Page 3 of Enchanted Warrior

Before she could answer or turn back to him, he reached out, laying rough, warm fingers against her cheek. It was gentle, almost a caress, but he had her rattled. She jumped, gathering her power to defend herself. “Don’t touch me!”

The instant her magic rose to strike back, his mouth dropped open and he pulled away as if she’d stung him. He recovered in a heartbeat, though now he was clearly wary.

He grabbed her wrist, glaring at the tattoo as if he hadn’t noticed it before. “Witch,” he said in a low, threatening growl.

Tamsin turned cold at the word. Most thought witches were extinct, and the covens preferred things that way. But her temper was roused, and she pulled away, heat mounting in her cheeks. “Felt that, did you? I think you’ve got a touch of the blood yourself. You certainly have impressive shields.”

“No.” He said it with fierce finality. All trace of softness was gone from his face, reducing it to bloodless, harsh angles. “Now youwilltell me what I want to know.”

“I don’t know where the tombs are,” she snapped. “I’ve already tried to locate some of the artifacts that should be in the church, but the old owner died and the information was lost. What paper records they have here are a mess. That’s why the new owners have hired me—to figure all this out.”

Silence hung heavy between them, and his face darkened again, promising thunder. “Then have answers for me the next time we meet.”

“And why would I do that for you?” Her temper was up and the words out before she could stop herself. Her gut knotted, bracing for the backlash.

“Because scholars like riddles, witchling, and there is a cost if you fail to find the answer.” Gawain wheeled and headed for the door.

Alarmed, Tamsin followed only to see him clear the steps in one graceful leap.

“Wait!” What consequences? How did he know about witches, anyway? And what was the big deal about the tombs? But by then, Gawain had disappeared into the throng, gone as fast as he’d burst into her universe.

Urgently needing to sit, Tamsin sank to the cold steps, suddenly shaking. “By Merlin’s pointed hat,” she muttered, and wondered if historians ever got hazard pay.

ChapterTwo

Flushed with temper, Gawain stormed away from the Church of the Holy Well. He rounded the edge of a green-and-gold pavilion and slipped into the stream of foot traffic passing by—or rather, he tried to. Business had picked up in the theme park and crowds filled the pathways, slowing progress to a crawl. Bright tents and fluttering pennons conjured a vision of the past—but it was an image distorted by a fractured mirror. Medievaland was nothing like the world Gawain remembered.

He cursed, shouldering his way through a knot of tourists. He was a knight of the Round Table and friend and relation to the great Arthur of Camelot. He’d sacrificed everything when he’d agreed to this mission—his family, friends, rank and authority—but it had been the right thing to do. The men and women of this present day were innocents who had never seen actual monsters. If he did his job properly, they would stay that way.

However, to use a modern phrase, sometimes his job sucked. Today, it sucked more than usual because his entire quest was in ashes. The tombs were gone, and they were key to stopping Camelot’s enemies. Gawain had heard whispers of witches and fae plotting in the shadows. The doomsday that Arthur had foreseen—and that had inspired the entire plan to put the Round Table into the stone sleep—was almost upon them.

Worse, the information he needed to find the tombs was in the hands of a very pretty witch who inspired thoughts of bedchamber revelry. Tamsin Greene—a witch’s name if there ever was one—was a fair beauty, long legged and slender with a silver-blond braid that fell to her waist. Most would call her beautiful—exquisitely so—but that description missed the best part of her. The young woman’s big brown eyes had been cautious and bold by turns, as challenging as a clever swordsman testing his guard. Everything about her had stirred his blood until he’d felt her power and seen the mark on her wrist. It meant she was a sworn member of a group of witches, bound to them by blood and magic.

The situation could not get more complicated. He half believed her claims of ignorance, although it could not be a coincidence that he’d found a witch on duty at the spot where the huge stone tombs had mysteriously vanished. No, as lovely as Tamsin was—and as lonely as he was—witches were dangerous. Gawain knew that firsthand. His own mother had been the worst.

Tamsin’s words came back to him with the cold chill of a nightmare:I think you’ve got a touch of the blood yourself. That was his horror and his shame. He’d spent a life in service to his king, spilling his witch-tainted blood over and over in an effort to cleanse it. Five minutes in the company of the little historian, and she’d found his flaw. Ten, and he might have been dragged down into the claws of sorcery once more, a corrupted victim of his bloodline unable to control his own intrinsic evil.

Gawain strode with his head down so he didn’t have to look around. A juggler passed by, then a foam dragon wearing a sandwich board that advertised a joust. All the employees were in cheap costumes, some even sporting fake crowns, as if they were kings and queens of the hot dog stands. There was a dread fascination to it all, as if history had experienced a terrible accident.

“I can’t make up my mind if this is a logical place to see a knight of Camelot, or a peculiar one.” The voice was as cool and precise as a honed blade.

Gawain froze, every muscle readying for a fight. Then he saw the speaker, and his alarm turned to a cautious surprise. “Angmar of Corin.”

“The same.” The figure raised his hands, showing he was unarmed. “I come in peace.”

Angmar was dressed in jeans and a thick sweater and leaning against one of the faux-rustic pillars supporting the thatched roof of a concession stand. The modern clothes made Gawain blink. Angmar was one of the faery folk, so tall and thin that he was almost gaunt. His skin was a warm brown that contrasted sharply with bright green eyes and long white hair. Though his face was young, something in his eyes spoke of centuries past.

The fine hairs on Gawain’s neck rose. Even in the chaos of the crowded fairground, he could feel Angmar’s power. It was as different from the pretty witch’s as a broadsword was from a kitchen knife, and the fae—once allies—were now sworn enemies of Camelot.

Angmar narrowed his eyes and tapped his chin with a long forefinger. “Surely you’re not here for the bouncy castle.”

Gawain gave a bitter laugh. “Maybe Medievaland suits me.”

With a faint smile, Angmar closed the distance between them. “You are a prince of Lothian and the Orkney Isles. You’re above all this.”

For a moment they studied each other, both outsiders caught in a world utterly different from where they belonged. Gawain had never known Angmar well. Fae lived by different rules and rarely came to Arthur’s court, but finding him here created unexpected common ground.

“I thought your kind had gone to the Hollow Hills and left the mortal world behind,” said Gawain.

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