Enchanted Guardian

by Sharon Ashwood

  She welcomed the contact, finding she needed to touch him before she was sure he was safe. His eyes were wild, the fever of combat still simmering in their depths. She cupped his face with her hands as she’d done so many times long ago. “How badly are you hurt?”

  “I’ll be fine. Beaumains brought me ice.” Trouble clouded his eyes. “It was my own fault. I saw—”

  “I saw LaFaye, as well,” she interrupted, smoothing his hair with her fingers. “You looked my way. You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I suddenly wondered if you were safe. In that moment, Palomedes was the lesser threat.” He released Nim from the embrace, but she clung a moment longer, wanting to bury herself in his scent of soap and clean cotton. When she finally stepped back, she felt blood rush to her cheeks. This neediness wasn’t like her.

  “We have to get you away from Medievaland,” he said.

  Nim tensed, knowing that was logical but wishing he’d said something else. “I would have liked those twenty-four hours where you tried to convince me to stay.”

  He put a finger under her chin, turning her face to his. His expression was very male, his eyes dark with meaning. “That still stands. I just meant that you should leave the park while LaFaye is here.”

  “And where should I go? Where is it safe from the queen of the fae?” She’d put her suitcases in the car when she’d left the condo, thinking a hotel might be safer. That seemed flimsy comfort now.

  “You’re safest wherever I shall be.”

  The words were simple, but they brought an ache to her chest. His steady brown eyes held hers, seeming to urge her to believe the sincerity of his vow. Her mouth went dry, her pulse quickening. “That’s going to put you in danger.”

  “I’m going to keep you close.”

  Nim blinked, for once not sure what to do. She was used to steering her own course and had the resources to do it. All the education, riches and beauty of a fae noble had been hers from childhood, not to mention the power bestowed by magic. Even now, she had a plan in place to save herself—but she would end up alone. For once, that wasn’t enough.

  Lancelot had always been the uncontrollable factor, the element she couldn’t provide for herself. He completed her. If she meant to keep him, she had to revise everything she’d assumed about the immediate future. Twenty-four hours suddenly wasn’t enough.

  She kissed him, surprising him enough she heard the intake of his breath. She savored that spice of the unexpected, along with the warmth of his lips. Then she gathered her wits, finding a shred of her usual cold reason. “I’m going to leave now, when it’s busy and I can lose myself in the crowds. You follow when the show is done. If we leave at different times, we’ll be less conspicuous.”

  “We should stay together.”

  She waved a hand. “No, we should leave one at a time. Until we know why she’s here, we should take no chances.”

  Lancelot reached into his locker and pulled out a set of keys. “Then go to my place and wait for me there.”

  “Your place?” She took the keys reluctantly as he gave her the address. Despite what she’d just said, she had a sudden dread of parting from him, even for an hour. The sight of the queen had shaken her more than she’d known.

  His mouth curled in a lopsided smile. “I have dreamed of you there, eating my food and sleeping beneath my blankets.”

  “So I am merely there to fulfill your fantasies?” she asked archly.

  His eyes filled with fierce protectiveness. “A knight fights best in his own castle.”

  “I don’t want you to fight for me,” she said, though the stars knew that was only a half-truth. “I fight my own wars.”

  “Then call it an alliance,” he replied. “Neither of us needs to fight alone this time.”

  “An alliance.” She liked the word. “Very well. That has potential.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I’m all about possibilities.”

  * * *

  Nimueh left moments before the locker room filled with knights. Word of Morgan’s presence had spread like burning oil, and Lancelot could hear the roar of angry male voices echoing on the tile like thunder. Most were stopping just long enough to ready themselves to patrol the park for fae. Yet Lancelot listened with only half his mind. In the few minutes Nimueh had been with him, everything between them had changed.

  His lady had agreed to wait in his home without an argument. It made sense, given the grave situation. Still, Dulac had been a little amused by her solemn acceptance of his door keys, as if they were the means to enter an enchanted realm instead of a messy town house.

  Perhaps it was the newness of the situation. Always, their meetings had been in her territory, her castle and with her rules. She had been the mistress and Lancelot her protégé. Now he was taking care of the fiercely independent Lady of the Lake. A rush of pride chased through him. It was a privilege he’d worked long and hard to earn.

  It was one he’d all but thrown away once upon a time.

  Come with me, Arthur had said so long ago. A man like you needs to rattle about the world a bit. Try his strength in real combat. You can’t find out what you’re made of if you hide behind your mistress’s skirts.

  But I love my Lady Nimueh, Dulac had replied with all the earnestness of the young.

  In the next instant he’d seen something in the king’s eyes—a flicker of jealousy. But he hadn’t understood the expression for what it was—evidence that a man could be High King, with all the realm at his feet, and still feel empty for want of love.

  You should love your king just as well, Arthur had said in a teasing tone. You should love me first and better. I will show you such adventures as you will never know here. I will make you part of a brotherhood of knights as has never walked this earth before and you shall win fame for your feats of arms. No softhearted woman can make you a warrior of renown.

  To be fair, Arthur had kept his promises. He had made Dulac a knight of the Round Table and they had adventured through the mortal realm and beyond. There were no words to describe the bond Dulac felt with his fellow warriors. But he could not deny that he’d sacrificed his love for Nimueh to become a feared soldier. His father would have approved of the trade, but Dulac regretted it. He owed the king his duty, but he’d let his heart slip away. In the end, he’d had nothing left that mattered.

  “Dulac?”

  He snapped back to the present to find Gawain standing beside him, a grim look darkening his face. “Yes?” said Dulac.

  “Arthur’s called a meeting in the clubhouse.” Gawain cast a glance at the other knights, keeping his voice low. “You and me. We need a plan to deal with our unexpected guest. Come when you’re done here.”

  Gawain left, and a minute later Dulac left the crowded locker room. Dulac wanted to go home to be with Nimueh, but dealing with LaFaye was the priority for her as well as Arthur. Filled with purpose, he stepped into the performers’ area.

  The show was done and the seats were emptying out, the merry chatter of the patrons disembodied in the gathering darkness. The lights of the theme park twinkled where the midway’s Ferris wheel and roller coasters swooped into the sky. That was the last part of Medievaland to close, but it was also the farthest away from the buildings Arthur claimed as his headquarters. If anything happened at their end of the park, the public was safe.

  “That was quite a blow you took,” said a voice at his elbow. It was LaFaye.

  Chapter 12

  Dulac stared with cold, sharp horror. It took all his self-possession to cover his surprise, but he wasn’t fast enough. The Queen of Faery’s smirk said she’d seen it. He cursed silently, hating that he’d given LaFaye even that much of himself.

  “Madam.” Dulac made his best bow. “It’s true my opponent nearly bested me today.”

  LaFaye’s lips curled. “Humility from Lancelot of the Lake. These new times are strange indeed.”

  He wasn’t sure how LaFaye had crept up on him, but then she was—whatever she was. The q
ueen carried fae blood, but the old royal families had intermarried to the point no one could accurately draw a family tree. Even King Arthur had fae and witch ancestry, though it was generations back. What mattered was that Morgan LaFaye hadn’t been touched by the soul-stealing spell that had devastated her subjects, but she was fae enough to use their magic with ease. And, she believed Arthur Pendragon was an upstart who had stolen the crown of Camelot. She wanted it back.

  “How may I be of service?” he asked.

  LaFaye studied him. There was something odd about her large gray eyes, as if they caught the light like a cat’s. It made the skin between his shoulder blades crawl.

  “Take me to your king.” She looped a hand over his elbow as if they were strolling into a feast hall.

  Her touch made him shudder, in part because he did not want to be mistaken for her amour. A glance told him that they were alone, but he didn’t trust the evidence of his senses. Right about now the place should have been filled with knights cleaning up from the melee, but he saw and heard nothing. “Have you put a glamour on us? Are we invisible?”

  Morgan LaFaye smiled, showing small white teeth. “You did not wear my rose today.”

  Withholding an answer was her way of establishing control. He decided to play along. “I did not know it was you who sent it.”

  She laughed, tilting her head back. He could not help but see that her throat was smooth and white. The curves revealed by her low-necked dress were generous though her arms and waist were small. Then again, poisonous fruit was often beautiful. “Putting my name on the flower would ensure you would crush it under your boot heel. Don’t be diplomatic, Lancelot. I know you loathe me. It’s part of your job as the king’s loyal wolf.”

  “Then, as a loyal wolf, I ask you to swear on your powers that you will abide by the rules of hospitality from this moment until you leave the park grounds. You will not harm anyone, nor cause them to harm themselves or another. You will do your business without magic, trickery or sowing discord. You will not damage or steal anything. You will behave as a guest should and in turn you will be treated as one, without discourtesy or harm. Swear this, or I cannot take you to Arthur.”

  “You demand much of a queen,” she said, a dangerous tone creeping into her words.

  For an instant, Dulac felt the cold grip of nerves—but he would be far more worried without LaFaye’s promise of good conduct. “By the rules of lore and magic, I demand what I must.”

  She hesitated a long moment. An oath upon her powers was a serious contract that even LaFaye could not break. To do so would compromise her right to rule as well as her ability to work magic. Her eyes grew hard with displeasure. “Very well. By the rules of lore and magic, upon my powers I swear all that you demand.”

  Without saying more, he gestured her toward a two-story service building behind the tourney grounds. She walked at his side with perfect ease, clearly confident. He longed to snap her slender, pale neck but it would do no good. Only Excalibur could kill her. Determining what LaFaye wanted was the sole course of action that made sense.

  They mounted the steps to the building, their feet loud on the hollow wood. He held the door. “After you, my lady.”

  With another smile, Morgan LaFaye entered the building Gawain had dubbed the Camelot clubhouse. The building was utilitarian, with a kitchen, bathroom and meeting area on the main floor. Upstairs was an office and an infirmary or sleeping space when needed. It was a far cry from the sumptuous halls of the old Camelot, but it had quickly become the hub of their universe, all the same.

  Only Gawain was there, sprawled in an ugly overstuffed chair and with his feet on a low table. He was reading a magazine, the cover featuring a half-clad woman draped over a motorcycle. LaFaye’s glamour had to be gone, because Gawain raised his shaggy dark head, surprise blanking his expression. “What’s this?” he asked, dropping the magazine and grabbing a knife from his belt.

  “A visitor for the king,” Dulac replied quickly, holding up a hand as he felt the queen tense. She’d sworn to behave, but self-defense was beyond her promise.

  “No need to sound so formal,” the queen said with a snarl. Her polite mask dropped as she looked at the dark-haired knight, hatred plain in her eyes. “Sir Gawain and I are old friends.”

  Gawain’s expression clearly said otherwise. Reluctantly, he sheathed the knife. “I will announce your arrival.” With that, he stomped up the stairs.

  The faery queen finally released Dulac’s arm, leaving him with the urge to brush off the last traces of her touch. She wandered about the room, examining everything, until Gawain returned and gestured for them to follow.

  The first room on the right was the office. A city map was taped to the back wall with colored pins indicating all the places where enemy fae had been seen. Facing the map, a large whiteboard was usually scrawled with clues to the location of the missing knights, but it had been erased. There was no telling what LaFaye might do with the information.

  Arthur sat behind a battered desk piled with file folders, the overhead light glinting on his red-gold hair and neatly trimmed beard. Excalibur leaned against his chair, unsheathed and ready to hand. The Queen of Faery’s face darkened the instant she saw it. She would never be entirely safe as long as her kinsman had that sword.

  The king rose and Gawain took a position to Arthur’s left, Dulac to his right. Shoulder to shoulder, they presented a solid front to LaFaye.

  Her gaze locked with the king’s. “No doubt you wonder why I’m here.”

  “To kill me?” Arthur asked, almost indulgently.

  “That would be pleasant,” said LaFaye. “Destroying you is my fondest wish.”

  Both Gawain and Arthur reached for weapons, but the Queen of Faery waved them off. “Sir Lancelot made me swear parley. You cannot do me harm. Unfortunately, I can’t hurt you, either. We will have to content ourselves with words.”

  “Then please, sit,” Arthur said with a wave toward a threadbare visitor’s chair. “Would you like refreshment? I can have coffee sent up. Wine? Soft drink?”

  LaFaye ignored the offer. “I have come to protest the murder of my subjects this afternoon. Even if they have fallen prey to soul-hunger, they are mine to punish.”

  She took a deep breath as if reining in her temper. Arthur waited, not stirring a muscle. Their attack on the Price House was within the rules, but LaFaye would know that. The king wouldn’t apologize or explain.

  “Furthermore,” she went on, “one of my personal servants was murdered last night. We were bonded. I felt the flicker of his life force as it was snuffed out.”

  “I take it you refer to one of your personal assassins,” Arthur said slowly. “I believe they are the only servants bonded in that way?”

  She shrugged, finally subsiding into the chair with graceful ease. “Do his duties matter? He was mine. Moreover, he possessed a valuable jewel that belongs to me. I want it returned.”

  Dulac kept his face neutral. He still hadn’t told anyone about Nimueh, much less her assassin. He wasn’t about to apologize or explain, either—not until Nimueh was safe.

  “I know nothing of your servant or your jewel,” Arthur replied. “However, one courtesy demands another. By the rules of lore and magic, if you sent an assassin into Carlyle, you should have consulted with me first. This town is my territory.”

  “Is it?” she replied with a serpent’s smile.

  “Of course it is,” the king replied, taking his seat in the desk chair as if it were the great lion-headed throne of yore. “The heart of the magic that carried Camelot through the centuries is here, in the Church of the Holy Well that stands at the center of Medievaland. Carlyle is the new Camelot. Here is where I renew my rule of the mortal realms.”

  Coming from anyone else, the declaration would be grandiloquent nonsense, but Arthur spoke with the authority of a king. If anyone could turn back the fae, he could. That raised Carlyle from an insignificant tourist trap to the nexus of the battle between human and fa
e. Dulac watched the queen’s face and saw the flicker of frustration as her gaze traveled once more to Excalibur, the one weapon that kept her at bay.

  “Then I shall consult you now. You have a fugitive in your territory—” LaFaye put sarcastic emphasis on the word “—that I want returned. Harboring her is an act of war against my crown.”

  Dulac stiffened. Nimueh.

  “Who is it?” Gawain asked, his brows drawn down in thunderous temper. He stood against the wall, arms folded as if to keep them from reaching for the queen’s throat.

  “The Lady of the Lake,” LaFaye said with a curl of her lip. “Nimueh forgot her manners when she helped you murder my son.”

  “I wouldn’t call it murder,” Gawain said evenly.

  Her gaze threatened to reduce the knight to a smoldering grease spot. “We are enemies and this is war. You live because we have agreed to parley. However, I cannot say there was betrayal on your part, Sir Gawain. You’ve never pretended to be my friend.”

  “But not so with the Lady of the Lake?” Arthur propped his chin on one hand, his air deceptively casual. Dulac knew the king well enough to know it for an act.

  “I made Nimueh my advisor. I trusted her to keep my son safe. Instead, she did all she could to destroy him.”

  Dulac shifted uneasily. He doubted Nimueh had volunteered for the post.

  As if reading his thoughts, LaFaye turned his way, her lips parted as if she might smile—or perhaps bite. With her, either was possible. “Beware, sir knight. Your lost love has grown a treacherous streak. She is not the noble soul you remember.”

  A sound came from Dulac’s throat, as if he meant to curse or growl but instead did both at once. Arthur gripped his arm. “Peace, Dulac.”

  LaFaye’s eyes narrowed. She’d scored a hit and enjoyed it. “I’d thought the rivalries of our youth were over, but it seems Nimueh still harbors dreams of my destruction. As the current phrase goes, the gloves are off. I want her in my dungeons.”