Enchanted Guardian

“What could another woman give me that you cannot?” Lancelot whispered. It was more like a groan.

She sat back on her heels, looking down at him from under slitted lids. “Safety. She would bind your life around with the garlands of comfort and surety. She would keep your hearth and home and fill it with kindness. Your future would be known and beloved, a tale well told and filled with love and laughter. I foresaw this future for you in my gazing crystal, long before you went into the stone sleep. I had hoped you would have found her instead. Perhaps you still can.”

“She sounds marvelous. A paragon. Undoubtedly a good wife and mother.”

“Many long for a crumb of such happiness as she could give.”

“Well,” said Lancelot, “when we find her we should introduce her to Beaumains. She sounds like his type.”

Nimueh let out an exasperated breath. “Why not you?”

“I have you.”

SHARON ASHWOOD is a novelist, desk jockey and enthusiast for the weird and spooky. She has an English literature degree but works as a finance geek. Interests include growing her to-be-read pile and playing with the toy graveyard on her desk. Sharon is the winner of the 2011 RITA® Award for Best Paranormal Romance. She lives in the Pacific Northwest and is owned by the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness.

Enchanted Guardian

Sharon Ashwood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness, conqueror of fuzzy slippers and bane of the computer mouse. Long may your reign of terror continue.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

In case you’re wondering, heroes and villains are real. So is magic, and so are monsters. They’re not just children’s tales or relics of a long-ago past.

Take Camelot, for example. It belongs to the present just as much as it did to once upon a time, and its story goes like this:

Long ago, King Arthur won a mighty battle against the demons, but what should have been victory quickly turned to Camelot’s doom. Some say it was evil luck and others say it was the enchanter Merlin’s arrogance for, in his desperation to defeat the enemy, Merlin tried magic no one had seen before. The result was disaster. The final spell of the war ripped out the souls of Camelot’s fae allies and reduced them to emotionless shells.

The Queen of Faery swore vengeance against Merlin, the king and all the mortal realms. In defiance, the warriors of Camelot sacrificed everything they had, or loved, or ever hoped to be in order to keep us safe. Merlin cast an enchantment, turning the mighty Knights of the Round Table to stone statues upon their empty tombs. There they lie ageless and undying, ready to rise when humanity’s hour of need is greatest.

Yes, heroes are real, and so are the villains. The pitiless Morgan LaFaye is ruler of the beautiful and deadly fae. Once allies, now they feed on mortal souls because they’ve lost their own.

Now the Queen of Faery is poised to invade. If she has her way, our world is about to end.

It’s time for Camelot to rise.

Chapter 1

Run.

Her feet flew over the pavement, swift and all but silent. She ran like a deer, leaping over obstacles and dodging from path to lane, road to filthy alley. She ran like the wind because her death was behind her. She ran like prey.

Hide.

She found cover at last, though it was barely enough. There were two stairs down to a basement door, just enough of a dent in the narrow road for concealment. Crouching low, she made herself as small as she could. When that wasn’t enough, she huddled on the ground, her knees and palms on the dirty concrete.

Words came out of the dark, soft and cruel. “Where are you? I want to see your beautiful face.”

She held her breath, clamping both hands over her mouth to keep from gasping. Her lungs burned with exhaustion, crying out for a soothing gulp of air she dared not take.

“Nimueh, where are you? Nim—oo—ay.” Her pursuer’s voice lilted upward in mockery. “Oh, resplendent Lady of the Lake, hear my call. The queen wants a word.”

A word? Queen Morgan LaFaye wanted her dead. At least she’d paid Nimueh the compliment of sending one of her private assassins instead of any old thug. Nim squeezed her eyes shut. There was no traffic after midnight in the commercial district and no one she could run to for help. Not that the fae ran for help from humans.

“You took the enemy’s side,” he added. “Nobody liked the prince, but he was her son. You participated in the murder of the heir to the throne of Faery.”

As if Nim needed an explanation for the Queen of Faery’s wrath. Before this, she’d been one of LaFaye’s advisors, and she knew defying Morgan LaFaye was seriously stupid. But dread of Prince Mordred had overtaken Nim’s fear of his mother. After a tour of the prince’s dungeon, she’d decided someone had to put an end to the maniac. Better that than end up one of his broken toys.

“Come, my lady. Let’s finish this.” A note of boredom crept into the assassin’s voice even as he spun his long knife in the air, making the fine steel sing. “Your magic won’t help you now. Weave a spell and I’ll scent it like blood in the water.”

If that was true, he had one of the queen’s tracking amulets. No doubt that’s how he’d found her tonight, though for months she’d barely used her powers in her effort to hide among the humans. To complicate things still more, the amulet protected the wearer from magical attack, so Nim couldn’t blast her way to freedom.

She silently cursed. The assassin had her. Fae were immune to age and disease, but a blade to the heart could still end her life. For all her natural advantages, right now she was as vulnerable as a human.

Think.

Without lifting her head, Nim scanned her surroundings, counting on her dark clothes and a knit cap to blend into the night. Like much of the neighborhood, the brewery where she hid was a derelict nest of trash and cobwebs, half the windows boarded up and the other half gaping mouths with teeth of jagged glass. Something crawled over her hand and she flicked it off before she could stop herself. Nim silently cursed, afraid her pursuer’s sharp eyes would detect the sudden movement.

The next few seconds were an agony of suspense as she waited to feel that blade kiss her spine, but instead, his unhurried footfalls echoed in the empty street. The skin between her shoulder blades twitched. Then stopped. A hesitant scuff of shoes on pavement told her the assassin was looking around, his gaze slithering over the street to find her. She waited, silently willing her nerves under control.

Unexpectedly, he gave an impatient sigh and moved to the left, his footfalls leading away from her refuge. Luck? No. What little luck she’d known had slipped through her fingers long ago.

Nim counted out long minutes before emerging from her hole, silent as a shade gliding against shadow. She glanced around, finding a street number on the gate across the road. Ironically, she’d been on her way to this neighborhood when the enemy had picked up her trail. He’d all but chased her to her intended destination, a run-down warehouse three blocks away. If she could hide there, she would be reasonably safe until daylight filled the streets with humans again. The rules of lore and magic were clear about hiding the shadow world from mundane eyes. Not even the Queen of Faery’s assassin would parade their world’s existence before humans. At least, not yet.

Nim crept forward, calculating the safest route. If she kept close to the building, she could avoid the few pools of light from the windows above. She made it as far as the corner before the assassin sprang, knife flashing. Instinct saved her as she spun away and flung up an arm. Pain seared as fae-forged steel sliced her leather sleeve. Her breath whooshed out in shock, every nerve screaming. For an instant, she teetered on the edge of panic but, even with her magic sidelined, the Lady of the Lake fought for her life.

Nim used the momentum of her spin and slammed a booted heel into her attacker’s shoulder. She was half his weight, but the force of the blow made him drop his weapon and stagger back a step. She scooped up the knife, driving the point into his hip until it ground against bone. The assassin’s mouth stretched in a silent scream. Even now, the brutal training of LaFaye’s private guards held fast. No one ever heard their cries.

Nim quit while she was ahead. She wrenched the blade free and fled, every step making her arm throb. The warehouse she wanted, a century-old hulk of brick, was straight ahead. She had to get in without telltale magic, but that worked to her advantage. Her opponent wouldn’t expect a fae noblewoman to use plain, old-fashioned burglary skills.

When Nim reached the foot of the wall, she slid the knife through her belt and climbed. Her injured arm was almost useless, but she was a fae raised in the ancient woods of the Forest Sauvage and climbing was second nature. Nim used the knife to jimmy open the window, slipped inside and dropped lightly to the floor. Dust flew up in a choking cloud.

There was just enough light from the grimy upper windows for Nim to make out the shapes around her. Boxes and crates were stacked in haphazard rows and, according to her research, they housed part of a private art collection that was strewn across the country in hidden treasuries like this. The owner was dead, the heirs locked in a legal battle that had already lasted decades. No one was absolutely sure where all the loot was stored.

Nim had investigated quite a few warehouses before her hunt had led to Carlyle, Washington—right back to where her search had begun. Who’d have thought even a rich eccentric would stash priceless treasures in a town where the most notable industry was a medieval theme park? But then, if she’d thought about it, the collector had been born in Carlyle. An elementary mistake, forgetting humans were sentimental that way.

But the hunt was behind her. Now she just had to find the one item that mattered.

She walked slowly up and down the rows, her feet silent on the carpet of dust. She was still wound tight, all too aware the assassin was outside, but this place was better than any cloaking spell. Low-level magic hummed among the artifacts, covering any trace of her presence. The collection came from Babylon, the Egypt of the pharaohs, Greece, Rome and the cold Viking fjords. And there were pieces from medieval Britain.

She stopped before a large, steel-strapped crate and dusted off the label. It was torn, but there was enough text left to tell her she’d found what she was looking for. The crate was too tall to reach properly, so she dragged another box close to use as a step stool. She used the assassin’s long knife to pry up the lid until she could force the fingers of her good hand into the crack. Fae strength did the rest. The top came off with a squeak of wood and nails. She set it aside gently, making as little noise as she could just in case someone—like her assassin—was within earshot.

It was a primitive packing job, nothing like the customized containers used to ship art from proper museums. There was a waterproof lining, but then loose packing material filled the empty spaces. The rats had been inside, chewing the fibrous fill to dust. She brushed it away in long sweeps of her bare hand.

Her fingers slowed, meeting the kiss of cold stone inside the crate. It was here, literally in her hands. For a human, the moment would have brought triumph, hope or even anger, but Nim was fae. All she could manage was a muted shadow of feeling, for her people felt no love, no desire, none of the wild passions that had made the immortal fae what they were. Their vital fire was in ashes—unless they turned to utter and complete monsters, willing to commit any atrocity to regain what they had lost.

Still, Nim had curiosity enough to quicken her movements, clearing the features she’d known so very well once upon a time. She leaned deeper into the crate, finding stone hands, a sword hilt that in life had been studded with rubies, and the curve of an arm. Bit by bit she uncovered a knight—her knight—frozen by Merlin into a stone effigy. Finally, she looked into the face of Lancelot du Lac.

“Oh!” Her soft exclamation hung in the dark space, strangely forceful against the dusty silence. She hadn’t seen him since before the demon wars. Whatever she had expected, it hadn’t been this sudden compression of time, where the heartbroken woman she had been collided with the ruin she was now. And all these centuries, Lancelot had remained unchanged.

His features had never been meant to be so still, so robbed of color. His hair had lingered between autumn brown and gold, changing with the seasons and the sun. A beautiful youth, he had matured into a sternly handsome man. The lean angles of his face were the same as she remembered, all aristocratic cheekbones and a long, straight nose. Lancelot was King Ban of Benoic’s son, from a bloodline as old and noble as it had been impoverished. What they had lacked in coin they had made up for in pride. She could see it in the cut of his lips and the clean angle of his jaw. The one thing that had softened his expression were his deep-set eyes. The darkest brown, they had shone with every impulse he’d ever had. It took a measure of innocence to be as noble as Lancelot had been when she’d first met him. She wondered if any shred of that boy had been left when he’d finally been turned to stone upon his empty grave.

Despite herself, Nim traced Lancelot’s face, relearning the contours with her fingertips. His lids, the planes of his cheeks, the dip beneath the bow of his lower lip. In repose, his cheeks were smooth, but there were creases when he smiled. Once, he had smiled often.

He’d been called Lancelot du Lac for her sake, for she was the Lady of the Lake. He had been her protégé, her lover and her champion before ambition had drawn him to Arthur’s side—and before the young queen, Guinevere, had stolen away his love. Before he betrayed... Nim’s breath hitched, snagged by memory, but the strange sensation didn’t last. It was only the echo of remembered jealousy—once fierce as a ravening tiger, now cold as grave dirt.

And yet bitterness had a way of leaving its taste behind even now. How ironic that the man she’d loved so fiercely was before her and utterly at her mercy. Guinevere was long dead. Nim was at long last fully in control. She could shape their future together, remake everything exactly as she’d wanted—if only she wasn’t cold inside.

If only he hadn’t stopped smiling long before he’d been turned to stone.

Nim leaned down, balancing carefully so that only her lips brushed his. She exhaled, her warm breath bouncing back almost as if he’d sighed against her. But she was not fooled. The shape of his mouth was right, but there was none of the yielding pleasure of its soft touch. There was no demand, no promise. Nothing. He was as cold and stiff as a fae.

Nim frowned. Like all her kind, she knew exactly what she’d lost. Without souls to leash their powerful natures, the fae could easily turn into nightmares. Of course, the queen was counting on that very quality to conquer the mortal realms. She’d honed the fae’s loss into a weapon.

A few at a time, Nim’s people had returned from their home in the magical realm called the Hollow Hills. They infiltrated human cities in positions of influence where their grace and charisma—and lack of compassion—could do the most damage. When the queen was finally ready, the takeover of the mortal realms would be unstoppable. Brutal. Absolute.

Nim was no warrior, but she could not watch her people transform into monsters for LaFaye’s pleasure. Nim still remembered who they’d been before confusion, fear and addiction had made them slaves to the queen.

Blood dripped from her wound onto Lancelot’s cheek. She wiped it away, suddenly conscious the stone effigy was in truth a living man. Without taking her eyes from Lancelot’s face, she fished in her coat pocket for her phone, scrolled through her contacts and selected a number.

Morgan LaFaye’s only real foe was her kinsman, Arthur Pendragon, who had become the king. The family tree was complicated, human, witch and fae families intermarrying until few could make sense of the bloodlines. LaFaye had always believed Arthur had stolen the crown of Camelot, but had never been able to seize it for herself—especially not after Nim had given Arthur the sword Excalibur, the one weapon that could kill the fae queen. If Nim wanted to fight LaFaye, her best bet was to help Camelot.

That was why she was here in this warehouse. The one hundred and fifty tombs housing the Knights of the Round Table had been scattered. So far only a handful of knights had been awakened from the stone sleep—but now she’d located one more.

Lancelot had always been Arthur’s champion, and that was, Nim told herself, the reason she’d worked so hard to find him. It had to be more than the need to see his face one more time, and to know that her heart was truly dead. Being a fae didn’t guarantee a fairy-tale ending.

But now she was done, and it was time to seek help to disappear so completely that not even LaFaye’s assassins could find her.

The phone rang twice before someone picked up.

“Medievaland Theme Park,” said a deep male voice. “Come for the fantasy, stay for the feast.”

Nim cleared her throat, her gaze inexorably returning to Lancelot’s face. With the merest whisper of magic, she disguised her voice and caller ID. “I have an anonymous tip for your king.”

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.