Enchanted Guardian

by Sharon Ashwood

  “LaFaye sent one of her personal assassins after me. Tonight he nearly succeeded. The next one probably won’t miss.”

  He made a sympathetic noise. “The queen is nothing if not persistent. She enjoys her little games too much.”

  “I don’t know how her assassin found me.” She folded her arms, instinctively protecting herself. “I’ve only been back in town since last night.”

  Merlin finally tried a sip of his coffee, his mouth twisting in disgust. “You can leave Carlyle, run and hide on a desert island, but LaFaye’s creatures can still track you. Hunting is their specialty and every magic user gives off a unique power signature the way a rose sheds its scent.”

  “Magic is traceable?” The night Lightborn had chased her to the warehouse, he’d mentioned tracking her. Then she remembered burning Tramar’s body and silently cursed. Any magical bloodhounds in the area would surely scent that.

  “It’s the simplest way for the queen to find you,” Merlin agreed.

  “But that’s not possible. I’ve not been using spells,” she protested. “Not before tonight. Since I left LaFaye’s service, I’ve been living the life of a human. No magic for months. Not much, anyway. Just a bit.”

  “Just a bit. To be sure.” Merlin’s smile grew rueful. “Out in the modern world, we’re like chain-smokers down to the occasional cigarette in the bar. That doesn’t mean we’re not lighting up.”

  Unfortunately, it made sense. Nim lifted her chin. “I can quit completely.” She sounded confident, but the idea seemed bizarre. Magic was part of who she was, as integral as the color of her eyes—and yet she’d done what she could to disguise that, too.

  Merlin shook his head. “You’ve got too much power to stay off the radar. You shed it whether you’re casting spells or not. Self-control won’t be your salvation.”

  Something very much like panic bloomed in her chest. She could feel Tramar’s grip on her again, sucking away everything inside her. “There’s got to be a way.”

  “I can help you bind your power. Then you can leave town and live your life as a human for real. That’s the only true way to disappear.”

  Nim fell silent. The enormity of what Merlin suggested loomed like a forbidding mountain, poised to crush her. “I don’t know.”

  “You can keep going on as you are,” Merlin said reasonably. “The one advantage you have is assassins prefer to kill in private. Your business is probably safe because there are always staff and customers. Your condo—up to a point. Your real vulnerability is when you walk alone. LaFaye’s bullyboys hunt like big cats, waiting for the ideal place to ambush their prey.”

  Nim buried her face in her hands, her battered body throbbing. Merlin waved away the waitress when she approached to take their food order. When Nim didn’t say more, he leaned forward. “Safety is frequently overrated.”

  “I thought you could give me a different choice. A spell so LaFaye would look elsewhere or maybe a better disguise.”

  “Those spells mask your trail, but they don’t eliminate it. Sooner or later they fail.”

  That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Nim picked at her hands, revolted by the blood still caked around her nails. “The fae can still feel fear,” she said in a small voice.

  He leaned forward, his expression uncharacteristically gentle. “I know. I’ve been told some fae still have pieces of their soul, as if shreds were left behind.”

  “Tonight he tried to steal what little I still have.” She bit her lip, panic hot inside her.

  “My poor lady.”

  She wasn’t anyone’s poor anything. She refused to be. She swallowed hard. “Can I unbind my magic if I choose?”

  One corner of his mouth curled up. “Absolutely.”

  “Are you sure? I could unleash it if things got bad?”

  “Of course.”

  She met his eyes. “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  Merlin’s smile faded. “Before we go a step further, answer me two questions. In the past, you’ve been Camelot’s friend. Are you sure you want to leave Carlyle?”

  “I’ve done what I can for Arthur. I helped Gawain destroy Mordred, didn’t I? I made Excalibur, the only weapon that will kill LaFaye.” Nim swallowed hard. “Morgan laughed to have the maker of her nemesis at her beck and call!”

  “And?”

  “I found Lancelot for Arthur. That’s three things, a magical number by the rules of lore and magic. More than any loyalty demands. I’m done. Now that I’m in the crosshairs, the only thing I am is a magnet for danger.”

  Merlin folded his hands, his expression troubled. “I have one other question. Are you really so ready to surrender everything you are? Binding my magic would be my very last choice. I might live in squalor as a mercenary to the worst bottom-feeders of the magical realms, but I will not live a lie.”

  “That’s your choice.” Nim could feel Tramar sucking out her soul, the nova of pure agony stopping her heart. “I need to run.”

  Merlin nodded slowly. “If this is what you wish, I will do it. You can trust me.”

  “I trust you to earn your pay,” she said sharply, weary of his attempts to counsel her. She took the amulet from her pocket and slid it across the table. “I’m sure you recognize this.”

  Merlin’s eyes flared, the amber depths suddenly bright. “LaFaye’s jewel.” His fingers closed around the amulet. The chain clinked across the tabletop. “Are you sure you wish to part with this?”

  “I’m trying to vanish. I don’t think the queen’s toys will help me become inconspicuous.”

  “Of course.” He pocketed the amulet. “Do you want time to think this over, or to take care of loose ends?”

  “I’ve been planning this for weeks. I don’t need time.”

  Merlin rose, leaving money for the coffees next to his half-empty cup. “Then follow me.”

  He turned, not toward the door, but to the back wall of the diner. There was a framed poster of Elvis hanging against faded red wallpaper, but no exit Nim could see. Nevertheless, the sorcerer made an elaborate gesture in the air, and then stepped forward—and vanished as neatly as if he’d been sliced out of the world.

  A faint internal tug reminded Nim of regret. There had been a time when magic was her calling, the one thing that defined her. And maybe once she would have fought for love, but that was beyond her now. These were just more losses in an endless string of goodbyes.

  Nim followed Merlin into his lair.

  Chapter 6

  The next afternoon found Nim at her bookstore. Mandala Books rambled through an old house, piles of new and used volumes overflowing shelves and stacking the stairways like a literary avalanche. The place was bright and clean, but it was crowded. The store was filled with browsing customers and the scent of new ink as the staff unpacked a shipment of paperbacks.

  Nim stood behind the front desk, her mind curiously blank after the barrage of unexpected events the night before. Last night’s attack had been painful enough, but Merlin’s spell had hit her like a cudgel. A pounding headache made her queasy, enough that all she wanted was to lie down and whimper. But there was no time to be ill—she was putting her escape plan in motion that very day.

  The paperwork was in place so that Mandala Books would transfer to Antonia’s oversight the instant Nim gave the word. In the little while she’d owned it, Nim had revived the business and wouldn’t abandon it without a new caretaker. Jobs depended on the store, as did the many, many loyal customers.

  She closed her eyes, her headache pounding as her thoughts scattered like loose marbles. Merlin and Tramar had played their roles in reducing her to a state of confusion, but she really blamed Lancelot. She raised a hand to her lips, fingertips brushing where the knight’s mouth had touched hers. His breath had been hot, his kiss hungry and urgent. By all the stars, what had he hoped to gain with that kiss? Did he believe himself so fine a man that his caress could restore her soul after centuries of loss?<
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  Arrogant fool. She pursed her lips, hiding the movement behind her fingers as she relived the moment. Then she dropped her hand, astonished by her sudden lapse into daydreams. She was overwrought, addled by trauma and Merlin’s magic. She checked for witnesses but thankfully no one was looking her way.

  The service desk sat opposite the wall painted with a huge, colorful image that gave the store its name. From there she had a view through the bay window that overlooked the sunny street. At that moment she saw Lancelot walk up the steps, wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans that hugged the muscles in his long, strong legs.

  “No, no, no,” she muttered under her breath as he sauntered in. How on earth had he found her store?

  “Looking for something to read?” she asked in a bland tone.

  “Are you a bestseller?” He leaned on the shelf beside her desk, seeming to take every inch of space around the desk. His T-shirt strained with the movement, showing off the thick muscles of his chest.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” She performed a quick visual survey, determining that he was unhurt from the night before. Of course, Lancelot had always been the kind to hide his injuries out of an impractical manly pride. Once, it had driven her into a frenzy.

  “You’re the only subject I’m interested in at the moment,” he said, drawing her gaze from his chest to his face. “Not my best opening line, but it’s the truth. We need to talk.”

  He was so close, she had to crane her neck to look up at him. “Again? I thought you’d said your piece last night.”

  “Yes, again,” he said, bending down to speak softly. “And it’s about what happened last night.”

  “Why? As you can see, I’m fine.”

  He was looking at her the way she’d looked at him, checking for bruises—except his eyes heated as they traveled over her form. The corners of his mouth flattened in an expression she couldn’t interpret. “We need to decide where we’re going from here.”

  “I’ve moved on.” She straightened the items on the desk, suddenly in need of order. “I can’t go back to the Dark Ages.”

  His dark eyes flashed. “I’m not asking you to.”

  “Oh?”

  “We can do better than that.” He reached out, brushed the back of his rough fingers to her cheek. The contact was electric, sending chills all the way to her toes with a mere graze of skin on skin. That should have been impossible, given what she was.

  Needing to take charge of the situation, Nim stepped out from behind the desk. “Let’s have this conversation in private.” She signaled to the staff member stocking books to cover the till.

  Lancelot took a step back in response to her crisp tone, but followed her when she led the way up the stairs to a small office. She closed the door and turned to face him. “You saved my life last night. I salute your prowess,” she said, deciding to be blunt. “I think that covers everything that needs saying beyond goodbye.”

  He looked uncertain a moment, but then seemed to recover. “I’d rather begin our recap with the fact that you kissed me.”

  Her breath caught, but she hid the reaction. “I think that was the other way around. You dragged me into the dark like an apprentice lad at his first May Day Fair.”

  “Perhaps, but you kissed me back.”

  It was a gentle tease and if she was utterly, mercilessly honest, she had to admit there had been a flash of feeling during that kiss. There and gone, it had passed as swiftly as the sun dancing off a blade—but it had happened. A strange, hollow feeling grew inside her, leaving her with the sense that she might fall into some inner abyss. “Don’t waste your time.”

  His fingers skimmed over her shoulders, the touch beginning light and deepening to a caress. She spun away from him before he could see her shiver. She could feel his breath then, warm and strong on the back of her neck. Closing her eyes, she let that strength wash over her. She’d forgotten what comfort there had been in these moments where Lancelot had blotted out all the demands of the world. For a heartbeat, everything was simple, just the meeting of a man and his woman.

  He turned her slowly so she faced him once more. When she felt his lips against her brow, she hissed in a breath.

  “Hush,” he said, his kisses brushing her nose, then her eyelids.

  Her eyes automatically flicked open, needing to see what he was going to do next. His hands caressed her shoulders again, his skin pale against her dark olive complexion. She’d always found the contrast arousing. Lancelot had been exotic, other—the only human she’d ever taken to her bed.

  His warmth fanned across her lips, and instinct made them part. But Lancelot didn’t crush her with his kiss this time. Instead, he continued his featherlight touches, teasing her until she leaned in to capture more of his mouth. Then, and only then, did he unleash the passionate eagerness she’d once craved. Her mouth opened under his, responding to his hot tongue. Granted permission, he plundered her.

  A skitter of fear reminded her of being face-to-face with Tramar, his mouth just above hers. But this was the opposite of what he’d done. Rather than ripping out her soul, Lancelot was trying to make her whole. For a moment, she let him, waiting for a spark to ignite in her. It had been so long, surely she would combust in an instant. And yet—a ghost of sadness claimed her.

  “Take your time,” he said softly. “You’re only just remembering how to be with me.”

  “Don’t be arrogant.” She pushed him away.

  “I know the way your body bends into mine, the sound you make deep in your throat when you surrender.”

  “I didn’t surrender. I don’t.” She stepped back to put distance between them.

  “No, but you thought about it just now.” His gaze grew bolder.

  When he reached for her hand, she grabbed his wrist and pushed him away. “You aren’t the first to get a reaction from me. It doesn’t mean I’m whole.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Care to explain?”

  “Prince Mordred enjoyed torture. For a moment, I remembered what it was to hate and now the Queen of Faery wants my head on a spike for betraying her son. So yes, I had an instant of caring. It will probably mean my death.”

  Clearly troubled, he considered her for a long moment. “That’s why LaFaye sent Lightborn? Vengeance?”

  “Yes.” Nim leaned against the desk, glad of the support of its heavy oak. The nausea that had plagued her earlier roared back with redoubled force. “I knew it was coming and planned to vanish. If I’d been quicker about it, you and I would never have met.”

  The silence that followed pushed at her like a physical force. “You ran last night,” he finally said. “I could have helped you.”

  “No,” she said again. “I didn’t stay the lonely fae woman you met at the edge of the lake. I don’t need you.” More to the point, she couldn’t depend on him. One day he’d leave again and the lack of a soul wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t survive it.

  “Nimueh.” He reached for her, but she stepped back out of reach.

  “Please go,” she said. “This discussion is pointless.”

  A tiny claw seemed to catch at her voice, but not so much that the words sounded anything but cool reason. Confusion crossed Lancelot’s face, but it quickly froze into a mask she knew too well. She’d finally managed to push him away.

  “Do you not trust me?” he asked, his voice gone hard.

  “You would never betray me. It’s not in your nature,” she said, and then remembered Guinevere. There had been plenty of rumors about Lancelot and the queen. “I mean, you wouldn’t turn me over to LaFaye.”

  The lines around his mouth deepened as if he’d read her thoughts. With a muttered curse, he turned and stalked to the door. Nim sagged against the bookcase, watching his broad, strong back. Unfamiliar tension crawled through her chest until she could not breathe. Lancelot had always pushed her to impossible places, good and bad.

  He’d just reached for the handle when the door swung open from the other side.

  * * * />
  In a temper, Dulac barely jerked to a stop before he mowed the newcomer down. The bride from the wedding stood in the doorway, wearing an expression no newlywed woman should ever wear. With a muttered apology, Dulac stepped aside. It spoiled his grand exit, but something had happened and intuition told him he needed to know what that was.

  The bride glanced up at Lancelot, her blue eyes growing large before her gaze shifted to Nimueh. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Antonia,” Nim said, a faint edge of surprise in her voice. “You should be leaving on your honeymoon.”

  “I can’t.” The words were grim.

  Dulac watched Nimueh’s reaction, struggling to be objective about what he saw. As with the other fae, her expression was oddly flat. The flow of normal emotion created thousands of barely seen muscle movements—ones that he’d only noticed now that they were missing. And yet, as she gave a slow nod to the bride, urging her to continue, he was certain Nim cared. He hadn’t lied about feeling the heat in her kiss.

  “I can’t leave.” The bride—Antonia, he reminded himself—paced the small workroom, her arms hugging her chest. “My cousin Susan didn’t come home last night.”

  “I spoke to her,” Nimueh replied. “She was the redhead with the violin.”

  Dulac searched his memory, but found nothing. He’d only had eyes for Nimueh.

  “Are you sure she’s not staying with a friend?” Nimueh asked.

  “Susan’s not like that.” Antonia shoved a hand through her riot of fiery curls. “Not that she’s a saint, but she’s not stupid. She would have left a message if she went home with someone. The police told us it’s too soon to say she’s missing.”

  Nimueh cast a glance at Dulac. He could tell she was making up her mind what to do. She’d always been elusive, a scholar more likely to retreat than engage in life’s battles, but people had always turned to her for thoughtful advice. Evidently, that at least hadn’t changed.

  “What do you need me to do?” he asked. Whatever she said, he was still hers to command.