The Undead Queen of Camelot

by M. L. Bullock

  I should have insisted that she hunt with me, but I had been too joyous at our reconciliation. Too hungry for her friendship. We had spent our first night together talking, first about Merlin and Arthur and then about Nimue’s encounter with the Lady of the Lake. It had been late when I went hunting, but I could not go for two nights without blood. Not when magic moved across the land. And it did like a slithering shadow.

  “He is not dead,” Nimue objected as she licked her lips hungrily.

  “Not yet, but he is about to be. And I have no time to recite to you all his crimes. They are horrible, I assure you.” I held the man by the neck; I had drained most of his blood already, but there was still life in him…and that I could not allow. Tom Morrison had to die or else he would become as we were, and he would be much worse in death than he ever was in life.

  No, you are not supposed to think of them by name, Guinevere.

  “I cannot. The idea of it makes me sick.”

  But she did not know what I knew about this Tom Morrison. He was a corrections officer who liked to kill in his spare time. Mostly on the weekends. He pretended to be a good person, and all the while he was one of the most calculating evil men I had ever had the privilege to kill. At least in this century. He was a coward who killed with a high-powered rifle. Just with one shot. Morrison was amazingly accurate. He buried the bodies in a strange sort of garden—he laid them out precisely with only feet between them. He liked to bring his family there for picnics. The unseen graves were his private pleasure, and how he loved looking over those bumps of soil. Morrison felt so powerful when he killed. Ah, Tom. I understand that about you. Now the bloodshed would end and a menace to human society would be eradicated. The families of the dead would thank me if they knew what service I delivered to them.

  But what about his family? I could hear Nimue’s voice in my head.

  Yes, he had a family. A wife and twin girls, six years old, born on Christmas Day. They would be wondering where he was by now. He always came home before the sun came up. He liked being at home in the mornings. Morrison valued Violet and his girls, Mackenna and Johanna. He did value them because they worshiped him, but what would happen when that worship ended? Would they be safe?

  She did not answer but tugged at her ragged dress. We had no time for this! They would not be safe, Nimue. He would not always love them.

  “You do not know that. This is not right, Guinevere.”

  With an irritated growl, I picked up the limp man and prepared to finish him myself when I smelled an offensive blast of magic. It smelled like cold, pure ice, and that certainly had a smell. I could hear the sound of feet as they skimmed along the ground, and then I heard the rustling of leaves.

  Guinevere! Nimue’s voice warned me.

  Ah, I was right; I knew there was someone here. I flung the half-dead human to the ground. Morrison landed at my feet with a thud as I turned my attention to the as-yet-unseen interloper. Nimue and I were in the gardens behind Faraday Manor. It was surrounded by tall cedars, the tallest I had seen in many years. Clusters of bushy flowers and green shrubs also dotted the landscape. It would be easy for someone to hide and watch me commit my crime, but there was no one there—no one human, at any rate. Naturally, my mind went to Morgan, but this person’s energy felt very different. Morgan’s presence played another tune, one that was much more menacing, but the new visitor was also a threat.

  I was shocked as I saw Nimue fall to the ground and bow her head. To whom would Nimue kneel besides me? As the top of the trees parted, I could see the slender figure approaching me. She did not walk and had no wings, not like an angel, but she was clearly riding on an invisible wind. As she drew closer, I recognized the haughty face that peered down at me.

  This was Igraine, the wife of Uther and the mother of Arthur! Beautiful, fierce and wise. That was how she had been in life, but now? Still beautiful and fierce but also angry. Her face was not welcoming. Suddenly, she vanished and then reappeared before me very near my face. She struck me hard. I did not fall or cry out, but I was rather shocked by her unqueenly behavior.

  “You sent the usurper to Camelot, didn’t you? That was your doing.”

  Although I wanted nothing more than to claw her face, I restrained myself for Arthur’s sake. “That so-called usurper is your own son, madam. Did you come all this way just to accuse me?” When all this time you knew where I was and how I was but never came? Nimue heard my thoughts; if Igraine did, she did not say so. Nimue was on her feet beside me, waiting to see what would happen next.

  “Guinevere, please,” Nimue pleaded with me as I stared at Arthur’s mother. Since I had just taken blood, I was strong, so strong that I could tear her limb from limb. Yes, I could. I would twist off her arms first.

  And then suddenly I saw the Bricklayer in my mind, though I had not summoned him. I used to summon him quite frequently. He had been there in real life the day we buried Arthur. A terrible snow had come the day we laid the king’s body to rest. Arthur had made his journey to Avalon, and there he would lie. The king’s body had to be interred, so the Bricklayer had been summoned. I never knew the towering man’s name, but he worked tirelessly in the snow in service to his king. I felt the thud of every brick, felt each slap of his trowel in my soul. Queen Igraine stood with me through that horrible time but not as my friend. Not as she once had been. She blamed me for Arthur’s death; she joined my accusers when they sought to destroy me with their cold revelations about Lancelot and me. We had been innocent! How could we have known that Arthur lived still? Oh, but you quickly withdrew your love from me, even when I struggled to secure the sword for Lochlon, even when they took Alwen from me, ripped her from my arms! Your own grandchildren—your own blood.

  I roared in anger as I charged at her. Igraine’s image fluttered and moved out of my reach. No, she was not there. Not as Nimue and I were. She was not flesh and blood. Not of this world. She could touch me, but I could not touch her.

  More’s the pity, for I would kill you if I could.

  “Guinevere,” Nimue whimpered with some disapproval.

  Stay out of my mind, Nimue. My thoughts are my own!

  I banished the Bricklayer with a wave of my hand. His summoning had been Nimue’s doing, apparently. I did not know how, but that also angered me. It felt like another betrayal. “What do you want, Igraine of Cornwall?” It was a title that I knew she hated, but she had started this chess game; I was not afraid to engage her.

  “Call the Usurper back and leave Camelot forever.”

  “You are a fool, Igraine. That usurper, as you call him, is your own son! He has returned to Camelot to rule as the Pendragon. You knew that he would return someday. It was prophesied long before he died.”

  “Lies! You hope to bring Camelot into darkness forever with your bloody ways! Do you think I would not know my own son? You are a great liar, Guinevere, but then I expected nothing less. I came in hopes that some part of you, a small part of a once-true queen, would think of her people ahead of herself. You once swore to me that you loved Arthur above all others and that you would remain true to his memory. But I see I have embarked on a fool’s errand. The usurper will die, then. Farewell, Undead Queen. I gladly leave you where I found you!”

  Suddenly, the winds blew in the garden; the giant cedars creaked and bent as they moaned slightly against the intruder. I ran after her, my feet taking flight as I reached the tree line, but she was nowhere to be seen. Igraine was gone as quickly as she’d come, but she left behind something real, something tangible.

  Fear. Fear for Arthur.

  Igraine did not believe that Arthur had returned home. Indeed, it appeared that the queen would rather cling to the ghost of her dead son than embrace his true return. I flew back to the garden and landed beside Nimue, who looked as distraught as I had ever seen her. She too understood the danger for Arthur Pendragon. Igraine was no one to toy with, and she must truly believe that Arthur was a fraud or else she would not
have come here. Again I felt the sting of Igraine’s betrayal, not just for Arthur’s sake but for my own. Like Morgan LeFay, her daughter, she had known about my fate. She had known and had done nothing to help me, but she had been here this night. She had come to warn me, to test me. But of course, we must help Arthur. We had to go back to Camelot, but we would be wise about it. I would take no chances with the sun or anything else. I must think.

  Ah, but first things first.

  “Nimue?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where did he go?”

  We searched the garden, but Tom Morrison had disappeared. He could not have traveled too far. He was nearly dead when I left him, or perhaps he had only been playing dead. Evil men were far stronger than good ones. This I knew firsthand from centuries of stealing their blood and their lives. It was an unfortunate truth.

  “We must find him, Nimue. He…oh!” I clutched my stomach and collapsed to the ground; the pain in my midsection was intense, clearly of a dark nature.

  Igraine! What have you done to me?

  “What is it?” Nimue sat beside me as the pain threatened to make me sick.

  “I do not know, but you must go after him. Find Morrison and finish him or else he will turn, Nimue. Help me inside first. I have to lie down. This must be Igraine’s doing…”

  Nimue said nothing as she helped me crawl to the door. She threw my arm around her neck and practically carried me down the stairs to my room. The pain intensified as I crawled into my kistvaen. “Nimue, you must do it. I cannot. Listen to me.”

  “Rest, Guinevere. I will take care of everything.”

  I twisted in pain as the stone lid slid over me and I was lost to the darkness.

  Chapter Five—Nimue

  I had never killed a man before. Not with my bare hands. Not as I was about to do. I could smell Morrison long before I laid eyes on him. Somehow he had crawled away during Igraine’s brief visit. The murderer was not as dead as Guinevere had imagined.

  Guinevere’s sudden sickness worried me, as did the former High Queen’s appearance. Fear spurred me on as I trailed after the dying man. Fear that the worm would turn again, that time was about to shift. And as before, it would likely not shift in my favor. Morrison smelled of blood and sweat—my kind could detect his fading essence a mile away. I was a bit sad to note that he had traveled almost a mile, a very impressive feat for a dying human. He was getting closer to his home; that bit of information I pulled from his mind, which was as tangled and dark as any killer’s. Guinevere had been right about him. Tom Morrison had a love for killing, and even as the sunset of his own life approached, he regretted deeply that he had not killed more. Ah, darkness. You are bound and rooted in this man. As I listened in on his thoughts, I feared what he might do to his family. If he was going to die anyway, why let them live? They could not be allowed to live on without him. They belonged to him.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  His heart began to slow a bit. I knew I should race to him and finish the drop, take that last bit of blood, but I waited. I waited and listened and watched. His death fascinated me.

  I had forgotten how easy it was to share the shee curse with others. He would die soon; no human could survive the kind of blood loss he had endured. But if he wasn’t drained completely, if he didn’t die properly, he would become like us. I had to hurry. I bit my lip to curb my excitement. This should not excite me. Killing was not a sport.

  But it is necessary, Nimue. Hurry. Hurry, or he will escape and become…

  As I had been listening to Morrison’s mind, my own Maker, my Undead Queen, was listening to mine. No, Guinevere! As you say, my mind is my own! I growled as I slung a branch to the side. I could see Morrison now, moving like a slug along the ground.

  I should feel pity for you, but I do not. You are a wretched beast of a man. But you are a man…

  His heart was no longer pounding like that of a wild rabbit. The overworked organ would fail him soon.

  Nimue…you must…

  Go to sleep, my queen. Leave everything to me. I whispered half-forgotten words of power and closed the door between us. I did not have to rely on the summoned images of a centuries-old bricklayer to protect myself.

  I squatted beside Guinevere’s victim. “I know what you did, Tom. You killed many men. You deserve this death, I think.”

  The dying man stopped crawling, and his mouth worked as he turned his head to face me. Morrison looked like a fish out of water struggling for breath. I tried to read his mind, but it no longer provided clarity into his thoughts. Yes, he had only minutes to live, if that.

  Yet I hesitated.

  But why? Why would I hesitate? The sun would be coming up soon, sooner than I had first calculated. If I was not safely back at Guinevere’s lair, I would die too. Did I want to die alongside this horrible human? No, of course not.

  “Tom… I can help you. I am going to ease your suffering although you do not deserve such kindness. But I have to ask for your forgive…” As I eased toward him, my teeth feeling sharp and ready to deliver the death bite, Tom Morrison, Killer of Nineteen Men, died. The breath left his body with a strange hiss like someone had let the air out of an evil balloon. His mind emptied, and there was nothing of him left behind except his pale body.

  “Oh no,” I said as I poked him with my toe. “Tom!” I turned his body over and put my hands on his head, hoping to summon up some spark of him, but I was right. He was dead and gone.

  But not for long.

  I spoke the ancient words again and whispered to Guinevere with my mind. He is dead. I am too late. What do I do? Guinevere, answer me!

  I heard nothing at all. She did not respond, nor did I feel her probing. Either she had succumbed to her sleep or I had closed the door so firmly that she could not hear me. Or something worse had happened. What have you done, Igraine?

  I felt the High Queen’s curse swirling around Guinevere, but I had turned away in the moment of its delivery. I had turned away like a coward and let her deliver her invisible punch. Some part of me wanted to see Guinevere cursed, but now I regretted my moment of weakness.

  What was I going to do about Morrison? How would I make sure he stayed dead? I shivered at the thought of him roaming the countryside killing indiscriminately. He would undoubtedly be famished when he returned, and I had no doubt where he would turn his attention. To his family. Those poor girls!

  I could not allow this, but the sun was coming up. Tiny streams of light were piercing the darkness. At least I was hidden here in the canopy. I could feel my skin begin to sweat, and a subtle buzzing filled my ears. Even if Guinevere did speak to me, I would not be able to hear her now.

  I looked around me for something I could use to remove the man’s head. How else would you kill a vampire? A stake through the heart would not be enough. It would slow him down but not stop him completely. Maybe that was all I needed, just enough time to slow him down. Then Guinevere and I could come back and finish him off.

  But this man had a strong will to live and was physically strong—or he had been in life. I paced around his body looking for something, anything I could use. Just a few feet away was a dilapidated shack. It was mostly fallen, but three sides remained up. I could smell rot and feel the rodents and insects scurrying around. I raced to it hoping that someone might have abandoned a shovel or an ax. I had no such luck. There was not a single piece of metal, but I did find an old rope. Racing against the sun, I hurried back to Morrison’s body. Now what? What was my plan?

  With each passing moment, I felt increasingly desperate. To my surprise, I realized that I did not want to die, at least not yet. I had to help Arthur—and Guinevere. Igraine would come for him, and Vivian would come for her. I had to live, at least for a little while longer. Twisting the rope into a noose, I wrapped it around the dead man’s neck and dragged him to the edge of the woods. I was not sure how long it would take for him to return to his body. If I recalled correctly, it
had been only a matter of hours for me; then again, that had been a very long time ago. And Morrison had the strength of ten men before Guinevere pounced on him. It was as if he were already some sort of supernatural. I sensed nothing supernatural about him as he was dying, yet there was something…

  Hurry, Nimue! You have no time left! Guinevere’s voice interrupted my thoughts, and it was just what I needed to encourage me along. I dragged Morrison to the edge of a nearby clearing and strung the rope up in a tree. Here he would be exposed to sunlight, and that would certainly kill him. The sun would bring the second death, and the world would be free of yet another bloodthirsty monster.

  I tied the end of the rope around another tree and watched him swing. I didn’t think anyone would find him back here. Not until it was too late. I did not have time to witness his second death—I had to hide now! But where?

  Guinevere, I cannot return. I must hide!

  My skin began to sizzle as the indirect sunlight began to sprinkle through the canopy above me.

  The shed! I raced inside and immediately began to dig into the black dirt. There were plenty of insects, but I had long ago stopped being frightened of spiders and such. I could not dig too deep, but it was deep enough to protect myself. As I scattered handfuls of dirt over my face, I heard Tom Morrison screaming.

  It was the last thing I heard before I fell into blackness.

  Chapter Six—Arthur

  “Arthur! I remember this place,” Lancelot announced as he slid awkwardly off his horse. Although I had worked with him extensively, and in private, his horsemanship had not improved much.