by Regan Black
“I suppose that depends on who stole it,” he said in a superior tone. “I would not be here if I was not needed. Knowing the dagger has survived and been protected by your family, knowing preparations were maintained for my return, it seems likely in the way of powers finding balance, that one or more persons from the cult I sought to destroy have also survived.”
Tara finished her meal in silence and weighed his logic as she cleared the table and handled the dishes. She didn’t know of any cults in New York City, none at all near the family pub, though she knew people could get into all kinds of trouble that went unspoken. No one in the pub’s employ knew the dagger existed since few had access to the office. In fact, though her family made a production out of ancestral legend, she now knew only the oldest learned the whole truth of Peter O’Malley.
And according to the knight Peter once served, even he hadn’t told his sons everything.
“I need to visit the place where you kept the dagger.”
“Nick asked us to wait here.” She looked him up and down. “Besides, you can’t traipse about the city in those clothes. If casting a glamour spell wears you down, we need an alternative. Let’s see if this place is as helpful as Nick claims.” She started up the back steps, pleased to hear him and his dog following her without comment or question.
Knowing the typical layout of a brownstone, it was easy to find the master bedroom. When she pushed open the door, she reveled in a moment of pure awe. A massive four-poster bed was centered on the wall opposite the door, complete with a canopy draped in dark, rich silks. A plush, oversized dog bed took up a corner near the hearth. The other furnishings - a tall wardrobe, a high-boy dresser, and two wing chairs near the fireplace - were all crafted of heavy wood in a dark finish that seemed to glow from the inside out.
“Holy cow,” she murmured.
Behind her Wayne sucked in a breath. “My room...” he whispered. The dog slid between them, arrowing for the thick dog bed. “How...” Wayne’s voice trailed off yet again.
She stepped aside, letting him enter the room for a closer inspection. He was equally pleased and baffled as to how it had been accomplished. That made two of them.
“It is in perfect condition.” He rubbed a hand gently along the intricate vine carving climbing the nearest tall post of the bed and then dropped his forehead to the wood. His knuckles turned white as his grip tightened on the scabbard of the broadsword in his other hand.
Roses bloomed across the footboard, feeding the vines on the posts. “This is your furniture?”
“It is mine, my room, to the last detail.”
She gave a low whistle. “I’m starting to understand the enduring O’Malley reputation for loyalty,” Tara said. “Although we obviously do a superb job of keeping secrets too.” Nick’s branch of the family tree had made all of this possible, there was no other explanation. It certainly underscored why she was to go to her cousin in case of an emergency with the dagger. “Would you like some time alone?”
“Yes. Please,” he added his voice tight with emotion.
Tara stepped back and closed the door behind her. Crossing centuries had barely fazed him yet clapping eyes on his belongings sent him reeling. Filled with a sudden rush of sympathy, she leaned back against the wall, reluctant to go far in case he needed her.
Chapter Three
Gawain turned a slow circle, rocked by the familiarity of it all. He set the broadsword across the gleaming width of the polished dresser, as he’d always done at home. The rich silks and velvets on the bed beckoned him to sink in and rest. The colors as deep as ever. How had Peter managed this? It was just as he’d left it, so much that he thought he might see the sweeping green meadows of home if he looked out the window. However frustrated he might be with his squire’s broken vow, the man had seemingly done all he could to rectify that twist of fate.
He felt the hound’s steady gaze on him as he moved about the room, lovingly touching the things he hadn’t valued enough in his own time. When he’d left for his campaign it had quickly become clear he’d never see this room again. Yet here it was. Here he was.
What did it mean to have the pieces of the life and man he’d been sitting here in a time he could scarcely imagine? He had so many questions and too few of them related to the problem that had roused him.
Opening drawers, he found more of his belongings, things time apparently could not improve, all surrounded by what must be modern conveniences. The small knife he’d used to trim his beard was in its place, but the basin was gone. Where it had been was a note to check a nearby door. He did, finding a large bathing room with more notes and guidance.
Once he’d washed and trimmed his beard, thanks to many miraculous advances, he dressed in his old clothing and returned to the bedroom. His hound slept soundly in the familiar bed near the hearth. Gawain was tempted to fall into bed and nap as well. Only the irrational fear that he would wake again in the cave kept him on his feet and exploring the belongings O’Malley had preserved.
He found tools of his magic he’d taken on his quest to defeat Morgana. The mirror his sister had gifted him, along with a shallow bowl and packets of dried herbs for scrying. He smiled at the sight of a colorful river stone he’d found along the Avalon shore and carried since, along with a small figurine carved by Arthur when they’d been foster brothers.
Opening the wardrobe he saw stacks of various fine fabrics that turned out to be shirts in white, gray, and black. A note had been secured to the inner door panel. Though faded slightly, he realized it was a sketch of him, his every measurement listed in the appropriate place. The squire had been thorough indeed. Not only in procuring his belongings, but in safeguarding them from time itself.
He looked from the chairs to the bed and simply sank to the floor near his dog. He leaned back against the wall and let the shock roll through him while he stroked the velvet-soft ears. “Who knows what we’ll face,” he said aloud, his gaze on the ceiling. It troubled him that someone had seized the dagger that could free Morgana. “We should investigate where and how the dagger was stolen.”
Knowing the next step didn’t make it easier. He couldn’t quite summon the strength to move. The dog flopped over and leaned heavily against his thigh. Between the warm room and the warmer hound, Gawain felt himself drifting, his thoughts scattered between his century and this one. Dozing, the dreams in his twilight state were fractured mosaics of how things had been and how he thought they would have changed.
He did not know how long he remained there, only that his body jerked awake at the sound of Tara’s voice on the other side of his door.
“Wayne?” She rapped against the wood and called again.
“Enter,” he said, pushing to his feet.
The door opened and as her gaze raked over the furnishings and him, her sharp eyes were shadowed by a frown. He feared she saw more than he wanted her to see.
“I got a call and need to get to the pub,” she said. “It’s only a few blocks away. You can wait here for Nick and get some more rest.”
“No. It is not safe for you to be alone.” He cut her off when she started to protest. “I will change clothes at once and accompany you.”
He pulled his linen shirt over his head, tossing it to the bed as he’d done countless times in his own home. At the wardrobe, he opened the doors and took out one shirt in each of the fabrics presented. He didn’t want to admit the weakness, but he needed to blend in without using magic. Whoever had stolen the dagger and roused him from his sleep had the power to track him if he used enough magic. He and Nick had recognized that in the city square.
Holding out the options for her opinion, he turned around. “Which is best suited to your pub?”
Seeing her rosy lips parted in shock or dismay, he was immediately contrite for treating her as a squire. His body bore the scars of hard training and challenging battles. It wasn’t a sight suited for females. “My apologies for offending you again.”
“No, don’t apologize
.” She shook her head, her steps hesitant as she crossed the room. “I’m distracted, not offended.” She relieved him of the white shirt with short sleeves and then waved him out of the way. Poking at the items available, she muttered about her cousin and his taste. “It’s functional and current. I should be happy with that much.”
“You are not?”
“Not really. As a woman, I’m entitled to having a higher standard for menswear.”
“Will any of this meet your standard?”
“For now.” Her smile turned as sharp as her emerald eyes and he felt something akin to desire stir deep inside him. He was happy to leave that buried. “Here.” She handed him a stack of clothing and explained in what order to dress.
“I am not dim.”
She flared her hands wide. “Didn’t say you were, just wanted to, umm, prevent any questions. I’ll wait in the hallway.”
The hound released a long sigh and though Gawain’s back was turned, with their mystically linked vision he watched Tara leave. It was an enticing view, a view he had no business noticing.
He’d been awoken for a singular purpose and while Tara was tied to it, he could not allow her - exceptional arse or no - to divert him.
He pulled on the trousers and shirts in the order she’d explained. The fabrics were soft against his skin. He tested his range of movement, impressed by the give and stretch of the clothing. Maybe this wouldn’t be so terrible after all. He owed his squire’s unexpected descendants his gratitude. Even the boots were a perfect fit. Peter and those who’d come later had clearly gone above and beyond to cover every contingency.
Except for the dagger itself. Why had the most crucial piece of this puzzle not been locked up tight in a strongbox, warded against thieves?
He looked to the hound, shaking his head about them both taking new names in this time. The hound had been a gift from his sister, a brave attempt to make up for the affection and compassion denied him as a youngster. He wondered if the enemy knew of the magic that bound him to the dog. Word of their teamwork in battle and their effectiveness against sorcery had spread quickly in Arthur’s time. Though many suspected his unusual talent, none dared accuse him directly of using magic or dark sorcery to his advantage in battle.
As if the words were not synonymous.
Smoothing his hands down the smooth fabric of the shirt, he pushed the echoes of his mother’s insults out of his head. He was what he was and his mystical gifts were as much an inherent part of him as his skin or his heart or even the color of his eyes. So said his sister, anyway, who had done all she could to protect him and prepare him.
He grabbed up the jacket and shrugged into the supple leather, then looped the scabbard and sword over his shoulder. A whisper of glamour would hide it from onlookers. Surprisingly, the current clothing reinforced his mental efforts to think and behave as Wayne, a modern man despite his original, aging quest. “Let’s get moving,” he said to the dog. Sterling rose and shook himself from nose to tail. “We need to cut this short before it gets out of control.”
He walked out of the room and stopped short at the sight of Tara. Her gaze raked him up and down, her lips curving into a smile that had his breath stalling in his lungs. It was the sort of expression that infused a man with exaggerated strength and foolish pride.
His body responded in an instant, reminding him just how long he’d been without a woman. While preparing for what he’d thought would be the final battle in his own century, he had stubbornly resisted the temptation of the sort of feminine appreciation Tara aimed at him now.
He wanted to turn from it, to distract her with their dire situation. Instead, he found the sparkle in her eyes far too compelling. “Have I done it wrong after all?”
~*~
Wrong? “No.” Tara cleared her throat. There was nothing at all wrong about the man filling the bedroom doorway. She made a mental note to apologize to Nick. The clothing she’d dismissed as little more than functional had become an outstanding statement on Wayne’s big, sculpted body.
She was curious about the scars she’d seen on his broad back moments ago and more curious about the stories behind them. She bit back all of her questions, reminding herself about the fate of the curious cat.
“Are you well?”
“Hmm?” She could stare at him all day and immediately felt warmth flood her cheeks. “I’m fine. You, ah, you wear this century well, Wayne.”
“Thank you. I’ll have to take your word.” He didn’t quite hide the satisfied smirk at her compliment. “I am ready to accompany you to the pub.”
“You really should wait here for Nick.” She wasn’t sure, but Wayne might present a greater threat by way of an irresistible temptation. “It’s only a few blocks. I won’t be long.” She raised a dark device of some sort and then tucked it into her pocket. “One of my cooks called in sick and I need to sort a few things for the night shift.” She told herself Wayne wasn’t ready to deal with the big, wide world, yet the truth had more to do with his big, wide shoulders. She moved toward the front stairs, hoping a little distance would ease this urge to take advantage of the massive bed behind him.
“Tara, you should not be alone.”
“This city is overflowing with people,” she said. “I won’t be alone.” Sterling joined her as she started down the stairs.
“You and your predecessors kept the dagger at the pub, correct?”
His voice drifted over her like a warm fuzzy blanket as they descended the stairs. “Yes.”
“There is no time to waste,” he said. “I need to examine the area immediately. Notify your cousin that he should meet us there.”
Whatever his reasons, she was happy to get moving. She had to get the personnel straightened out and the prep work back on track. Keeping the pub operating smoothly was her job now that her parents were retired. “That works for me.” She pulled out her cell phone, fully aware Wayne watched her every move as she sent Nick a text message. “Why doesn’t this sort of thing freak you out?”
“I beg your pardon?”
It was rude to push, but her curiosity got the better of her. “The taxi bothered you but the phone,” she waved it again, “this new way to communicate doesn’t. Why is that?”
He pointed at her phone. “That phone,” he handled the word cautiously, “is much smaller than the taxi.”
Tara reached for her coat. “Is that a joke?”
His eyebrows arched. “It’s a fact. I did not expect the world to remain as I knew it, though much of the progress is daunting.”
“You’re handling it well.” Better than she would in his place.
“Everywhere I look there are changes,” Wayne said. “My training prepared me so I would not be overwhelmed and rendered incapable of fulfilling my quest.”
“What kind of training prepares a 6th century knight for the 21st century?”
“I cannot explain it.” He shook his head. “Words are not sufficient.” His gaze drifted beyond her. “The things I was shown, the visions the priestesses assured me were of the future, confounded me at first.”
“You trained in Avalon?” she guessed. The mystical island was the most famous place with priestesses she knew of in his time. “I thought only women were trained there. Well, and King Arthur -”
“How are you familiar with the sacred island? It is supposed to be protected, sheltered.”
“Relax. It’s not a tourist attraction,” she said. “It only exists in this century through legends and stories.” She waved a hand toward him. “Knights, wizards, Camelot. Everything about the King Arthur myths fascinated me as a kid. Avalon was real,” she mused, filled with a new rush of curiosity.
“Avalon is real,” he echoed. A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “If we survive and succeed here, maybe I will seek the sanctuary of the island again.”
The idea of him striding off in search of some mythical place bothered her. Silly, but true. Maybe she could convince him to take her with him. If they survive
d. It was a sobering thought. “So they didn’t show you cars when you were training? The taxi was a type of car,” she clarified.
“They did,” he said. “I have never enjoyed small spaces, though it took many years to understand why. The sky and open air support my particular abilities,” he said.
“Then count your blessings we don’t need to take the subway.” She zipped up her coat, gesturing for him to mimic the move.
He didn’t. “Subway?”
“An underground train.” She followed a hunch and opened the coat closet, finding a collar and leash for Sterling. “Come here sweetie.” The dog shied away for a moment, then allowed her to slip the collar over his head.
He shook, making the tags rattle, then rubbed his neck against her thigh as if that would remove it.
“What is that for?”
She clipped the leash to the collar and handed it to him. “Collar and leash,” she explained. “Less magic required.” When he shrugged acceptance, she pointed to the door. “Do you need to do anything with the wards when we leave?”
He nodded and she watched as the light came and went under his palm, again in differing glows for inside and out. At the gate, he and Sterling paused, heads moving side to side as they searched the street.
“What’s the problem?” she asked, reaching for the latch.
His hand covered hers. “We cannot travel by underground train. It’s too dangerous.”
The urgency radiated through his touch, warming her more than the glove she wore. “We are going to walk,” she repeated slowly. “Let’s go.”
He didn’t budge. “I need your word, Tara. You must not go underground until the dagger is recovered.”
She pulled free of his grasp and shoved her hands into her pockets. “Why?”
“I cannot sense the threats against you as effectively when I am underground.”
“Fine. No subways.” She understood he was only brushing the tip of the iceberg with that answer and though tempted to push him, decided ignorance might be best. Magic, impending threats and good versus evil weren’t comforting thoughts. For a split-second she nearly ran back for the safety of the brownstone. “Come on,” she said, resolutely reaching for the gate again. She couldn’t leave her staff in the lurch any more than Wayne could fight the powers that had dragged him out of his century. “At this rate, Nick might get to the pub before we do.”
