by Black, Regan
But first he needed to identify his target. Morgana’s power in this world had called him awake and the city was too vast and too populated to enter without clear direction. “Seek with me,” he said to the hound.
When the dog’s attention was focused on the pool, Gawain whispered the words that would illuminate the trail of power. Movement at the edge of the image caught the hound’s eye and Gawain’s gaze followed.
A tall woman with deep auburn hair lingered on a corner, ignoring a tower of baffling images changing in flashes over her head. Gawain, out of practice, got distracted by the images, but the hound stayed on course. He was grateful for his partner’s sharp focus.
“She is tied to the summoning.” He studied the woman, curious that she did not reek of the dark sorcery as he expected. This woman was neither Morgana nor one of the followers. He shook his head and concentrated more intensely.
The inexplicable stumped him. How could an innocent be connected to his quest? He would doubt his instinct if not for the hound’s single-mindedness. He didn’t notice anyone with a darker intent or connection among all of the people milling about her. Gawain sighed. He supposed none of the circumstances would make sense until he understood where the binding spell had failed. She was involved, his magic and the hound’s instinct were aligned on that fact.
Then he saw a face he recognized, though it seemed as impossible as the city he gazed upon. Peter. His squire was dressed for the times and strode right up to the woman waiting on the corner. The woman’s proud posture weakened at his arrival. What the devil? He’d trained his squire to be genteel and gracious, not imposing to the fairer sex.
“We must go.” Gawain strapped his broadsword to his back while the hound yawned and stretched. With one hand on the hound’s head and his intention clear in his mind, Gawain took a deep breath and stepped into the strange world reflected in the water.
It was a sensation he would not forget, despite his rare use of this powerful magic of moving from one point to another. The transition from the quiet cave to the crowded, noisy streets shocked him. He shivered and the hound leaned against his leg, lending what warmth he could.
The silent vision had been pleasant in comparison to this reality. The sounds battered his eardrums and the myriad smells assaulted his senses. There was nothing familiar to him in this world, nothing beyond people who walked on two legs and the single horseman. No thickets or trees, no grass or soft earth. The sky was blotted from view by the crowding towers and the only view of the sun came from glaring reflections of light bouncing off of the strange structures.
He’d chosen his entry point away from the official on the horse and moved swiftly toward the woman and his squire. It was difficult to ignore the people in such strange clothing and their contraptions clogged the wider, black path between lines of towers. If he dwelled on all that was foreign, he would be overwhelmed before he could resume his quest. Changes be damned. He would adapt because nothing was more imperative than purging the evil had broken the laws of time.
He felt people watching him. Mouths gaped, women startled, and all eyes went wide as he stalked forward. Belatedly, he recalled that he was not dressed for the current year. Swallowing his discomfort, he applied the strongest glamour he could muster to blend in.
As he started once more for the woman and the squire who owed him an explanation, another uniformed horseman with a dark blue uniform approached him. The horse moved between the strange, loud carriages without showing any sign of distress. Gawain would count courageous horses as one favorable thing in this new place.
“Mister, you need a leash for that dog,” the man said.
Gawain glanced up, wishing he still had the horse he’d signed over to the squire. He let his gaze wander over the excellent animal. “Your horse is in superb condition.”
“Thanks. You still need a leash. City ordinance.”
“Of course.” Gawain extended his illusion and mimed putting a lead on his hound. “He is so well behaved I’d forgotten.”
“Never seen a greyhound quite that color,” the uniformed officer said.
Gawain smiled. It pleased him that animals here were valued and cared for despite the vast changes to the world. “Blue greyhounds are rare,” he said. “He was a gift from the king and we have been together many years.”
“The king?”
“King Arthur,” Gawain replied, his concerns with this world growing by the second. Was there no one in charge of this seething mass of humanity?
The officer laughed. “Great job staying in character, man,” he said as his horse shifted sideways. “You and your dog take care.”
The uniformed sentry and horse moved along, leaving Gawain to his pursuit. He’d thought his illusion more effective as he closed the distance, until the squire spotted him, eyes going wide in his face.
Gawain expected fear or humility on the young man’s expression, but seeing excitement and awe instead, he grew more perturbed. “What has happened to you, Peter? Why am I here?”
“My God.” The squire rubbed at his eyes. “Sir...” Peter clamped his lips together as he rushed forward. “Holy shit.” He cleared his throat, shook his head. “I can’t believe it’s really you.”
Gawain tried to reconcile the words and voice with the young man he’d known. Clearly he’d been here long enough to assimilate with the current era, yet he hadn’t aged. It was impossible to anticipate all the effects of a complex binding spell, but Gawain couldn’t dispute the evidence before him. He closed his eyes and breathed deep of the air choked with the scents of too many people and strange machines.
There was cause and effect in all things from planting and harvest to battle tactics. Magic was not exempt. It seemed he’d missed a critical element despite his training and precautions. “Explain your presence, and mine,” Gawain snapped. “Why are we in this strange place, Peter? This is not what I asked of you.”
“M-my presence?” He stammered. “I l-live here.”
“For how long?”
“All my life. Twenty-seven years,” he added.
The woman shied away, but the squire caught her hand and pulled her close to his side. Were they lovers? His squire had given a vow and Gawain’s temper grew at the obvious affront. Peter whispered something at her ear that caused her to gawk, eyes wide.
Gawain cataloged her features quickly. Her almond shaped green eyes were as sharp and deep as emeralds and framed with thick lashes and auburn eyebrows that winged in the manner of fey creatures. He vaguely remembered dreaming of a lass with those eyes, but couldn’t pinpoint when that had occurred.
Uneasy, Gawain glared at the sight of his squire’s hand joined with the woman’s. Had he been awakened because the man had broken his vow and rendered the spell useless? He turned the full force of his attention to Peter. “You gave me your vow,” he said through gritted teeth.
“What? Oh, no.” The man laughed nervously. “Right. That wasn’t me. I didn’t make that vow. I’m not Peter.”
At his side the hound’s lip curled. The growl was barely audible, but it matched Gawain’s increasing frustration. No one but the one who’d made the vow should know of it. Clearly, his squire had betrayed him. His palm itched, eager for the hilt of his sword as he stepped forward. “Who has turned you? And when?” How much advantage had Morgana gained on Gawain’s quest?
“No one.” The squire leaned back, raising his hands. “Times changed, sir, moved forward. My name is Nick O’Malley. Allow me to introduce Tara O’Malley.”
His squire had been an O’Malley and had vowed to be the end of that particular family line. What in all of heaven or hell had happened to derail his simple instruction and put the world in peril? Far from appeased, Gawain offered Nick’s woman a cursory bow. Chivalry could not be discarded on the grounds of his distress. “Pardon me. I am Gaw-”
“Wayne,” the man with his squire’s face interrupted. “Use Wayne while you’re here.” The man’s smile was tight, forced, as his eyes darted among the people pa
ssing by. “And we are happy to see you. We need your help.”
Nick’s caution, while troubling, assured Gawain he had woken in dire times, yet managed to arrive in the right place. There was a familiar comfort in being needed. He stretched the limits of his power, diverting magic from his glamour to prod the people closest to them, seeking the source of the threat that had brought him here.
“Stop,” Nick commanded in a low tone. “Your disguise is slipping. We can’t afford to draw the wrong kind of attention.”
The woman gawked at him, a bewildered worry in her eyes. Gawain immediately refocused his magic on his appearance. When the pair calmed, his gaze again wandered over the startling environment and population. There were too many changes to catalog. Few were likely relevant to his purpose here anyway. “Send away the woman so you can explain yourself.”
“I will explain, but she stays with us,” the squire replied. “Alone, she is in danger.”
“Bull. The woman,” she bit out each syllable, “can take care of herself.”
Gawain saw neither a bull nor any other imminent danger. “Explain yourselves,” he demanded. If Morgana targeted Nick’s woman they needed to act immediately. Gawain looked her over from head to toe, ignoring her indignant gasp at his extended perusal. “Have we met before, Tara?”
“No.” Her nostrils flared and her full mouth thinned to an angry line.
Gawain sensed something more lurking beneath her temper and indignation, but Nick swiftly interrupted the questions parading through his mind.
“I’ll explain everything and it will make sense soon enough. I hope,” Nick said. “We can’t discuss it out here on the street.”
Gawain set his feet, wanting answers now. Here. People barely acknowledged the three of them as they hurried about their business in every direction. “No one appears concerned with us.” He couldn’t decide if that was a boon or an insult. In Arthur’s realm, he would be recognized and welcomed, his return celebrated. But the realm had grown immense over the centuries. Gawain reeled in his troubling thoughts. “What year is it? Who is the king?”
“That can wait.” Nick rolled his eyes. “It’s irrelevant anyway. Follow me.” His hand clasped tight on the woman’s arm, he turned his back and walked away.
“Halt!” This was Gawain’s quest. He’d given his word to his king, regardless of time or unfamiliar terrain. Nick could not be allowed to forget who was in charge. Gawain knew he needed guidance through the rules of this world, yet he would not traipse about uninformed, led by a man he didn’t know well enough to trust.
The younger version of his squire turned, urging Gawain to approach. “It’s the twenty-first century, sir,” he explained in a voice no more than a coarse whisper. “Your squire, Peter, was my grandfather many times over. In every generation one of us is chosen, trained, and prepared for the eventuality of your return. I am a modern day squire, if you will.” His gaze turned to steel, an expression his ancestor had not mastered in Gawain’s time. “That is all I will say about it out here. Lingering in public isn’t smart.”
Nick’s statement and obvious concerns only raised more questions. Gawain reached for the hound, the contact settling both of them. “This is impossible.” The buildings, the sheer number of people and developments he could not put into words threatened to overwhelm him.
“Apparently not so much,” the woman grumbled, crossing her arms. “He managed to keep all those pesky details from everyone. Even family.”
“Especially family,” Nick corrected with a wry twist of his mouth. “We need to get off the street.”
“I see,” Gawain said. The response wasn’t a complete lie, though it was close. Not even his hound had picked up a trace of Morgana’s presence. Could he believe this O’Malley’s tale? Would this man prove more faithful than his ancestor? “Why did you bring your woman into this?”
*
“For the love of God, drop the act. I’m not his woman.” Tara wanted to give her temper free rein, wanted to shout and possibly throw a well-aimed punch or two. Anything to get this pair of men to understand she wasn’t helpless, inept, or stupid. Furious with the entire impossible, messy turn her life had taken, she jerked her arm out of Nick’s grasp. “I’m his cousin.”
“Show some respect, Tara,” Nick grumbled under his breath.
She ignored the stranger and went toe to toe with Nick, wishing she’d worn heels to put her closer to eye level with him. “Respect? I can’t believe you hired an actor to make fun of me. This is a disaster. I’ll fess up to mom and dad and see what they have to say.”
Nick caught her, stopping her escape again. “They’ll only tell you to listen to me. He’s real,” Nick whispered. “Magic, spells, and time-traveling are real. This knight and his greyhound are our best bet at this point.”
She rolled her eyes, but the dismissive gesture failed when her gaze tangled with the strange man. This Gawain-Wayne person put on a good show with his peculiar accent and archaic manners she had to assume were appropriate in the sixth century. But it was his face that made her skin prickle with an inexplicable awareness. They’d never met - she wouldn’t have forgotten him - but he was familiar. His eyes were the perfect blue of a bright October sky, framed by the strong bones of his face. His golden brown hair was pulled back and a thick, overgrown beard softened the edges of a square jawline.
It was as if he’d stepped out of a classic painting, minus the armor, horse, and lance. She must be associating him with her youthful fascination with the history and stories of the era Nick said he’d come from.
He couldn’t be real, not the way Nick implied. Time travel wasn’t possible. No more possible than her awkward sense of acquaintance. Uncomfortable, she aimed all her discomfort and irritation at her cousin. “A police report is our best bet,” she countered. “Alerting museums and pawn shops isn’t a bad idea either.” This stunt sure as hell wouldn’t get the dagger back.
“No,” Nick insisted. “That’s a recipe for disaster. I know a place we can talk, safely.”
She bristled at his lofty tone. Older than her by only two weeks, he had no right to toss around all this judgment. Twenty-four hours ago she’d been minding the family pub in Brooklyn Heights. Her life had been normal and going along well enough. Then the dagger had up and disappeared from her locked office between shifts. Not once in the history of the O’Malley family had the dagger gone missing. It wasn’t a matter of misplacing it. The narrow, seven-inch blade with a simple hilt topped with a dull, uncut ruby, wasn’t a particularly beautiful piece yet it was a revered heirloom connecting each generation to the one previous.
She remembered the electric mix of fear and excitement when the dagger had officially become her responsibility. Her earliest memories involved watching her father use the dagger for opening mail at the pub as had his father before him. When it was her turn, he’d sat in that tiny office and handed over the dagger along with a far more serious version of the family fairytale.
Her mother, Siobhan, had been at his side, her hand on his shoulder while he’d revealed a new and solemn chapter to the story she’d learned as a child. The truth, as he’d put it was an ongoing war of light versus dark, gallant knights and treacherous sorcery, and an unquenchable determination to see that good prevailed. By accepting the dagger, she’d been charged with keeping the potent relic safe. Her mother, eyes misty, quietly added that Tara should contact Nick if anything strange happened to her or the dagger.
The exchange had rattled her, haunted her day and night. For weeks she jumped at shadows, paranoid she’d be the first O’Malley to fail the family. Siobhan, seeing straight to the heart of the matter as was her habit, reminded her that the O’Malley dagger had been safely passed from each firstborn to the next since the sixth century. Tara merely had to maintain the status quo.
Apparently it only took the first girl in the line to screw it up, though she’d believed she had everything under control. As months passed without any trouble she’d relaxed, focu
sing more on the honor and joy of her new business challenges, and releasing the stressful burden of safeguarding the heirloom with a murky, mystical history.
Like most of her siblings and cousins, she’d taken the tale of the grand O’Malley family origins with a grain of salt as she’d grown up. The idyllic notion of an ancestor in service to Gawain the Gallant of King Arthur’s Round Table striving against dark forces to create a peaceful, just world offered an excellent way of illustrating valuable life lessons. Precautions and dire warnings aside, she’d never believed she’d come face to face with a knight from the past.
Yet, if Nick wasn’t playing games, Gawain the Gallant was standing right here, glowering at the city she loved and braced for a battle she couldn’t fathom. She glanced again at her cousin. Nick couldn’t seriously believe this was the original Gawain the Gallant. There had to be another explanation.
Amid twenty-first century progress, the world was advanced and complex and no amount of exceptional storytelling could convince her that an antique dagger, in the wrong hands, could release some great and terrible evil. A quick scan of daily headlines proved that sort of trouble already oozed from every nook and cranny of the world. The O’Malley dagger couldn’t possibly have any influence over those tragedies, big or small.
Still, it was a terrible embarrassment to be the first O’Malley to lose the dagger. Yesterday, the dagger and the supporting tale seemed like a grand fairy tale perpetrated by her elders to ensure the O’Malley ruby stayed in the family, some sort of insurance against the family fortune. She knew firsthand it was hard work and diligence that kept the very modern, very successful businesses going strong.
Now, faced with this rough-edged, antiquated man with the dreamy blue eyes and handsome greyhound at his side, she wondered what else Nick knew that she didn’t. He’d accepted the man’s shocking appearance, the accent, and the name readily enough.
Gawain the Gallant. Seriously?
She shook her head to clear the persistent cobwebs. Part of her, the fanciful little girl deep inside her heart wanted to believe it, but this man couldn’t possibly be the same Gawain who’d ridden with King Arthur. She had to think of him as Wayne, a 21st century actor dedicated to earning his pay. Despite her Irish heritage, she couldn’t wrap her brain around the concept of a visitor from 1500 years ago. If all of it were true, if she accepted a time-traveling knight, she had to accept other aspects of the tale. The terrifying elements she’d rather not consider.
