Guinevere Forever

by M. L. Bullock

  “You have fallen under Morgan’s curse. You must remain here; remain hidden from the sun and from everyone living. Change your clothes and toss them outside the cave. I will burn the soiled garments for you. I fear that if you do not obey me, the dogs will come and find you. They will certainly come looking for the one that…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Nimue, what have I done? It feels like a horrible nightmare. Tell me the truth! Only that, a nightmare?”

  Her sad expression revealed the truth. No, it had been not a horrible dream but reality. “Remain here, my queen. Remain hidden far in the back, past that table. You see the entrance? No light will penetrate there, and no one will see it.” I did see an entrance—one I hadn’t seen before. I suddenly felt exhausted, as if the world were crashing in around me. “Do you understand me?”

  I felt so strange, tired yet invigorated in a devilish way. Although I had done evil, I wanted more. Perhaps if I could have wept, if I could have shed a tear, I would have been able to repent, to have been absolved of the curse. But no tears came. I would discover later that I would never cry again.

  Nimue rose to her feet, and instinctively I grabbed her. She whimpered in pain, but I could not bring myself to release her. “Guinevere, let go of me. I will help you if you let me.” I finally did as she asked; I stared at my hands wondering how this had happened. My instincts were so taut I felt like a prowling cat, a creature of the darkness ready to pounce on anyone around me. “I am your friend, Guinevere.” I nodded and sat in the wooden chair nearest me, then watched as Nimue shuffled through a trunk. What would happen when she left me alone? Would the demons within me rise up again and demand more blood?

  “You cannot leave me…” I whispered desperately. “Do not leave me alone, for I cannot trust myself. There is something in me, Nimue. A shadow…it is death, I think.”

  Nimue handed me a green dress, simply made and soft to the touch. I recognized it as one of her own. She had worn the garment to court the few times she came recently, and now she placed it in my hands. I noticed that she did not touch me.

  “Listen to me. Clean yourself up; you will find water over there. Change your garments and then put them outside so I may burn them. Then go rest; hide in the darkness. I will return before the sun sets.”

  Feeling like one who walked in a dream, I did as she asked me. I washed my body with the icy cold water and put on her dress, then I rolled my soiled clothing up into a bloody ball and tied it with a piece of string I found in a cupboard. Tossing the wad of clothing out of the cave as far as I could without putting myself in the light, I retreated to the hidden room and somehow fell into a deep sleep. I did not dream that first night.

  Nimue returned near dark and explained to me the horrible curse that I had fallen under. “You are leanan shee, my queen. Tell me what happened. How is it that you came to drink the blood of the shee?”

  “But those are just tales! This can’t be true!” Without tears but with deep shame, I confessed to Nimue what I had done. I told her everything: that I, in a moment of cowardice, drank the vial offered to me thinking that I would slip away peacefully, perhaps to join Arthur. And I did receive death, of a kind. In that, the maid who offered me the vial had kept her promise. Little did I know she was Morgan’s servant. Nimue told me what I knew already—my decision to take my own life had put me in greater mortal peril; it cost me my humanity. I was now Morgan’s creature. The same frenzy would overwhelm me every night, and I would be a slave to the blood lust for as long as I lived.

  Nimue lingered with me for a season, long enough to show me how to control the madness that threatened to kill the last bit of Guinevere, Queen of Camelot. With her knowledge of shee lore, my only companion set about trying to unwind the curse or at least set me free from the constant, nightly need for blood, but to no avail. One evening she came to me and said, “This is a magic of a degree beyond mine. It is darker, craftier. I will continue to seek an answer, but I am afraid I must leave you for a while. Merlin will know its source; I am sure of it. I must find Merlin.”

  In my wretchedness and rage, I charged at her. How dare she abandon me for Merlin, the betrayer of us all! He’d left us when we needed him the most. Furthermore, he had never been my friend, and I had no illusions that he would help me now. My anger and hunger gave the madness a foothold in my soul, and with my teeth bared and nearly out of my mind, I surrendered completely to my inner demon. We struggled, but Nimue subdued me with a simple spell; when I came to myself, I agreed with her that we must part ways. Nimue could no longer help me, nor did I wish to bring her harm. So I remained alone, never knowing what became of her in that life or the next, for she never returned to me. I did not fault her for that.

  But Carlos…he was another matter. Him I would bring much harm—with no regret. His blood released from his body would solve two problems. His death would rid the world of a diabolical criminal and bring me sustenance.

  I stepped into the security guard’s office without any notice. I watched him as he spied on others through his camera monitors. Strange to think that such a predator could be so easily stalked. When I tired of watching him, I purposely shuffled my feet to grab his attention.

  “Who are you? How did you get in here?” Carlos tossed his empty potato chip bag on his desk and sprang from his office chair with his hand upon the baton at his waist. I smiled at his instinctual move.

  Yes, he would recognize a predator.

  Carlos stood a full foot taller than me; he had a muscular build, and I imagined some might think him handsome. If they did not know of the worms that crawled in and out of his mind. Despite his shiny silver-plated badge, he was an evildoer, a rare criminal with incredible potential. One day, if he was not stopped, he would kill many, beginning with Louise. I knew he had been planning the pink-haired housekeeper’s death, and I had no reason to think he would stop with her, even though that one death was too many. I had grown to wish the suicidal girl would find some happiness. How ironic that I, who had brought so much death, would take offense at one more. Yes, Carlos had a crafty mind, but he was not crafty enough to outthink me and would not survive this encounter. I would have his blood. I would break my own rule to never kill near my kistvaen, but tonight would be my last night in my tower. I had to leave the Wells building. Perhaps it was fitting that I should go out in such a way.

  I wore a blue satin dress with a modest hemline and a pair of silver heels. I had stolen this outfit from Louise’s locker. After what I was going to do for her, I did not think she would begrudge me the dress. To Carlos, I appeared an innocent party girl, a young woman with long red hair, pale skin and expressive brown eyes. One who could be easily overpowered, and how he liked that. Little did he know that I could have slipped in at any time, tortured him and drunk his blood before he knew what was happening to him, but I wanted to enjoy this moment. Perhaps I had always known that someday I would do this. Carlos deserved to be toyed with, and I played with him like a cat played with a canary before she ate it.

  “I said, how did you get in here? Are you deaf or drunk?”

  “Through the door. You are Carlos, aren’t you?”

  As if he did not believe me, he walked to the door and twisted the knob. Seeing it was locked, he faced me with heightened scrutiny now. I did not sense fear yet, but it would come. I would make sure of that. Fear always made the blood taste better.

  “I never leave this door open. Who gave you a key? Give it to me, young lady. Keys aren’t supposed to be distributed to anyone outside the security team.” He stretched his hand out to me, expecting a key to appear in it. Fool!

  “Tell me, Carlos. Do you believe in a higher power? Do you believe in God?”

  “What?”

  “Do you believe in God? It is a simple question. Yes or no?”

  He slid his key into the lock to open the door. And then I was there, right beside him. I moved faster than he expected, and finally I sensed his fear. It made me smile. He grabbed my arm, but I d
id not flinch or try to free myself from his grasp. His adrenaline and confidence surged.

  “You believe in the devil, perhaps? Also a simple question. Yes or no?”

  His grip on my arm tightened, and he paid no attention to my questions. Carlos was thinking about what to do with me. Should he expel me from the building now or call his superior? Or perhaps he should do something else. A glimmer of a smile crossed his face, but my chilly skin gave him pause. He withdrew his hand quickly as if he’d picked up a snake. I knew Carlos did not care for snakes, although he was one. A snake in human form.

  “You need to leave. This area is off-limits to residents. Are you a resident?”

  I shook my head and wagged my finger at him. “It is rude to answer a question with a question. I asked you two questions, and you have answered neither of them. Last chance.” I drew closer to him; smelling his garlic-laced breath and cheap cologne did nothing to deter my growing hunger. Instinctively, Carlos drew back a foot or two, his hand on his baton again. I cleared the distance between us in a fraction of a second.

  “Last chance, Carlos. God or devil? Which do you believe in?” Still, he gave no answer. His stupidity and growing fear were boring me quickly. “I know what you have planned, Carlos. You like to torture things, don’t you? And oh, you like to watch things burn. You burned your mother’s house down when you were twelve and blamed it on the neighbor.” I plundered his mind even deeper. “You burned the woods behind your grandfather’s farm and heard those animals screaming for help, but you did nothing.” He gasped at hearing his secrets revealed, but I was not finished. “But that is not all, is it? You burned your wife’s business down after she left you. Burned it down to the ground—you made her pay for her leaving. Nothing but ashes left, and even that was not enough for you; you plan to kill her, when you muster the courage. Is that why you plan to kill Louise? Are you building the courage to kill Mary?”

  “What are you talking about? Who told you that?”

  The scent of rising fear stirred my hunger. “This place…this building…you want to see it burn, don’t you? And what about all the people who live here? Will you listen while they burn too?”

  He let go of the baton and reached in his pocket for his knife. “Who told you that? Those are lies. Horrible lies!”

  “Reach for that knife, Carlos. I want you to. Reach for it if you are man enough.”

  “I am plenty man enough to handle you, lady. Plenty!” He grinned and revealed the blade. I bared my teeth at him and reveled in seeing his expression change from one of confidence to one of total fear. I let loose a growl, my hands extended at my sides. He dropped his knife, and I was on him before he hit the ground.

  He was dead in a few minutes. I rose from the ground feeling alive, rejuvenated and ready to take on Morgan.

  Without bothering to move his corpse, I stepped over him and left my modern-day tower for the last time. I did not quake with fear at the implications. I had lived a long time, too long, and if my life was now required, so be it.

  But I was not going to Arthur empty-handed.

  A king would need his sword.

  Chapter Ten—Luke Ryan

  My mind said, “Get up, it’s after seven,” but my hangover argued that idea down. Two days in a row I had tied one on, but it was clear that this wasn’t a viable solution to my problems. Despite McAllister’s warning, I answered the phone when Pint called and told him about the meeting. He offered to speak up for me, but I told him not to bother. Cavanaugh wanted me gone, and that was that. I called Michelle a few times, but she didn’t answer. I’d bet money her clothes were gone from the closet. I took the sound of the front door slamming as evidence that she had been here but was unable to rouse me. She never did have patience for me and my all-nighters. A few seconds later, I fell back to sleep, but it wasn’t the blackout sleep I’d hoped for. It was something else.

  Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

  The sound—rhythmic, heavy, metal on metal—echoed in my ears. My skin tingled, and my heart banged in my chest. I experienced a major adrenaline rush but could not understand why or how. To calm myself, I took in air with my nose and forced it out my mouth. The air was so cold, it shocked my skin and excited me.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  This was the sound of strength, the sound of men preparing for battle. They collectively banged their sword hilts on their shields, a sound I had forgotten until I heard it again. A wet fog brushed my face and bare arms. I yelled in anger at the invisible enemy who lurked in the mist. Clutched in my hand was a sword—no, the sword of swords. My sword!

  Usurper! The sword is mine… a threatening whisper mocked me, but I could not discern where it came from.

  I growled in frustration, “Come out and face me! How dare you accuse me!”

  Usurper…

  Anger gripped me at the accusation. It was a familiar wound. Charging into the grayness, I spun and searched for my elusive enemy. The sound of swords crashing, the grunting and screaming of men in the throes of combat and the cries of the injured surrounded me. Yes, this was a field of death. I could feel myself sinking into the mud beneath me, and I swung the sword and shifted my stance to stabilize myself.

  Usurper!

  “Say that to my face! Stop hiding and fight me!”

  Laughter filled my ears. It was light, feminine laughter but certainly not friendly. The laughter faded and became a growl.

  “Who are you?” I demanded. “Speak now!” The sword vibrated in my hand as if warning me of the danger. Whoever this was, whoever challenged me, was approaching.

  “Usurper, yield the sword to me and you will live. All your men will live. Let us end this now.”

  “Why should I give you what is mine? If you want the sword, come and take it,” I yelled in the direction of the voice.

  “Very well. I shall.” As she stepped out of the mists, I beheld a slender figure—a young woman with long dark hair that hung loose over her shoulders stormed toward me. On her head rested a silver circlet, which sparkled dimly in the clearing air. She wore a long gray gown with a shimmering tunic of silver and a strange emblem upon the chest. A black crow, perhaps? No! A folded dragon! I spied no weapon at her side, no dagger, no sword, yet I sensed danger, as did my own sword. Yes, here was danger in its most raw and lethal form—the unseen. Seeing her eyes rest on my sword, I clutched it with both hands as if she might take it from me. Although I could tell she wanted it, she made no move to seize it from my hand. And she couldn’t. The sword resisted her! The strange young woman stood quite peacefully with her hands clasped in front of her, a crimson, cold smile on her lips.

  And then she began to whisper, and her words lingered in the air like frozen droplets of water. They floated toward me and flung themselves at my feet, pelting my shoes with ice. At first, I laughed at the trick. “Children’s games,” I muttered, but then my teeth began to chatter and my hands felt stiff. My legs grew weary and even threatened to fail me if I did not immediately move. With all my strength, I took a step away from her. The woman snarled and began to pace in front of me as she raised her voice and her pale hands, which had enchantments painted on them. Magic clung to me and filled the void in the air around me as the fog rolled back to reveal that my foe did not face me alone. Others stood with her. One in particular drew my attention.

  A man stood behind her, a tall man encased in heavy armor. Although the woman’s name eluded me, I knew his immediately. And as I spoke it, it filled me with dread.

  “Mordred, raise your blade!”

  He met my threat with a disdainful smirk but did not honor my challenge. He merely glanced at his companion. She spoke now, and her strange laughter had returned. “Good. Very good, Pendragon.”

  Despite the blast of cold that buffeted me, my forehead was damp with sweat. Pendragon! Yes, I am the Pendragon!

  “What of me, brother?” she asked. “Do you know me, or have you forgotten me completely?” She clucked her tongue in mock disapproval. Someone call
ed my name emphatically, again and again. They searched for me. My brothers in arms suffered without me. I must go to them! And I heard the name clearly now—my name.

  Arthur! Arth-urrr…

  “Arthur? I am Arthur!” My heart burned within me, testifying to this truth. Then extreme sadness fell on me like a heavy cloak. And I knew her name too.

  “Morgan,” I whispered.

  “Yes, finally,” she said in an exasperated tone. “Now, Mordred!” And as he charged at me, everything went black.

  Chapter Eleven—Guinevere

  Excalibur!

  The thought sprang to my mind as I woke in the darkness of yet another a deserted cellar beneath an abandoned restaurant. It had been easy to find another hiding place in the city after I left my tower, as easy as sniffing for blood. I smelled no blood here, not even a trace of it, which confirmed that not a living soul dwelled here and that no one had been inside in a very long time.

  I never questioned how I would find the sword after all these years. My hands had touched Excalibur, handled it on more than one occasion. The mystical blade was a mysterious thing, crafted by some ancient power trapped inside a fine steel edge. And once you made contact with it, you were forever changed. Knowing this, I refused to allow my daughter to handle the blade even momentarily—not even when the thing was wrapped in blankets. The Pendragon blood coursed through Alwen’s veins, so maybe it would have been different for her, but it was her brother’s destiny to wield it.

  Too much heartache, too much unhappiness has sprung up as a result of too many hands on the sword.

  I refused to allow a wedge such as the one lodged between Arthur and Morgan to penetrate the bond between Lochlon and Alwen. They must be true to one another, I believed, and my husband shared this hope. I had no idea why I feared such a division, but I did. Down in my bones, I feared it. Morgan and Arthur had loved one another once too, until the struggle for Excalibur began. Until Arthur refused to recognize her as the Second Pendragon. Who had heard of such a thing, and why would Morgan believe Arthur would name her as heir when he had a son? Ah, the old wound. “How many hearts have you broken, Lancelot?” I had asked the knight once. He’d laughed uncomfortably at that comment but did not deny it. And he had wounded Morgan to her soul, or so I surmised. Why else would she hate me so staggeringly?