Page 22 of Enchanted Warrior

Gawain ducked his head so she wouldn’t see the frustration crushing him. His fist tightened, but there was nothing to punish. She had tried, and nearly lost her life doing it. “I thank you for the attempt.”

“Not so fast,” she replied. “I saw the books I was after and I think I saw your missing friend. They might be in the same place.”

Gawain looked up at her. There was a look of triumph that hadn’t been in her eyes a moment ago. He thought he’d ended the dance between them, recalled himself to duty, but she’d just changed the rules. Gawain found himself giving in to a slow smile. Tamsin really was full of the unexpected. “You found Angmar?”

“Maybe.” She rose from the bed, moving slowly as if every joint ached. “But getting him back isn’t going to be easy. The place is guarded by a heavy-duty magic user with an affinity for frost.”

Gawain sobered in an instant. “Mordred. Cold is his trick. By the saints, he was the one who attacked you!”

A shadow of fear crossed her features. “He didn’t win, though.”

“Maybe.” He took her hand, cradling her delicate fingers in his. This time, the warm physical contact was for his benefit. He needed tangible proof that she was safe and well. He wasn’t leaving her unguarded, even if that meant sleeping outside her door.

He met her eyes, holding her deep brown gaze. “Mordred never counts a battle over until he is the victor. Victory to him always means death.”

ChapterEight

The next afternoon, Tamsin hissed in frustration as a stack of files slithered to the floor of her office. An avalanche of yellowing paper and fading mimeographs fell with a crash. Pages fluttered across the tiles, destroying what little order she’d managed to create. Belatedly, Tamsin grabbed the last of the stack before it toppled off the desk, then wiped her hands on her jeans with a grimace.

She’d found another mildewy box from the 1970s. After handling the papers for an hour, she was dreaming of a hot shower laced with disinfectant. Getting down on her hands and knees, she began scooping the pages into a messy stack. It would have been nice to have a spell that could bring order to the mess, but she’d never heard of such a thing, and after the night before, she had no stomach for more magic.

To be perfectly honest, she didn’t feel well after last night’s adventure. She’d known the spell was risky—all visioning spells were. She should have had her coven around her, but she’d only had Gawain for support. Gawain, who hated magic and witches. It was just good luck that he knew how to help her when she’d needed it.

And then there was what had come after. Heat, and then pleasure, and then—what? It was as if Gawain had taken off protective armor long enough to drive her wild, and then donned it again the moment things got interesting. He didn’t trust her—that much was clear—but his unexpected respect for her feelings said something had changed between them. Gawain had put her needs before his own and Tamsin wasn’t sure whether to be glad or wary. Such restraint made her admire him far more than she cared to admit.

Crawling on hands and knees, Tamsin slid the last piece of paper from under the desk and added it to her stack. She sat back on her heels, exhausted by doubt. To be fair, Gawain had stayed with her until she fell asleep. After that, she was certain he didn’t stray far. He was watching over her like a scowling guardian angel, afraid because Mordred now knew Tamsin existed. Just like Stacy had warned, using magic had put Tamsin on the bad guys’ radar and that had nearly killed her. If Gawain hadn’t coaxed her back to her body, she would have died.

Based on that, Tamsin knew two things. One, if Mordred had Merlin’s books, as her spell suggested, they were in trouble. In the wrong hands—which Mordred’s undoubtedly were—that much knowledge would be an unbeatable weapon. Two, if finding the tombs would stop Mordred in his tracks, she was all over the problem like a terrier determined to find its bone.

Tamsin dumped the stack of paper back onto the desk and resumed her seat in front of the computer screen. She’d been making notes in a spreadsheet, cross-referencing the paper records with a list of artifacts from the original sale of the church. Much of the church’s contents—including the famous tombs—had been warehoused, but there the trail went cold and the warehouse had burned down since. She’d been hoping these files—boxed up for forty years, from what she could tell—would give her a hint as to the fate of its contents.

She picked up the top piece of paper. It peeled away from its neighbor with a tacky sound that spoke of damp and ancient photocopier ink. It was an inventory of reliquaries, complete with an assortment of saints’ bones. Tamsin wondered what a DNA test would reveal. Most of those old relics turned out to be the bones of pigs or other animals.

The next page was a memo for the purchase of acid-free packing materials, and the next was someone’s job application. On the fourth, Tamsin hit pay dirt.

It was a bill for transport, just a few words on a preprinted invoice form from what looked like a small local company. Tamsin’s stomach flipped, a wash of excitement making it hard to concentrate on the words in front of her. It was the second page of a carbon copy form, and the ink had faded to a pale gray. At the bottom was some writing she didn’t understand, but the top looked like directions for delivery. All she could make out there was “stone” and “knight” and “Pacific College for” and “History.” Pacific College for the Study of European History, she guessed. It had been absorbed by Oceanside University in Seattle back in the nineties, but the campus itself hadn’t moved. This was the first real clue she’d found.

Excitement pounded in her chest. She had to tell Gawain. Unfortunately, he was out wandering around Medievaland in search of bad faeries and he didn’t have a cell phone.

Without warning, the door opened, letting in a gust of cool air. Tamsin looked up, shock sliding through her like a slim blade of ice.

There was a fae standing in the doorway. Tamsin had never actually seen one before, but there was no mistaking what species the female belonged to. She was exquisite, her skin a dark honey brown so smooth and fine it look polished. Her hair was frost white and fell in a thick tumble to her hips. In that exotic coloring, her eyes seemed to shimmer like green gems. Tamsin noted with surprise that the fae held a set of car keys in her hand. She’d never thought about such creatures driving, but she supposed they had to get around somehow.

The female took a step into the office, the heels of her boots clicking on the tile. Tamsin’s first thought was of the newspaper article Gawain had shown her, and his tale of soul-devouring hunger.

Tamsin jumped slightly as the office door clicked shut. She licked her lips, fighting the urge to panic. The woman was exquisitely lovely, but her eyes were empty as a doll’s. A creeping dread began to rise in Tamsin, protesting the presence of such utter wrongness. Forcing an outward calm, Tamsin folded her hands across the invoice, obscuring the fading text.

“May I help you?” she asked, her voice cracking on the last word. Where was Gawain?

“My name is Nimueh, and you are Tamsin Greene, the historian.” The woman’s voice was low and rich, though spoiled by an odd, flat quality. “Am I correct?”

“Yes.”

Tamsin would have expected her visitor to look around for a chair, perch on the desk or make some move to get comfortable. Nimueh stood stiff as a wind-up mannequin, staring at Tamsin with unblinking eyes. It was, in a word, creepy.

“I was sent by Lord Mordred, son of the Queen of Faery,” announced Nimueh.

Tamsin scrambled for options as her spine went rigid. “What does Lord Mordred want?”

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