A shudder coursed through my body. I sensed a shifting in the magic realm, but it did not cause me to fear. Who could defeat me now? I took it as proof that the sword was on the move. It would come to Arthur soon, just as the shee witch told me it would. It would seek his hand as it always did, because the Pendragon blood ran in his veins, like it flowed through my body. And when it drew near, I would pluck it from him. Excalibur would finally be mine.
And with the sword in my hand, I would make everything right.
Chapter Six—Guinevere
I watched Morgan step outside the tavern and stare up at the starry sky; she seemed quite pleased with herself as she practically danced down the sidewalk. Once again, she ran ahead of me. Finding Arthur had proven easier than I expected. How could I have known that I would find him so close? But Morgan knew. She knew, and I had not. I was ashamed to admit that I had lost faith—I had wallowed in self-pity for nearly a century, and look what it had brought me. Morgan had the advantage, which was never a good thing. Morgan’s pleasure always meant my destruction. She paused on the pathway, obviously perceiving a presence, but gave me no evidence that she either saw me or recognized me. Always too confident, too sure of herself. After a few moments, Morgan disappeared down a pathway and vanished around the corner of an old Tudor-style building. I felt her presence diminish, and then she was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief and quelled my anger. I had other things to think about now.
I wasn’t familiar with the current layout of Cavanaugh, but I had been here before. Long ago. It was hours away from Saint James and had remained small and largely forgotten by the big cities to the east and south. I had made good time, but I sensed that dawn was merely a few hours away.
Yet, on my journey here, the echoes of the past called to me loudly; a broken monument here, an old pig trail turned road there. And the name of this place, the Questing Beast Tavern, stung me in ways I did not expect. Old King Pellinore, Elaine’s father, spent his life in pursuit of the elusive Questing Beast. He had been devoted to his king, but once he encountered the beast, there was no reining him in. Many laughed at him behind his back—it had been an amusement at court—but Arthur had loved the old man, as we all did. The king had shown kindness and stopped the wagging of cruel tongues by giving Pellinore’s Quest his blessing and charging the old king with ending the creature’s mayhem. I assumed like everyone that Arthur sought to shield the old man from ridicule, but what if Pellinore knew something we did not? What if we’d all been wrong? Perhaps the Questing Beast had truly existed. I certainly wouldn’t have believed in beings such as questing beasts or vampires or whatever type of enchantress Morgan had become until I joined their ranks. And now here I was, standing outside The Questing Beast Tavern and looking through a smudged window just as the poor used to peer through the windows of the keep when they wanted to have a peek at the Queen of Camelot.
Oh, if they could see me now! What would they say?
Long live the Undead Queen! Isn’t that what Morgan called me?
I could not waste another second standing out here. I pushed open the tavern doors and slithered into a nearby booth to watch the small gathering. The bartender glanced in my direction, but I shook my head; with a disapproving look, he turned and walked the other way. Lucky for him.
Where are you, Arthur?
Oh yes, he was here—somewhere close by. The familiar rhythm, the essence of Arthur was here! I closed my eyes and felt around the room with my mind. I was sure this modern-day Arthur would not have the memories that I had. None of his previous incarnations remembered who they were save one. What would I see in him now? Would it be as Morgan said? Did he look much the same? Perhaps this had been a mistake…but then again, Morgan already knew he was here. There was no need to hide him away from her. Whatever her reasons, she had left him behind tonight.
My vampire’s heart surged with hunger, and I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands to keep myself under control while I searched for him. It had been a mistake to forego my feeding. By tomorrow night, I would be ravenous. There were only seven souls here, and two were outside. One would have thought I would know Arthur immediately, but I was cautious, careful. Uncertain.
Sometime in the last century, Arthur had indeed returned and had known, fully known who he was. I watched him closely because he grew up so near to me, so near to where Camelot once stood. It was as if the Once and Future King had truly returned to drag the world back into the light. That Arthur had the same hazel eyes and the shock of blond hair that young Arthur used to have and that our children had. But that boy, my Arthur returned, unfortunately died from a sudden fever, never knowing who I was and never knowing that I was so nearby. But then again, how could a ten-year-old child ever understand what I wanted to tell him? And when he died I had pledged to never seek out my husband again. To never search. Perhaps it would be better even now that I should turn and look the other way. Even now I should leave and not come back…but then I found him. He sat at the bar, his back turned to me. He wore blue jeans and a dirty t-shirt. He was muscular and tall, and I could sense that his mind was full of worry.
Arthur!
The rest of these minds, the ones that weren’t soaked in alcohol or obsessed with some horrible secret, were easy to decipher. As he had been when we were alive together, Arthur was now a complex mess of emotions; he wore his character and his feelings on his shoulders just as he used to wear his armor. He was facing a dilemma, one that I did not fully understand, but just seeing him made me clutch my palms into fists in amazement. This was my Arthur—just as he had been, handsome and strong and intelligent. I would know him anywhere, and if I could have, I would have wept. But if I knew him, he would also know me and remember. A sudden fear came over me. My goal had been to come here, to seek him and find him, to make contact with him, but I was not prepared to do so now. Oh, to be this old and still be such a coward. Yet, I could not leave Arthur untouched. I could not allow Morgan to have the last evil word whispered in his ear. With my eyes closed, I spoke his name softly.
“Arthur…”
And then I opened them, half expecting to see him standing before me.
Oh, how I love you, Arthur!
But the man at the bar had not moved. He remained on his stool and tossed back the remnants of his drink, all the while staring at the fuzzy television screen. Sadness washed over me. Yes, it was him, but only the beginning of him. He did not know who he was—he did not yet remember.
And that was unfortunate. I frowned at no one in particular.
Arthur! You must remember!
What was my plan now? What should I do? Wait until he stepped outside and explain it all to him? The thought of speaking to him stoked my fear, and then my hunger gnawed at me. Could I trust myself with him? That was not a feasible plan of action. Not at all, not as long as Excalibur was in danger—not as long as Arthur was in danger. My hunger grew. I would find nothing here that would help me, but I knew him now. Then I heard someone say his name. Luke Ryan. I repeated his name, and he half turned in his stool and glanced in my direction. Oh no! Now he would see me. He would see me and be repulsed! Feeling conflicted, I slid out of the booth and left the tavern without delay. If I flew and used all my remaining energy, I would make it back to my kistvaen, but I would have to feed first thing tomorrow. Yes, I must go!
Morgan had been here. Arthur was here, and somewhere close there was yet another, someone else I once knew, but tonight was not the night for reintroductions. I could not face Arthur. Not yet, not like this. For when he knew who he was, he would remember who he had been, what I had done. I had sipped the vial and sought to die like a coward. I had not fought for Camelot. I had not fought for Lochlon or Alwen. I had failed Arthur.
He would know what I had become.
Without a sound, I disappeared into the darkness. Arthur followed me to the door but went no further. No, I would never make it back to the tower tonight. I would have to seek sanctuary elsewhere.
It was strange to think as I sailed through the streets that I had never felt more alone. Unwilling to draw attention to my presence in the sleepy town, I withdrew into a cellar. I barred the door with whatever furniture I could find and took sanctuary in a windowless inner room. Not strong enough to seek out Arthur with my mind again, I consoled myself with the knowledge that he was close. Closer than he had been in a very long time.
Despite Morgan’s intentions, I could not prevent a sliver of hope from rising up within me.
Perhaps this was my chance to redeem myself! Maybe I could make everything right again or at the very least tell Arthur how much I loved him—how I had never stopped loving him. How sorry I was that I had failed him.
As the sun began to rise, I closed my eyes and found him in my dreams.
Chapter Seven—Guinevere
1260
With a mouth full of apple and the sun on my face, I lay back in a field of clover and closed my eyes in complete satisfaction. The stolen treats were not any ordinary apples but rare golden ones that grew in the priests’ orchards. Sweeter apples I had never tasted, even sweeter because they were stolen. No one could climb a wall faster than I, the Maid of Cameliard, the daughter of Leodegrance or the Lion, as some called my father. Although I had done this many times, for the property was adjacent to my father’s lands, today I would be found out for my crimes against the monks who loved to keep records of such things.
Apparently, stealing apples was so serious a crime that the priests sent an enforcer that day. As I opened my eyes to stare up at the glistening sunlight that filtered through the apple trees above me, I searched for the sun. But it was not where I expected it to be. In its place was the face of a young man with sparkling hazel eyes. He blotted out the sun, and the effect created an otherworldly halo around his fair-haired head.
“My Lady Guinevere, I have come to ask you about some apples.” His voice was tinged with amusement, either at me or at his task, but he kept a polite and warm tone.
I sat up immediately and defiantly took another bite of the fruit before tossing the core behind my shoulder. When I finished chewing, I challenged him, “What apples?”
“Those, I think,” he said, pointing at the remnants. “That is, if I were to believe that you would commit such a crime. Stealing apples from a priory seems quite beneath you, Lady Guinevere. What would your father, King Leodegrance, say about this behavior?”
“Crime? There has been no crime, sir. These orchards were ours until recently. I forgot that he deeded my orchards to the brothers here.” The lie came easily, but I could not hide the warmth I felt in my face. “May I ask who you are and how it is you climbed that stone wall so quickly? I only just came here myself.”
To my complete surprise, the young man picked a golden apple from off the ground beside me, tossed it up in the air and caught it. “I have been following you, lady. I have to admit, your climbing skills are very impressive, almost as good as my own. Although I freely admit that I may have the advantage, for I have not had to climb anything wearing a skirt. It must be quite a challenge.”
“I find that hard to believe.” I sat up even taller, feeling a little aggravated that my privacy had been encroached upon by this stranger.
“Why is it so hard to believe that I appreciate your athleticism and your skill for climbing walls like a Welsh man?”
“No, not that. I do not believe that you have never climbed in a skirt. With such lovely blond hair and unusual eyes, I would think you well suited for skirts.”
My insult did not bring the results I expected. The young man threw back his head and laughed and then sat beside me in the sweet-smelling grass. “You have a quick wit, Lady Guinevere.”
His amusement did not ease my nerves as he seemed to suppose it would. “And you are quite the rude one, speaking to me without introducing yourself. Or do they not believe in proper introductions where you come from? It must certainly be from well north of here.”
“Oh, they do believe in those rules where I come from. In fact, everything I do is wrapped around some sort of protocol. Hence my reason for climbing the wall. I too sought escape.” His answer surprised me, and I suddenly felt quite sorry for him. There was the sound of true resignation in his voice and a surprising weariness for someone so young. How old was he? Surely not much older than I. I surveyed him carefully as I chewed on another apple. No, I did not know him, nor did he appear familiar to me in face or figure, but I refused to ask his name. He was the one who had broken the solitude of my orchard, after all.
“I grow weary of formalities, but that is no reason to be rude to you. Forgive me, Lady Guinevere.” He lay back in the grass, making himself comfortable in my presence. Unsure what to do, I flicked a strand of red hair out of my face and continue to chew on my stolen fruit. I had not completely lied to him. This orchard had been in my father’s possession until he deeded it to the church. I was as devout as anyone in our family, but I loved this orchard and resented that my father had so freely given away this treasure without consulting me. Cameliard had belonged to my mother, and now that she was dead it seemed my father took joy in selling off bits of her property. First the small castle at the edge of Lyoness and now the orchards, including my favorite one. It was as if he wanted to forget all about her.
I had heard the rumors—that my father had another wife—but I liked to pretend that they were not true. And I liked to pretend that my mother was watching over me here. Even now. What would she say about me being alone in the orchard with a strange young man who had the boldness to assume a position of superiority over me, the daughter of King Leodegrance?
“What now, sir? Are you here to arrest me?” I was curious about the stranger but refused to demand his identity. Doing so would drag him back into the formalities he seemed eager to be rid of. I understood that. But I did want to know what his intentions were for me. I felt no danger, but one could never tell with these highborn lads. Their collective sense of entitlement irritated me. Yet, I wasn’t sure the blond-haired young man beside me was highborn at all. He had an unusual way about him; he was certainly educated, as I could tell by the way he spoke and moved. But these were uncertain times.
“If they come to arrest you, Lady Guinevere, they will have to arrest us both, for I too am enjoying these stolen fruits. But I think that…”
And then I heard voices calling—worried voices.
“Where is he? He was just here! You and you—look there! Where could he have gone to?”
The young man beside me stood up and tossed the rest of his apple into the grass far away beside my own remnants, and I did the same with the last of the evidence. I wiped the juice from my face with the back of my hand and stared at him questioningly. Tilting my head, I gave him a hard appraisal and asked, “Are they looking for a criminal? Besides me?”
“No, lady.” He wiped the grass off his tunic and held out his tanned hand to me. “They are looking for the king.”
His answer surprised me. “The king? Which king?”
“This one.” He patted his chest and bowed his head slightly. “I am Arthur. Come, Lady Guinevere. We might as well leave the peace of the orchard; they will not cease to search for me. Unless you wish that I leave you to face the brothers alone.”
“God forbid,” I said with a grin as he helped me to my feet. I was completely surprised and completely in love with Arthur Pendragon.
Chapter Eight—Luke Ryan
By the time I headed home, I understood how far I had exceeded my alcohol limitations. Luckily for me, my place wasn’t that far from the tavern, so I caught a cab after Buddy abandoned me. After fumbling with the keys to the flat for an eternity, I managed to stumble indoors and collapse on the couch. I think I called for Michelle once or twice, but she never appeared. Just as well. She hated it when I got drunk. And she probably hated me now that I had pulled a no-show for our anniversary dinner. If I had the energy and the room would stop spinning furiously around me, I might take a peek in the
bedroom closet. If her clothes were gone, she was gone. Michelle didn’t love anyone as much as she loved her clothes. She’d left me twice before; each time was a surprise, but the telltale sign had always been the empty hangers.
Oh, to hell with it. I would think she would understand after the day I had. Surely she knew about it. The explosion rocked the whole damn town!
The sad truth was, Michelle wanted something from me that I couldn’t give her. She had long, tanned legs, which I loved, a wide, sexy smile and all kinds of brains…but I didn’t love her, and I couldn’t say why. I felt I ought to. She wanted me to—hell, I wanted to—but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Oh, I knew what love was…I had been in love before, with Charlene Townsend when we were in high school, but it didn’t last. Relationships with me never did.
Why am I thinking about this now? I need sleep. I want to forget this day ever happened.
And I dreamed, which was rare for me. I was one of those people who only dreamed when I had a fever, and it was always something crazy like some dark invisible force chasing me or a strange creature clawing at my flesh. Lots of people received insights from their dreams, or so Michelle explained to me once—she believed in all that therapeutic nonsense, but I had never been one to put much stock in dream symbols and whatnot. I believed only in things I could see and understand.
I dreamed I stood in a high place, like a tower. I could feel the wind rushing around me, and beneath me I heard the sound of water. Was I falling into the water? I could hear voices whispering urgently around me, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. They spoke over one another; the urgency in their whispers was clear. And—I knew them! I believed that, knew that. They whispered at me again and again, wanting me to respond to them, but I could not quite understand what they demanded of me. What do you want? I yelled in my dream. A fog gathered around me, and emanating from the haze I heard the sounds of swords clashing, horses’ hooves pounding the ground, men screaming in anger and pain—and I wasn’t in that high place anymore. Now I was in a field, a muddy field. The unearthly fog gathered even closer, and in front of me stood a young man. The fog covered his face, but his name was on the tip of my tongue. As it almost fell off my lips, dread rose up in me and chilled me to the bone. And then someone shook me and shook me hard.
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