Читать книгу Enchanted Guardian - Sharon Ashwood - Страница 9

Chapter 2

“Ugh,” said Gawain in disgust. “You’re barely two months out of your stone pajamas and you think you know how the modern world works.”

“They hadn’t invented pajamas when Merlin turned us,” replied Lancelot du Lac to his fellow knight, “and all I’m saying is that I find it hard to believe we are breaking the law by patrolling the streets for murderous fae.”

“The human authorities are particular about executions. They like to do it all themselves.”

Dulac—he was Dulac among the men, never Lancelot—shook his head. He’d awakened to a drastically reduced Camelot in a new and strange world. “Then what are we supposed to do? Pat the fae on the head and tell him to run along back to his homicidal queen?”

They were walking the night-dark streets of Carlyle. According to Gawain, it was unusually warm for this part of the world, and Dulac took his word for it. The heat had developed a second life as the sun sank like an exhausted balloon, leaving skin sticky and tempers short. The taverns promised iced drinks and easy laughter, but that would come later. Dulac and Gawain had work to do.

“We do all our work in secret. The rules of lore and magic are...well, let’s just say people think everything we stand for belongs in books for wee kiddies.” Gawain’s Scottish accent deepened to a burr. “It’s demoralizing. Explaining that enchanted knights are waking up because Queen Morgan has mobilized revenge-happy faeries to attack and destroy the mortal realms—well, my lad, that’s a speedy trip to the madhouse.”

“I’d already be there if it wasn’t for you and Arthur,” Dulac said honestly. “I don’t know how you managed when you were the first to wake up.”

“It got better once I found Tamsin,” Gawain said, referring to the witch who was his lover—the same witch who had revived Dulac from the stone sleep. “Before her, I only had the spell to fall back on.”

Merlin’s spell had provided a wealth of basic information, bridging centuries of change in language and a thousand mundane details, such as how to work an elevator or what a stoplight was for. There were still gaps, but Dulac was quickly figuring them out.

It was the larger changes that bothered him. “Nothing here is friendly. There are barely any armorers. Very few horse markets. I’m not certain this time requires a knight like me.”

“Of course it does,” Gawain said gruffly. “And you have to admit there are advantages to this day and age. I do like indoor plumbing.”

“I’ll give you that one,” Dulac agreed. “And coffee.”

Dulac had shed his sword and armor for smaller blades, a battered leather jacket and jeans. He stopped at a corner, waiting for a low black car to drive by before he crossed. The rumble of its engine called to something inside Dulac. He’d owned powerful chargers, reveled in their speed and power. These vehicles were the warhorses of the modern age. He wanted one badly enough that his palms itched. It was hard to save the world when your only option was public transit. He stepped off the curb, swearing when a cyclist nearly clipped his toe.

“I’m going north from here. There’s plenty of problems up around the White Hart,” said Gawain once they were across. “South is yours to patrol.”

Dulac nodded, paying close attention to what Gawain had to say. This was his first time out on his own since awakening, and he would take nothing for granted.

“Listen, there’s been an increase in fae sightings in Carlyle and we don’t know why,” said Gawain. “Don’t assume a lone fae is actually alone. Keep your fights out of sight of humans, and come back in one piece.”

With that, they gripped one another’s forearms in salute and parted.

Once Dulac went south, the road grew darker and his mood along with it. He’d seen little of the fae after the demon wars, but he’d got an education since awakening in Carlyle. There was no question that Camelot’s one-time allies were now a fearsome enemy and, as Gawain had said, getting far too common on Carlyle’s streets.

Hugging the shadows, he closed the distance between himself and a fae male walking ahead. Ordinarily, they were easy to spot. Most were tall and slender, with skin ranging from olive to the rich brown of ancient oak. Their eyes were brilliant green, their hair as pale as moonlight. All were inhumanly beautiful. This one, however, wore a sweatshirt with the hood drawn up and his body bent forward. Obviously, he didn’t want to be recognized.

Dulac didn’t need to ask why. The male was following a dark-haired woman who walked briskly through the puddles of streetlight, handbag swinging in time with her steps. There was an air of impatience about her as if she was late and rushing to an appointment. At that distance, Dulac couldn’t see her well, but caught the impression of a willowy beauty. Moving swiftly, the fae kept back just enough to remain unnoticed, but moved imperceptibly closer with each block. He was hunting her just as Dulac was hunting him.

Abruptly, the woman turned and trotted up the steps of a community hall brimming with noise and lights. Dulac relaxed, slackening his steps now that she was safely inside—until the fae turned and followed her through the doors. She was more than a random victim; she was a target.

On full alert again, Dulac jogged to catch up. The signboard outside the hall announced the event was a wedding celebration. Was the woman a guest?

He took the stairs two at a time and shouldered his way inside. The doors were propped open to let in fresh air, although the breeze wasn’t putting a dent in the sweltering atmosphere. The place was dim and echoing, the walls and floor plain wood. The ceiling, crisscrossed with crepe paper streamers, was open to the rafters. The milling press of bodies set Dulac’s nerves on edge, confirming the reason he was there. Events like these—where people were crowded together, unguarded and a little drunk—were a predator’s favorite hunting ground.

Dulac straightened his spine, feeling steadier now that he had a job to do. As long as there were villains, there was a purpose for knights like him.

He strode into the center of the room, searching the crowd. Blasts of amplified sound blared from the small stage where a band was setting up. Finding no sign of the fae, Dulac pushed through the crush at the back of the hall to discover a bar.

He was rewarded almost instantly when he saw the woman from the street perched on one of the stools. Her hair was dark and cropped at the shoulders, her bangs cut in a severe line across her brow. Her dark blue dress was crisp and businesslike, the only feminine touch a pair of extravagantly high heels that made her legs seem endless. But there was something that caught his eye besides her elegant figure. The way her long, slender limbs moved, or the curve of her spine, or the tilt of her head—something about her was extraordinary. Instantly, his body tensed in pleasure and warning.

The woman was fae. Then she turned her face in his direction, and he was looking at his Nimueh.

* * *

“It would take a soulless monster to hate a wedding like this,” said the young human in a daring yellow dress. “Don’t you think?”

The Lady of the Lake had barely sat down after hurrying through the streets to get there. She sipped her drink and manufactured a smile. “Have you taken a poll?”

The woman—barely more than a girl, really—leaned against the bar, her eyes shining in a way that went beyond the champagne. She was on a romance-induced high. “A poll?” She had to speak up to be heard above the happy crowd.

“Of soulless monsters. I’d be interested where they fell on the bell curve of wedding-haters.”

The girl gave a surprised laugh. “Right beside the father who had to pay for it all.”

She held out a hand and smiled, showing tiny white teeth. “I’m Susan, Antonia’s cousin.”

Nim saw it at once—the girl had the bride’s red hair and milky skin. “Nim Whitelaw. Antonia’s boss.”

“Enjoy the party.” Susan picked up her ginger ale and fluttered off toward the stage, a violin case in one hand. Obviously, she was one of the musicians.

Nim watched her go with faint interest. Speaking for soulless monsters everywhere, it was hard to hate weddings—or like them, either. Once upon a time, fae weddings had been swathed in starlight and garlands of living butterflies. The bride and groom would have slept in the woods on a bed made from the down of griffins to give their love the strength of lions. But that was all in a past that Nim was slowly forgetting.

“Top you up?” asked the bartender, holding the bottle above her glass. His look was filled with an invitation that had nothing to do with chardonnay.

“Thank you,” Nim said to be polite, even though she’d barely had time to touch her wine.

“Don’t you own that bookstore?” the bartender asked as he poured a generous measure. He was staring at Nim’s neckline and would have missed the glass if she hadn’t given it a magical nudge to the left. She’d gone nearly six weeks without using her powers, and the tiny push felt good.

“I do. Antonia is my employee.” Nim had always been careful to honor those who served her well. By coming here, Nim kept at least that much of herself alive.

It was also one of the last things Nim would do in Carlyle. After months of searching—and hiding from any potential assassins—she’d finally located the contact who’d promised to help her disappear for good.

“Tony’s my sister-in-law. She said you’ve been away on vacation.”

“I just got back last night.”

Bored with the man, Nim glanced toward the dance floor. The music hadn’t started but Antonia, with a white lace veil over her curling red hair, was the magnetic center of the crowd, laughing and hugging everyone who came to greet her. The groom stood at her side, shaking hands and grinning as if he’d won the richest lottery in all the mortal realms.

Nim had never felt as alien as she did in that moment, witnessing that bond. She didn’t belong at a wedding, with her empty, silent heart. She set down her glass and slid off the bar stool, suddenly sure she had to escape. All that happiness was just too much to witness.

It was then she saw him. She did a double take, sure it was a perverse trick of memory that summoned the face of Lancelot du Lac, that the wedding atmosphere had stirred the dying embers of old dreams. But then she realized Arthur must have acted on her information. Lancelot had risen from the stone sleep, and was before her in warm, living flesh.

Even for this modern age Lancelot was tall, his broad shoulders filling out a worn leather jacket as easily as they had a warrior’s garb. Her first thought was to slip away but, with the uncanny intuition of an expert swordsman, he looked straight at her. As she watched, he went rigid, a flicker of shock widening his eyes. Clearly, he’d just recognized his old lover beneath the hair dye and contact lenses.

It had been one thing to see his statue, his features frozen in stone. Lancelot alive and breathing was completely another story. His dark, liquid gaze skewered Nim, looking deep into places she’d forgotten.

Shock took her, and Nim took a step toward him before she knew what she was doing. A sudden, irrational urge to throw her wine—or perhaps a fist—overtook her. She wasn’t capable of anger, but she owed that vengeance to her younger self. He hadn’t just broken her heart when he’d left her for Camelot. He’d pulped it. The ghost of those emotions ached like a limb lost in battle, reminding her how she’d wept in lonely grief.

He pushed away from the bar and prowled her way. The summer sun had bleached streaks into his dark gold hair, and he swept it from his eyes in a gesture she remembered well. But familiarity ended there. There was a hardness around his mouth she didn’t remember. When his gaze held hers, assessing every line of her face, his expression was too guarded to read.

“Nimueh.” He shook his head as if willing himself to wake from a dream. His deep voice brought the past rushing into the present. She remembered hearing that voice in the dark, when it had gone soft and lazy after the intimacies of love.

“Nimueh,” he said again, this time with more strength. She hadn’t heard that accent for centuries—it was French, but not the French she heard now. It was something older and rougher that went straight to her core. Once she had adored the way he said her name, caressing each syllable as if she was something good to eat. Then he’d set about proving it with his generous mouth on every inch of her flesh.

“Nimueh,” he said one more time, as if her name was a prayer. Emotions chased across his face—shock, grief, happiness, guilt.

She held his gaze, willing his feelings to stop. She couldn’t return any of them and she didn’t want to answer his questions. “These are modern times. Just call me Nim. Nim Whitelaw, bookstore owner.”

He tensed at her words as if the flat statement had surprised him. “That doesn’t sound like you. It’s too plain.”

“That’s the point.” Instinctively, she looked around at the crowded room, wondering who might see them together. But no one seemed to take the slightest notice of their conversation.

He was looking her over. “You look almost human with brown eyes and dark hair. Why change your appearance?”

It was a good question, but it was none of his business. She leaned closer, lowering her voice in case fae ears could eavesdrop over the din. “Walk away. Leave. It would be far better if you never mentioned our meeting. Understand that, if you ever cared for me.”

“What do you mean? Of course I cared for you. I still do.”

“Oh.” Words deserted Nim, making her feel like an awkward child. It was a most unpleasant sensation—her insides felt oddly fizzy, as if she’d swallowed an entire case of champagne. A dim memory said the sensation was panic or perhaps excitement. Such feelings couldn’t be, but Lancelot had a way of making the impossible happen. After all, once upon a time she’d fallen in love with him—a penniless mortal with nothing more than good looks and a steady lance, pun completely intended.

She waited a moment, hoping she would think of something to say, but her mind remained blank. Or crowded. She couldn’t decide which, but the sensation was overwhelming. The need to run and hide ballooned inside her, threatening to stop her lungs.

“Goodbye.” She spun on her heel to leave.