases of extreme emergency.

  And that was why this had happened, Garret thought bitterly. Timon had paid for the colony’s philosophy of nonviolence and indiscriminate acceptance of every potential settler. Garret had no compunction about using deadly force to save him.

  If Roxana had been alive, she would have done the same. Timon was all he had left, the only thing in the world that gave meaning and purpose to what remained of his life.

  I will get him back, Roxana, he promised.

  He set out again, though dawn was still hours away. Rain turned to sleet with the unseasonable cold. The moon was bright enough for him to see by, but he didn’t need to rely on it completely. He’d spent years not only honing his body and skills to fight enemy Nightsiders, but also in developing his senses of hearing and touch to help him move in darkness. The night would never be his element, but he had long ago reached a truce with it.

  As darkness gave way to sunlight, he moved more quickly. As each day passed, the trail had led him deeper into wild country that seemed to grow colder with every mile, far from any human Enclave, Nightsider Citadel or free colony.

  Time and again, he lost the trail and then picked it up, losing ground by night and gaining by day. Along the way he found the bodies of solitary humans drained of blood, their hollow shells cast aside, and each time he spoke a few brief words over the dead before he forced himself onward. His supply of dried foods shrank steadily, but he didn’t dare search for some isolated homestead or settlement to replenish his stores. He sought clean streams to fill his canteen, gathered edible greens and caught whatever game he could find.

  At the end of the second week, his stomach hollow and his gait uneven with exhaustion, he knew he had fallen far behind. Still he drove himself on. He began to see more human settlements—not mixed colonies, like Avalon, but high-walled, paramilitary compounds with heavily armed militias whose sole purpose seemed to be hunting down and killing rogue Freebloods. Garret avoided them, as he had avoided the less warlike settlements he passed.

  Fifteen minutes before dawn on the first morning of the third week, near what used to be the city of Eugene, he heard the distant sound of a woman’s scream.

  He didn’t pause to think. Dropping to his knees, he shrugged out of his pack and removed the components of the VS. With shaking hands he assembled the rifle and looped its strap over his shoulder. If the woman was being harassed by Nightsiders, the Vampire Slayer might be all that stood between her and an ugly death.

  * * *

  The sound of a twig snapping brought Artemis to attention. She grabbed her bow, her hunt unfinished, and ran toward the denser forest and one of the many refuges she had built for herself in the area she had chosen as her territory.

  If it hadn’t been for her hunger, she might have been clearheaded enough to notice the humans before she ran into them. If there had been one less human, she might have taken them down before they trapped her.

  But there were five, all armed with automatic rifles, and they had thrown the wire netting over her before she could do more than raise her hands. Each segment of the weighted net was razor sharp, and though a thousand small cuts couldn’t kill an Opir, the damage would prevent her escape.

  “You were right, Coleman,” one of the men said. “Never would have believed we’d find a female bloodsucker living alone out here.” He looked at the sky. “Just about sunrise. We might still get her back—”

  “Why?” a younger man asked, holding his section of the net with thickly gloved hands. “She ain’t no spy.”

  “Dean’s right,” a third human said. “She wouldn’t be out here alone near sunrise if she was. She won’t have no useful intel. Might as well take care of her here.”

  Artemis barely heard their voices. The wire burned wherever it touched her skin and sliced through her clothing, but she tried to focus on calculating her best means of escape. One of these humans would surely be careless enough to loosen his grip on the net, giving her a few seconds to fight her way out. Blood loss might be great, but if she could grab even one of these monsters...

  “Watch out!” the first male said as she lunged toward the loosest part of the net.

  “Burn her!”

  Something jabbed against Artemis’s neck, and a paralyzing shock jolted her nerves and froze her muscles. She felt her useless body being dragged across the ground and through the mud, the wires cutting deeper as the humans found a patch of dry earth far from any hint of shade.

  The sky had grown pale in the east. The sun was minutes away from rising, and her body ignored every command her brain tried to send it. She was aware of increasing pain as the humans jostled the net and anchored it to the ground, driving stakes into the earth to pin its edges so tight and close that she wouldn’t find even the smallest opening.

  Still, she tried. The paralysis broke, and she flung herself up and against the stinging web, cutting what remained of her clothes to ribbons and shredding the skin of her hands while the guttural laughter of the humans echoed inside her skull.

  Then they stepped back, denying her what little shelter their shadows might provide, and watched the first rays of the sun strike her bleeding fingers.

  She didn’t intend to scream. She fought it with all the discipline and self-control she had learned both in the Citadel and as an exile in the wilderness.

  But her own cry deafened even the laughter of the humans, and the last thing she saw was the bright hair of a man with green eyes blazing like emeralds in the rising sun.

/>   * * *

  For a few fleeting seconds Garret considered the possibility of leaving the Opir woman to her fate. There were five men, all carrying modified assault rifles, and numerous knives and bladed weapons. It would be impossible to approach them without being seen.

  He’d faced similar odds before and met them head-on. But he had expected a human woman, not a Freeblood. For all he knew, the female might be among the most vicious rogues in this patch of wilderness, as bad as those who had taken his son.

  And if anything were to happen to him now, there would be no one to look for Timon. No one to save him from whatever fate the rogues intended for him.

  But the militiamen were torturing the woman, and that was far beyond the pale of what Garret could accept. He had no doubt of what Roxana would have done if she were here.

  Kneeling behind a screen of shrubs, Garret separated the VS into its component parts and returned them to his pack. Raising his hands above his head, he walked out into the clearing. Almost as one, the militiamen lifted their rifles and pointed them at his chest.

  “Human,” Garret said in his mildest voice, trying to ignore the muffled moans of the Opir woman in the net. “Peace.”

  Two of the men lowered their rifles. The others held steady. The eldest of the bunch, grizzled and scarred, stepped forward.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, his hand on the butt of his hunting knife.

  “My name is Garret Fox,” Garret said. “I’m looking for my son, who was taken by rogue bloodsuckers.” He glanced at the Freeblood in the net. “Have you seen any children in the area?”

  The leader looked at his comrades. They shook their heads.

  “We ain’t seen no kids outside our compound,” he said, his eyes narrow with suspicion. “Or any bloodsuckers except this one.” He kicked at the body curled up on the ground, and Garret fought the instinct to stop him. “Your son, you said? Where you from?”