by Skye, Sariah
“Just what exactly are you planning, Ava?” Nimue righted herself, lifting herself up and brushing the dirt off her dark colored dress and robes. “To take Arthur back to Avalon and cure him?” She tipped her head back, and laughed sharply, like the mere idea was ridiculous. “Come on, surely you cannot believe I’d be stupid enough to not only fall for but allow that.”
“Please. What are you going to do?” I demanded, glaring at her with intimidation. I heard Arthur struggle, but Trystan’s grip was strong. With one glare from Mathias, whose eyes had reddened with fury and the seams of his shirt began to stretch and strain, Arthur willingly backed down. I chuckled quietly to myself; he was such a wimp, it was hard to believe someone like this could command and intimidate an entire kingdom.
But did he really? I thought, as I returned my glower to Nimue.
“In the belief of fairness,” Nimue began, and I laughed uproariously at the thought of “Nimue” and “fair”. “I will tell you that I have more than a hundred, seasoned-in-battle shadow fae soldiers, ready and willing to do my bidding and take you on. Surely even those odds would be tough for even you to conquer, Gladiator. Mere soldiers, maybe. Shadow soldiers? Not a damned chance in the Seven Hells.”
Mathias began to speak, but I rose my hand. “Do your soldiers have Excalibur?”
Nimue’s full lips spread into a wide, evil grin. “Of course not but there is a secret about that sword. It’s not exactly what you think, Priestess.”
“That’s a lie!” Lachlan shouted with determination, and with a flick of her hand she silenced him again.
“Have you ever felt it have a… presence. A conscience or a sentience, maybe?” She asked, and I hoped I kept the internal flinch from appearing on my face at her assessment. She smiled from one side of her mouth. “Ah, yes, it clearly does, and you know what I’m talking about. I’m not sure it is to be trusted.”
“For you, maybe. For me? We’re good friends now, bitch.” To prove my point, I exchanged its hilt in my hands before deftly pointing it in her direction. Excalibur buzzed and thrummed, heating and glowing orange, clearly thrilled with our display.
Nimue cackled. “See what I mean?”
“No. You’re insane, you know that?” I spat. Nimue just grinned.
“I am, you know. Now, unhand my mate, and we will come together to battle again, another day. Or I drive this blade through your beloved father, right now.” Nimue flicked her hand outward, and a dark blade with an ornate, dark-metal filigreed hilt appeared in her hand, and she swiftly, aided by the shadow spun, intending to subdue my father and do whatever with that twisted, evil-looking blade. I began to cry out, but Mathias was fast—faster than Nimue, and in an absolute blur ran, putting himself between them. Just as Nimue was aiming to plunge the dark dagger into my father, it instead impaled Mathias in the stomach.
I gasped in terror, feeling my stomach swoop and roil at the sight; nearly dropping the sword in my hand. Excalibur remained steadfastly, almost like it was invisibly glued to my hand. I trembled and shook, watching the blood immediately spurt from my immortal, unbeatable fiancé’s stomach.
But, Mathias didn’t falter or groan. No, he instead lifted his head, wearing a smug smile as he glared her down. He paused to offer me a very quick wink, telling me without words that he was okay. A part of me relaxed, but only part. I don’t care who it was, you didn’t relax when you watched someone you loved bleeding out.
“Don’t worry, luv. This sort of thing happens to him all the time. Takes a lot more than a blade in the stomach to stop Mathias,” Trystan spoke to me quietly, and I sucked in a breath, but nodded. He would know. I still didn’t like it—not one bit, not at all.
“Go, Lachlan,” Mathias barked over his shoulder, and obediently, my father shimmered from visibility, the shadow bonds fading away. Good to know, obviously our invisibility could release us from that bond.
With a triumphant grin, Mathias wrapped his fingers around the blade, not even flinching at the blood that slid and released from his palm. Nimue, clearly shocked, stepped back. “Where did you get this? This… is twisted.”
“None of your business,” Nimue spat quickly. Composing herself, she postured proudly. Tossing me a snide glare, I watched as she took a deep breath and began to scream.
“Shite.” Trystan released Arthur, which was probably part of her plan, and quickly clamped his hands over my ears, pulling me into him. I watched as Xander darted after him, but with a blast of magic, a mound of shadow began to collect at his feet, and Arthur was able to dart away.
“Enough of this, Mother—you will not harm my friends!”
“What the—” I started. Before Nimue could get off her banshee scream, she was blasted with an orb of dark magic. Mordred appeared in a fog of shadow, raising his dark blade at her—similar to the one that just stabbed Mathias—storming the distance between them, glaring her down. I took the opportunity to call for my magic, intending to run in my panic towards Mathias who still clutched the dark blade in his hand, blood pouring out of his stomach. Trystan put a hand on my arm before I could react, shaking his head.
“He’ll be all right, lassie,” he promised, and I bit my lip, glancing back at him, and the pool of blood that fell and began to congeal at his feet.
With a twisted, disconcerting grin, Mathias slowly pulled the blade out of his stomach, not even flinching as the blade left his flesh. I swallowed, both nervous and almost frightened at the brown and red-rimmed irises of his eyes as he enraged. Mathias laughed a low, menacing and blood-freezing cackle as he lifted the blade, tossing it into his other hand’s grasp… and completely shattered it with a strong grip into black dust that trailed from his hand and blew into the wind.
Holy fucking shit, I thought. My fiancé was more than a badass. He was a damned legend.
Even the sword hummed briefly in agreement.
“Nice try, Nimue.” Mathias’ voice was dangerously low and full of malice. Even Nimue balked at it. His clothes began to tear at the seams as he grew taller, thicker, and his eyes turned blood red: he was enraging. The wound seemed to be closing as he grew larger as a result of his super-strength. “It’ll take more than a shadow blade to best me.”
Nimue cursed, trying to compose herself from the setback as she moved her attention back to her son who was poised, ready to hit her with blade or magic; whatever it took.
From at my feet, Bedivere began to rise, groaning. Trystan released me, satisfied with a glance towards her that she wouldn’t be screaming, prevented by Mordred, who threatened her with an intimidating orb of swirling magic around his hand and arm.
I turned my attention back to Bedivere again. It was strange, I hadn’t remembered him being hurt, but the storm could have done more damage than I’d thought. I turned swiftly, propelled by the magic of the sword, and thrust the blade towards him, raising a single brow and sneering at him. “You will stay put.”
Bedivere nodded once, lifting both of his palms in surrender. From the corner of my eye, a light flash of lightning shot out, the light reflecting off a nearby blade, that was close enough for Bedivere to reach. My eyes narrowed fully at him, because it was clear by his darting gaze he noticed. Either he was that terrified of Excalibur or that injured to go after it, but he eyed me with a mysterious regard glinting in his dark eyes. I swore, I almost saw his eye twitch, like a wink, but that was daft. Bedivere was clearly on Arthur’s side.
But he was subdued for better or worse right now. Trystan had drawn his own jagged dagger at him and between the two of us, he wasn’t going after Arthur.
Mordred and Nimue continued to battle, with glares and posturing dark magic. The vibe was tense, the betrayal of one another a pungent stench in the air.
“Mother, I have had enough of this. This kingdom, your hatred—this isn’t what it should be like!” Mordred shook his head as the dim shadow spun around him, flapping his cloak in the wind. Unlike Nimue, though, he didn’t appear evil; he appeared commanding and regal.
“It doesn’t matter. You failed here,” Nimue said, with a sickening, evil smile. “Arthur has escaped.”
“Did we though?” Rhys appeared, blinking in instantly next to Mordred, looking every bit the cocky wizard he was. He turned up his hand, revealing a troubling, sickly green magical orb that he bounced up and down in his hand. “The prisoners escaped; they are safe. You succeeded in nothing but revealing your twisted intent to the entire kingdom.”
Nimue snorted, rolling her eyes. “It is no matter. They don’t know any better; they’ll do whatever I tell them.”
Rhys’ eyes thinned into angry slits. “Yes, I’m sure. Enough spelled crystals, and they’ll do anything, right?”
Nimue scoffed. “Of course.”
My mouth dropped open. “It was you who tried turning us against each other!” I knew that of course, because Rhys had found and destroyed the crystals, but the admittance only served to piss me off more.
We fought because of that bitch! My mind echoed with anger.
I know, Ava. I promise you, she will pay, the sword replied with assurance in my head.
Good.
I jerked my head at Trystan, motioning for him to subdue Bedivere and I stalked away, ignoring the way Xander and Mathias tried to dart between Nimue and I. The sword in my hand nearly screamed, buzzing intently in my grip. It needed revenge.
I needed revenge.
I jabbed the sword at Nimue and her eyes widened slightly, unnerved by the magic in front of her.
“Oh come now, clearly I wasn’t successful, you are all too smart for that.” She clicked her tongue and grinned a twisted smile.
“My question is how did you get into Avalon in the first place?” Mathias demanded, glowering intensely at her.
“I bet I know the answer to that. She was able to track my magic. Something I didn’t anticipate she could do, but I know better now.” Mordred glared at his mother, who smirked.
“Aw, you figured me out. Now,” she turned to me, crossing her arms over her chest and tipped a brow upward. “If you let me go now, I won’t sic my soldiers on you. If you don’t, well…” She snapped her fingers and the air darkened as several ominous appearing forms appeared around us, entering in a plume of fog and darkness like Nimue did. They appeared exactly like shadows, but formidably large in size and stance. When they moved at times the light would shine on their faces, revealing humanoid features until they fully shifted into humanoid forms. Not as threatening and twisted appearing as Nimue, but still intimidating to anyone else.
Trystan and Xander sidled up next to me suddenly, looking at each other expectantly over my head.
“Do what yoy want, Nimue. We won’t be here for it. But we will be back, mark my words,” Trystan growled at her lowly. “This isn’t over.” Nimue appeared temporarily baffled, while Trystan turned to stare purposefully at Rhys. With a nod, Rhys seemed to understand a hidden meaning. He appeared at my side in a heartbeat, gripped my hand and flashed me a trademark snarky Rhys wink, and blinked me away.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“What the fuck?” I hollered irritably as I jerked my hand out of Rhys’ and tried not to stumble, dizzy from his sudden teleport. I still held Excalibur in my hand and I let it drop to my side, but I didn’t release it. The sword seemed to be calm for the time being, the hilt’s cool metal was a comfort in my palm as I clutched it.
He crossed his arms over his chest and smirked at me, raising a single brow. “Sorry, Priestess. But it was for your own good.”
“Own good. Own good? We left the guys back there! We left Mordred back there!” I protested, thrusting out a hand and pointing in the unknown direction of the guys—wherever they were. Wherever we were, for that matter.
“Ava, it’s fine. I promise,” Rhys said, with unusual sobriety. I paused in my angry tirade at him to look around; we appeared to have landed in some sort of town square, looking like it was straight out of renaissance faire with short stone buildings, wooden booths and houses with smoke escaping the chimneys made of rock. Fresh snow blanketed the ground, giving everything a clean, peaceful effect. I laughed internally at the idea, of course it looked like a renaissance faire. This was straight out of time—wherever we were. Faires appeared like this, not the other way around.
Sensing that I was in no immediate danger, I willed the sword into its bangle-form, and slapped it on my wrist as it curled around it. I appreciated the calming sensation that washed over me, scoffing silently to myself thinking that it felt now almost like an old friend.
That was interrupted when I felt a strong, familiar grasp on my shoulder and I spun around quickly to find Bash behind me, flashing me his playful, sexy smile. “Hey babe, glad you could make it.”
“Bash?” I spoke his name with confusion, but didn’t hesitate to throw my arms around him, relieved to see his handsome face and feel his warm body next to mine. He set his hands on my backside and lifted me into the air, and instinctually I wrapped my legs around his hips as he held me against him. I sighed with contentment, feeling his familiar arms around me, the heat of his skin under my fingers, and his familiar scent in my nose.
It never failed, meeting up with the guys again always felt like coming home.
“Now that your man’s got you, I will be back. Ta!” Rhys said, with a little wave. He snapped his fingers as he teleported away. Again. To where? I had no idea. Hopefully to retrieve the other guys.
“Where the hell are we?” I demanded to Bash, finally after allowing myself to get swept up in him for a moment. He smiled warmly in reply.
“Welcome to Avalonian rebel army camp, High Priestess,” a new voice spoke, and I tossed a look over my shoulder as Bash slowly set me on the ground.
“Percival?” I breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re all right.”
“I am, thanks to you,” he said with a smile, and a light bow of his head. I paused to take everything in. It was a bustling village, with wooden and stone houses, a small town “square” and a block of “shops”. People dressed out of time came in and out of them, and from the town square I could hear dozens of people talking and laughing loudly, clinking swords together and pretending to fight, like a “drill.” They must have been the rebel fighters, getting ready for the impending battle. I noticed just beyond Percival was a beautiful woman with long golden hair, and a pleasant smile. She was instantly familiar, and wore a green dress covered with a brown cloak, her footsteps lightly crunching the snow as she walked towards us. I grinned widely.
“Guinevere.”
“Ava… it is good to see you unharmed,” she replied, her brow furrowing with concern she was clearly trying to keep off her face. Bash released me and I reached out a hand for her. She set hers in mine and I spoke solemnly,
“My dad… Lach—Lancelot. He is free and he is healed.”
Tears of relief and happiness immediately welled in her eyes. She clasped her hands together, rising them to her lips and nodded quickly. “I am so thankful to you and your protectors for all you’ve done.”
“Heh. Protectors. I just don’t know where they are,” I said dryly, shooting a look towards Bash. He chuckled gently, stepping towards me to set his hands on my shoulders.
“They will be along shortly, I promise. Your dad included,” he replied, leaning in and kissing my temple. I shivered as his rough stubble scratched my cheek gently and I allowed myself a moment to close my eyes and melt into him, reveling in his stable form and the heat of him. I wasn’t dressed for the cold, and the temperature must have severely dropped because I was freezing again.
“Come on, Priestess. Let’s get you warmed up and into shelter from this cold.” Guinevere beckoned me with a bright smile and an outstretched arm and I instantly felt relaxed. Even though she wasn’t my mother, I knew she was close with my father and she had a motherly demeanor.
I nodded gratefully at her and allowed her to guide me out of the snowy town square while she set a comforting arm around my shoulders.
Guinevere pushed
down on the metal handle of the large, heavy wooden door and opened it, motioning us in to a dimly lit tavern, with a packed dirt floor, long wooden tables and benches down the length of it in several rows, a wooden “bar” area with a bartender who was pouring from glass bottles in to dark-colored tankards. Besides his attire of a beige linen shirt and a leather vest over the top of it, the middle-aged, graying man with friendly blue eyes looked like he could be from anywhere, not this town out of time. He talked animatedly with someone he was pouring a drink for, and the man—he was young, dark haired and clearly drunk as hell—laughed loudly.
The tavern was fairly full of people, wearing similar dress as the bartender: dark pants, boots, neutrally colored shirts, weapons at their sides. Some wore sashes in blue and faded yellow, with a faded emblem of an elaborate tree adorning the front. Several women with trays, dark, sweeping skirts and blouses, waists bound with leather corsets at the waists, wandered around taking empty tankards and replacing them with full ones. But all conversation stopped the second Guinevere motioned Bash and I through.
I smiled hesitantly, waving my fingers lightly, with all eyes on me. Their gazes all hesitantly fleeted to Bash, but didn’t linger long.
“Everyone! Let me introduce you to Ava du Lac—Lancelot’s daughter and the High Priestess of Avalon!” Guinevere said proudly—which surprised me alone. I was Morgaine’s daughter, not just Lancelot’s. She didn’t care as she set a firm hand on my shoulder.
What shocked me more was everyone—everyone—including the drunk man at the bar, the waitresses with their trays, and the bartender himself stopped what they were doing, stood briefly and lowered themselves to one knee, bowing their heads at me in reverence. My eyes widened and I shook my head quickly. Bash snickered quietly next to me and I elbowed him sharply in the chest. He let out a pained “oof” and smiled sheepishly as he rubbed his “wounded” ribcage.