by Nancy Gideon
But her image was fading. The scent of violets was all but gone.
"Naomi, where are you?"
"She waits, young knight,” the old woman told him. The same lips once plumped for his kisses were again withered and seamed. “Have you the courage and the patience to pursue her?"
"Yes. Through this lifetime and through eternity. But how? I have the will but not the way."
The old hag leaned forward across the light that now seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. The tempo echoed within his head, a fierce, insistent cadence. Beckoning. Her gaze burned. “It will not be an easy quest. Your honor, your bravery, your devotion will be tested at every turn. You will see the life you knew become no more."
"I am not afraid.” The only thing he feared was life without love in it.
"You should be. You will be."
"Gabriel, we should go."
He'd forgotten about Rolland and spared him no attention now. Rollie was always the soul of caution, the first to cry “Have a care!” Gabriel had never heeded that cry before. Perhaps he should have on this evening of strange enchantment and dangerous whisperings from beyond. But he plunged ahead without prudence.
"Tell me what I must do."
"Do? You need only survive, young sir. Survive to conquer the years, the centuries, however long it takes for you to seek out her tortured soul."
"However long it takes,” Gabriel affirmed, not truly understanding the magnitude of his pledge.
"Then you will be transformed this very night so you might begin your search in an existence where time holds no meaning."
He never saw her physically move.
One instant, she was staring at him with an almost hypnotic intensity, distracting him from the fact that the three of them were no longer alone in the room. Shadows shifted from within the unnatural stillness to become figures looming just out of the light.
He heard Rolland's briefly uttered warning and the rasp of his sword. But Gabriel had no time to react with alarm or instinct. The crone was upon him, knocking him flat upon his back. His hands were gripped before they could find sword and dagger in his own defense. And then came the pain, swift and sharp, at his throat, at his wrists and elbows. He tried to cry out, but no sound of protest came either to mouth or eventually to mind.
So this was death, this slow, chill sinking into dark oblivion.
He surrendered to the sapping weakness of body even as a part of him clung to the strength of his resolve.
For Naomi.
He floated for a time, adrift in a daze of unreality where he saw dark shapes hunched over the form of his friend, feeding upon him like huge, greedy rats. Still no sense of horror or objection formed. It didn't matter than Rolland was probably dead, just as he was surely dying. All that mattered was ... was ... what?
Then he remembered. He forced himself to say the words as the crone who somehow seemed younger, sleeker and no longer gaunt, leaned back to wipe his blood from her chin.
"Tell me,” he whispered in a breath that might be his last. “Tell me you did not steal my life with a lie."
She smiled, touching his cheek with a newly warmed hand. “Why would I lie, sweet boy? You and your young friend have just begun to live. And as I promised, you will see your love again."
And that was all that mattered.
That was what he needed to hear to sustain him through the centuries.
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Chapter Two
Las Vegas, Nevada, Present Day
The roar rose, rushing at him like an ocean swell. When it hit, the force knocked the breath from him. He rode it aloft for one long suspenseful moment before the crest broke, dropping him hard to the packed sand.
Gabriel McGraw looked up from the flat of his back. His eyes managed to focus as his challenger rode past, tipping his lance in a mock salute. Turning his head away from the grit churned up by passing hooves, his gaze touched upon the surround of revelers. Many were on their feet, clapping, waving turkey legs and tankards, caught up in the spectacle of his abuse. Enjoying his fall. He was the villain, after all.
As he waited for his wind to return, he scanned the sea of tourists’ faces, searching then finding the one he sought.
She sat alone, silent, still and pale. She didn't celebrate his defeat. Instead, she seemed stricken.
And the impossibility of seeing her stole away his breath more effectively than the fall.
"Going to lie there all night milking the applause?"
He glanced up at the knight who'd unhorsed him. The visor went up to reveal his friend's gloating features. Rolland Tearlach, Knight of the Realm, now Rollie Lackley, the Green Knight at the Excalibur Hotel and Casino, enjoyed his new role. Too much, sometimes.
Flushed with a combatant fervor and a renewal of the life he'd put on hold for centuries, Gabriel scrambled to his feet. His sword sang free of its scabbard. Though that time was long past, his blood surged with the same vigor and vitality of a young man just home from war, a young man besought with his vision of the future. For a moment, he was Gabriel de Magnor once again. And he had a woman to impress.
"Let's give them something to see, shall we?"
As Rolland dismounted to meet his challenge, the crowd shouted its approval in a bloodthirsty howl. Gabriel grinned. Not much had changed over the centuries.
They had always been evenly matched, having been raised together as close as brothers and trained by the same fostering masters. As sparks sizzled from the friction of their broad blades, they were again that pair of young combatants filled with the need to establish manhood on this most private and primitive of proving grounds. Rolland's movements had always been pure art and precision, while Gabriel's were spiced with a touch of recklessness, often giving him the upper hand. That, and the fact that Rolland lacked the warrior's heart to go after the follow through. But in this scripted combat, it was fated for the Black Knight to lose, so Gabriel obligingly lowered his guard, taking a hard blow beneath his raised arm. He dropped to one knee and let a vicious cut catch him between shoulder and neck. A killing blow had the swing not been checked at the last moment. Still, the force of it rattled down his spine, numbing his arm and causing his sword to fall from a useless hand. Dramatically, he pitched face first onto the dusty ring while the onlookers cheered his defeat.
Just before the lights dimmed upon their portion of the show, he snatched a glimpse of her. With a flutter of the scarf at her neck, she slipped out of her seat and fled, head bowed as if in tears.
For Gabriel, time stopped.
Did she weep over his pretended death?
Even as every long-denied instinct urged him to race after her, he held himself still, knowing she would return. Patience. He would find out what he'd waited dozens of natural lifetimes to learn. Some night soon, he would discover the truth.
Was this woman who haunted the stands of the Excalibur wearing the features of his lost love somehow Naomi Beorhthilde?
* * * *
"An elegant death. Pure beauty to behold."
Gabriel grinned at the compliment as he removed his dented helm, but it was Rolland who responded to the Red Knight's praise.
"He's made it his life's work losing gracefully to me."
The camaradic slap of Rolland's hand came down upon his shoulder, causing Gabriel's involuntary wince. Pushing back his mail coif, he unbuckled the chin strap of his arming-cap and eased it off, followed by his colorful surcoat. A huge discoloration blotched the area of his collarbone where Rolland's overzealous blow had hammered into him. Such an impact would have shattered a normal man. But nothing about Gabriel McGraw was normal.
"Ouch.” Rolland pursed his lips at the sight of the bruising, but he didn't apologize. “You should keep your guard up."
"You should pull your swings."
"You whine like a girl. It's not like you won't recover."
"True enough. Still, I remember a time when you preferred the challenge of rhyming verse to the vigors of combat
."
"Things change, Gabriel. Some do, anyway.” And suddenly, the bold Sir Rolland was once again his brooding, intellectual friend who sought out books rather than battles. Then that ancient poet was gone, replaced by this new ultra-confident champion. “But I do enjoy seeing you on your back."
"Don't get used to it."
He easily forgave his comrade's over-eagerness. There were too few challenges in this modern world not to take advantage of the opportunity to inhale that age-old rush of victory. Even if it was for the benefit of paying customers. And though he might ache now, Rolland was right. Within hours no sign would remain of the crippling blow.
They put away their gear, exchanging jibes and laughter with the other members of the show. Though he'd been there less than two weeks, Gabriel was already included in the close-knit group of performers with Rollie as his patron. And it was almost like being part of a brotherhood, as if the chivalrous past was alive again.
As if they were truly alive again.
But once they left the atmosphere of the Excalibur behind, reality intruded. This was a new and different world, and Rolland was his only link to the past. They might stand among others and appear like them, but they were not the same. There was more truth to the roles they played in the arena than the one they adopted here in the midst of the living.
"Come out and walk the Strip with me tonight, Gabe. It will be like old times."
Old times best forgotten. Those times when they were adjusting to what they'd become. Savage, fierce times, when they felt like gods and basked in the hot blood of those they took unaware. Surprisingly, it was Rollie who adapted first and with the greatest aplomb. A part of Gabriel never embraced the fact that he was no longer human. He clung to the pretense as if it were his only claim to civility.
There was little civility in what they did to survive.
Which was probably why they had gone their separate ways, Gabriel to pursue the past and Rolland to chase the future. So Gabriel's reply to his friend's urging was predictable.
"I can't."
"You won't. We've had little time together since you came out here. I'd almost think you were avoiding me."
Gabriel's surprise registered in genuine dismay. “Never that.” His voice lowered. “I'm not out here on a holiday."
"Then let me help you with your work."
"I can't, Rollie, it's—"
"It's undercover,” his friend supplied. “Ah, yes. Your important human profession. Gabriel, why do you feel the need to be like them? You could be so much ... more."
"It's personal."
"It's dangerous, Gabe. What if you're recognized for what you do ... or for what you are? Have some regard for your safety. This is foolhardy to attempt on your own. Once, you trusted me to watch your back."
Gabriel surveyed the crowd of tourists with a practiced caution, seeming a part of them in a dazzlingly bright Hawaiian shirt, but a world apart. An unnatural world where he and Rolland were the predators and those who milled about them in blissful ignorance, the prey. He brushed aside his friend's observation with a laugh. “Now who whines like a girl?"
He placed a hand upon the other's shoulder, pressing hard. “You know there is no one I trust more. If I find myself in need of assistance, you will be the first I turn to. As always, my friend."
Placated by the strongly spoken sentiment, Rolland nodded then grumbled, “You used to be more fun."
"We used to consider tipping carts and breaking wind as amusements. Some things change for the better. Now, I must go."
"You act so nervous, one would think you're going to meet a woman."
The jest fell flat. Gabriel's response was wooden. “You know better."
"Gabe, it's been ... a long time."
His smile was bittersweet. “Since when is time a concern of ours."
"Gabriel, life goes on. You're chasing the wind. You don't even know that it's Naomi."
"If you didn't think so, you wouldn't have called me here."
"I thought I saw the woman we once knew, but now I'm not sure. Gabe, Naomi died centuries ago. Only your stubbornness keeps her alive in your heart. If you truly believe this woman is your lost love, why haven't you confronted her? Is it because you fear she'll disappoint you?"
Gabriel had no answer. He couldn't deny his friend's claim. Yes, he was afraid. Afraid that the woman he'd traced to D.C. and now followed to Las Vegas was just a woman, not the incarnation he sought.
But if that was true, why did she look at the world through Naomi Beorhthilde's innocent eyes? Why was she in the audience night after night to watch the replaying of an ancient tableau?
If she was not his Naomi, why did his long immobile heart beat so frantically when he was within sight of her?
He could explain none of those things to Rollie. The irony of their reversed roles—of him the poetic lover and Rolland the brusque purveyor of facts—made him smile a faint, sad smile.
Things had changed, just as his friend had changed. There was a new edge, a new boldness to Rolland Tearlach, now Rollie Lackley. After centuries, why had that change been such a bittersweet surprise? Time passed and nothing remained constant. Nothing except his love and his quest for the future denied him.
"Perhaps I made a mistake,” Rollie was saying. “Perhaps encouraging you to cling to the past was wrong on my part. Gabriel, you need to move on. I have."
"If that's what you call it.” He glanced over his shoulder at the mock castle facade and raised a pointed brow.
"What I mean is I'm not the same man I once was. All that changed for me in a fortune teller's hovel, and I took advantage of the situation to become more than I ever was before. But you, you are content to remain Gabriel de Magnor, knight and defender of the weak and pursuer of lost causes."
Though the summary stabbed with the quicksilver pain of an unexpected thrust, Gabriel refused to wince. Instead, he said softly, “You've become a cynic, my friend."
"And you're still a dreamer.” Rolland sighed. “Always the dreamer. Why don't I give up on you?"
"Because you are my best friend. I'll see you tomorrow night."
Rolland watched him go, this best friend of centuries past, and he frowned to himself as he wondered what secrets were being kept from him.
* * * *
She escaped the glare and noise of the arena upon trembling legs. The now-familiar flush of icy heat left her weak and reeling. She sagged against the supporting wall of the escalator, praying the sensation would pass. Before she could grasp at a saving calm, a garishly made up jester bobbed up close, intending to hawk his wares. She reared back, heart jack-hammering. Alarmed himself by her apparent fright and out of proportion response, the jester chose to abandon her as an unlikely sale and quickly moved on to another potential customer along the crowded medieval mall.
What is wrong with me? If it upsets me so to be here, why can't I stay away?
"Are you all right, ma'am?"
She stared up blankly at the strolling troubadour. Time and place blurred into a nightmarish confusion as she pushed past him to stumble toward the bottom of the escalator. Keeping her palms pressed to the wall so as not to lose her way, she refused to acknowledge the surroundings—the jugglers, the damsels, the shop-fronts, all decked out in thirteenth century style.
This is not real.
She concentrated on her breathing, on putting one foot before the other to get her to her goal. Clinging to the rubber hand rail, she let its momentum pull her onto a wide step and carry her away from the scene of her inexplicable obsession.
As she rode higher and farther away from the mock village, her strength began to return. The bing-bing-bing of the casino replaced the merry medieval tunes from below as one century blended into another. She took a deeper breath and straightened. Her hands still shook, but her control began to return. Again, as she did every night, she made a vow not to go back. And again, she cringed beneath the truth. She couldn't stay away. Not until she found ... what? Would she know i
t if she found it? If not, how could this compulsion ever end?
In madness, she feared. In madness.
The cool touch of night air eased the fever from her face. If only it could work the same miracle on her troubled thoughts. She walked across the drawbridge as if in a dream, weaving more by instinct than design through the throng of impatient onlookers who waited eagerly for the automated confrontation between the fire breathing dragon and Merlin the Magician in the moat below. Once, she might have elbowed in to see the delightful spectacle for herself, but now she had no more time for fairy tales. She was going to be late for work. And in her mind, even sinking into insanity wasn't an excuse for tardiness.
When she reached the street, she stopped, overcome with the recurring sense of being watched. Not just watched, but devoured by the intensity of some unseen gaze. Looking back toward the clump of tourists she'd passed through, she saw nothing out of the ordinary, no one expressing any undo interest in her. But the feeling remained, growing stronger, almost as palpable as a caress upon her skin. The fact that her shiver was not borne of dread was as upsetting as being the object of someone's observation. Instead of feeling violated, the attention lent an odd aura of comfort, not threat. Perhaps a guardian angel watched over her. She smiled at the thought and continued on with greater purpose.
She loved walking along the Strip at night. The energy, the brilliant lights bursting like stars against the blackness of the night created a world like no other. A pretend world where she might belong as she never did during the daylight hours. A world where magic was possible and knights still rescued damsels in distress.
Lost in her musings, she didn't notice her steps were echoed. She always felt safe on the streets of Las Vegas, just another anonymous figure in an ever-shifting crowd. Too insignificant to draw the attention of anyone bent on harm. Why would they bother? In her plain, wholesale store office clothing, she didn't suggest untold wealth was hidden in her bulky purse. So she was completely surprised when a bump from behind was followed by a sharp yank on her shoulder strap.
Common sense told her to let go. But from somewhere deep inside came an angry bellow that said “No!” No, she was not surrendering the few meager tokens of identity she could claim to some street punk out for quick cash.
