“Find you and kill you like I do every other psychotic fae,” Arthur replied without emotion. “That’s why I took a long nap in a stone suit.”
“You have a high opinion of yourself.”
“The modern term is badass. I’m the one with the big, shiny sword not even your queen can survive.”
“And I’m the one with the dragon. You don’t have much time to get here before the show.”
The line went dead.
Arthur swore as he put the phone away. A wave of unreality stole over him as the pedestrians swept by him, laughing or talking or hurrying with heads down in thought. They were ordinary humans with no idea what the enemy could do. He’d seen the soulless fae steal human lives for the sake of pleasure, drinking their life essence like a drug. It was Arthur’s job to stop the fae from making these people their slaves.
If the dragon was in partnership with a fae, that changed everything. This wasn’t just a large, scaly bully in need of a fire hose. With another oath, Arthur strode down the street, shouldering his way past a knot of idling boys. Was this threat a trap? Probably. But a warrior king took his share of risks to save the people in his charge. Anything less wasn’t worthy of Camelot.
Pete’s Pay and Go sat on the corner where a six-lane truck route crossed paths with the four-lane artery that ran into Carlyle. There was nothing remarkable or attractive about the place. It had gas, groceries and a fast-food drive-through that sold a chemical approximation of burgers and fries. As usual, there was road construction because the highways department never dug a hole unless they could tie up traffic for months at a time.
Arthur dodged the traffic cones and pulled into the last parking spot. When he got out, the first thing he saw was a van decorated with the call letters of the local news station and a cluster of equipment mounted on top. Whatever happened next would be beamed to every TV in town. Arthur’s stomach went cold. Magic was a secret kept from ordinary mortals, but this fae ignored that rule.
Arthur wheeled, looking for explanations. Instead, he saw one of Camelot’s knights getting out of a battered pickup. Sir Owen of the Beasts walked across the parking lot, pushing wavy brown hair out of his eyes and glowering at the highway traffic. Like the animals he befriended, the tall, young Welshman was happiest in the wilds. He hadn’t been at their council earlier, but on his way back from a weekend in the woods.
“Sir Gawain texted me as I was driving back into town,” Owen said in his soft, lilting voice. “He will be here presently but suffered an unforeseen delay.”
Gawain hadn’t mentioned anything when Arthur had phoned him en route, but Owen’s careful courtesy discouraged questions. Arthur forged ahead. “You missed some excitement while you were gone. I’m expecting a dragon.”
Owen’s expression was eager. “Well, that will be something. I’ve only ever seen a wyvern up close. It was quite fond of dried salmon.”
“Rukon Shadow Wing isn’t friendly.”
“That isn’t unusual,” the Welsh knight replied, his enthusiasm firmly in place. “Dragons are touchy and intolerable braggarts to be sure.”
Arthur nodded to the news van. “This one seems to want an interview. We should look around for any sign of his fae friend.”
Owen fell into step beside him. “I don’t understand why the dragon came here. They don’t typically travel beyond their own domain.”
Arthur grunted agreement. “If he’s in league with a fae, no doubt the idea came from Queen Morgan’s court.”
“Of course, sire, that’s quite possible, but I’ve heard of Rukon Shadow Wing. He lives in the Crystal Mountains.”
Surprise made Arthur pause. Not that Owen had information on Rukon—if something had four legs, chances are Owen of the Beasts knew about it—but the mountains were deep in goblin country. Goblin and fae didn’t mix. Ever. So how did Rukon cross paths with a fae? “That poses some interesting questions.”
“Indeed, sire.” Owen frowned in apology, as if he were somehow responsible.
Arthur didn’t get a chance to reply. A young brunette with high heels and a microphone bore down on them with a predator’s determination. “I’m Megan Dutton, Nighthawk News. I know you fine gentlemen are from the Medievaland jousting tournaments. Arthur Pendragon, isn’t it? And you?”
She turned to Owen with a look Arthur recognized. The knight charmed more than just puppies and wounded fawns. “Owen Powys, mistress.”
The reporter blinked rapidly, as if dazzled. “Yes, well, our newsroom received a tip regarding an imminent attack by fire-breathing dragons. Isn’t that why you gentlemen are here? As part of a promotional event for Medievaland?”
She plowed on before Arthur could think of an answer. “And aren’t you afraid that this kind of stunt might cause panic among the population? Care to comment on this irresponsible action by Medievaland’s management?”
She thrust the mic toward him like a badly handled blade. Behind her, a minion with a camera edged closer. As one of the primary performers at the theme park, Arthur had some experience with press doing puff pieces for the tourist season, but Megan Dutton was after controversy.
He didn’t have time for this. The longer she had him trapped, the less time he had to stop whatever was about to happen. “I’m sure I speak for the management of the Medievaland Theme Park when I assure you that there is no intention to panic the citizens of Carlyle.”
“Then what are your intentions, Mr. Pendragon? What are we about to see?”
There was no opportunity to say anything more. Owen pointed to the sky, and then Arthur became a far less interesting part of the story. The camera swung away and Arthur followed the knight’s pointing finger, squinting against the sun. Far, far up was a scrap of black with a long tail and it was spiraling downward in erratic loops. It was so distant one might have mistaken it for a child’s kite if not for the long, sinuous neck.
Arthur watched, calculating where the beast was going to land. The wings were spread, but the creature was struggling to control its descent. Something was wrong.
“That’s not Rukon—that’s a female,” said Owen softly. “Look at the slender shape of her head.”
Arthur couldn’t tell the difference. It was still the size of a truck and falling from the sky right over moving traffic. Whatever was beneath the dragon would be crushed. He spun to the reporter and her cameraman, putting the snap of authority into his voice. “Do something useful! Get everyone back.”
He turned to Owen. “Help me clear the road.”
With that, he bolted for the intersection, holding up a hand to stop the steady stream of cars. Owen was on his heels, intercepting the other lanes. It was foolhardy, but the dragon’s shadow was steadily spreading as seconds ticked by. He looked up, estimating one more time where she’d land. She’d stopped trying to fly and was hurtling for the highway.
A truck started to turn and gave a furious honk as Arthur sprang in front of it, waving his arms. He danced back as a sudden wave of heat and fumes washed over him. His hands went out, slamming against the hot grille, but it stopped. He looked up expecting to see the driver’s scowl, but the man gazed skyward, transfixed.
No one was moving now. Eerie silence muffled the scene. Arthur turned, putting his back to the vehicle, and felt his jaw go slack. The creature was still falling, close enough now to make out more detail. Ten seconds until it hits the earth. For an instant, he could see the dragon’s iridescent blue hide and the slender taper of her wings. Eight. She seemed to shudder, as if heaving her last breath. It was then he saw the weave of golden magic tangling her wings, like a dog wound in its own leash. Whoever controlled her had bungled things, and now she couldn’t fly. Five. Arthur watched, appalled as the dragon struggled, then loosed her fire. She blazed like a falling star, the thin membranes of her wings a corona of blinding white. She was trying to burn the chains of magic away. His gorge be
gan to rise in pure, unadulterated horror as she roared in agony. Zero.
She vanished. Utter silence reigned.
Arthur’s heart pounded. He’d expected a crash, a crumpled mass of bone and flesh, but there was nothing but the charcoal stink of dragon flame and spent magic. Arthur buried his nose in his sleeve as he backed away. He’d guessed the dragon’s landing site correctly—if it had actually landed. A little bit more to the left, and the gas station would have been alight.
And yet none of that mattered now because the creature was gone, yanked back to her own world before her chains could break. Whatever the fae had wanted to do here, he’d failed.
Owen appeared at Arthur’s elbow, his face white. “The dragon burned herself trying to get free.”
The fae, whoever he was, was about to be dead meat. Arthur swore it in the depths of his heart.
The howl of sirens broke through his stunned dismay. Emergency lights flashed as a fire truck and ambulance pulled into the parking lot. A policeman was shooing the crowd back. Megan Dutton was still there, yelling into her mic about heroes and disaster and mysteries.
Arthur shot a glance at the reporter, and then at Owen. “Let’s go before she starts asking us questions.”
They slipped through the crowd to the parking lot. There, they found Gawain waiting, worry creasing his face. “What happened?” he asked. “Someone said a flaming cow dropped out of an airplane. Is Merlin involved?”
Arthur heaved a sigh, half in relief and half in irritation. Flaming cow? People only saw what they expected to see. “A dragon was supposed to destroy the gas station, but something went wrong.”
Gawain looked at the Pay and Go, which was clearly not burning. “Wrong in what way?”
“We don’t know,” Arthur said. “At least no one was hurt.”
“Except the dragon,” Owen put in. “How could she possibly have survived that fall, regardless of what world she was in?”
“Right.” The beautiful, agonized dragon. Arthur closed his eyes, fighting back a rage so large he could barely breathe. They still didn’t know anything, but Owen had a solid point. “Spread out and search this place. No doubt the fae is watching. He didn’t orchestrate all this without a front-row seat.”
Owen nodded and strode away, face thunderous. Arthur moved to follow, but Gawain caught his arm. “I’ll take over here. You’re needed at home—or rather, at Clary’s hotel.”
“Why?”
Gawain grimaced. “That’s where Guinevere is sleeping tonight.”
“What?” Blood rushed to Arthur’s head. This wasn’t the time for Gwen’s antics, not with fae and burning dragons and reporters crawling all over Carlyle. And the Crystal Mountains—what was a fae doing crossing the goblins’ lands? There were too many questions. He couldn’t deal with another distraction. “There are no guards at the hotel. She’s not protected.”
“I think that might be the point.” Gawain’s face was carefully neutral.
“Doesn’t she understand what’s going on?” snapped Arthur.
Gawain raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Ask her, not me.”
“After all the problems she’s caused over the years, has she learned nothing?”
No sooner did Arthur say it than he snapped his jaw shut, remembering the light going out of Gwen’s eyes when he’d approached her in the restaurant. She’d learned he was willing to walk away and leave her in the past for her own protection. Was that what he still wanted? Had he really just thought of her as a distraction?
Is it any wonder she wants her freedom?
So what was he going to do about it?
Chapter 8
Gwen had never dated and therefore needed advice.
Clary’s first move had been to search the internet for tips on planning a romantic evening with an estranged spouse. This involved answering a number of quizzes and the application of Smoking Surrender Coral nail polish. Clary had then bullied Gwen into a dainty black dress and sent her to the hotel bar in time to meet Arthur for drinks. The two women had agreed a public place was a good choice, at least to begin the conversation. Finally, Clary had gone out, leaving the room unoccupied until at least midnight.
Gwen should have been pleased. For once, she was in control of the situation and Arthur was the one asking for attention. It took a lot for him to bend. Clary had attributed that to shutting the bedroom door last night, but Gwen wasn’t sure his reasons were that straightforward. The King of Camelot was a complicated man.
She wondered if he’d ever loved her.
Guinevere took the elevator up to the cocktail lounge on the top floor. She’d been told the room rotated slowly, so that diners got a view of the entire city skyline by the time the night was done. To someone born in a stone castle that seemed both wondrous and enormously silly. What was the point when it took far less effort to simply walk around the room?
She pushed the thought out of her mind as soon as she entered the lounge. Arthur sat near the far wall, but he rose as she stepped into view. He’d been watching for her. He hadn’t done that for a long time.
The space between them suddenly seemed enormous, as if she had to cross a vast plain in her high heels instead of a little bit of carpet. She wasn’t used to the shoes, and her ankles wobbled slightly, but she kept her chin high and her bare arms relaxed at her sides. The only way to face Arthur, ever, was with courage.
The dress Clary had made her buy was a backless halter style with a tight waist and a skirt that flared just above the knee. The black satin whispered as she walked to Arthur’s table by the tall glass window. He continued to stand, a frozen look on his face that she couldn’t quite read. He’d dressed, too, in a well-cut suit and plain white shirt that showed off the taper from his broad shoulders to trim waist. He wore no tie, the casual touch somehow putting him above the formal crowd. Nothing marked him as a king, and yet the whole lounge seemed to acknowledge his status. Waitstaff hovered, and every other male had chosen a table far away.
Courage, she repeated to herself as she drew closer. She could see his eyes now, the heat in that bright blue like the fire of diamonds. The hunger in them was a physical touch, a hot lick from her ankles upward to the low plunge of her bodice. There was no pretense of manners in that look, just raw male appreciation. A sword-swinging warrior’s appetite, despite what the costly suit implied. For that alone, she wanted to thank Clary for insisting on the dress. She needed confidence now.
He took a few steps, meeting her before she finally reached the table. He placed a hand at the small of her back, guiding her forward. “You look amazing,” he said, bending to murmur in her ear.
That close, she could smell soap and skin. The scent and his nearness brought memories of lying beside him, exploring the landscape of his hard body. She snatched her mind back to the present, needing to keep her wits about her.
“Thank you,” she said with a cool nod as he held the chair for her. She sat carefully, the short skirt making her feel exposed. She noticed a long black bag beneath the table and guessed Excalibur was inside. The sword never went far from Arthur’s side.
A beat of silence followed, filled with questions and an undercurrent of hurt. It didn’t show on their faces—they were both too skilled at court politics for that—but Gwen felt it like fingers along her skin. He was edgy, filled with nervous energy. Arthur took his seat and signaled a waiter with a flick of fingers. The man quickly returned with an ice bucket, champagne and delicate glasses.
If there had been any doubt before, Arthur was trying to impress her. By the rules they’d grown up with that meant showing his wealth and status. He might not have a castle here, but he wasn’t a pauper. According to Clary, Medievaland was doing extremely well since the knights had arrived, and the management of the theme park had given them generous contracts. They were, in fact, becoming
local celebrities with a dedicated fan base.
The waiter poured the champagne and retreated on silent feet. Arthur raised his glass. “We haven’t had a chance to drink to your arrival. Be welcome, my lady.”
Gwen tasted the bubbling liquid, decided she liked it and set it aside. Again, she wanted a clear head. It would be too easy to surrender to Arthur simply because he asked. She’d only imagined a path of her own choosing for a few hours, and she was unsure of herself.
“The lights are very beautiful,” she said, looking out the window because it was easier than looking at him. “What is that ring in the sky?”
“A Ferris wheel,” he said. “Those colored lights belong to Medievaland.”
“Oh.” She looked more closely, actually interested now.
“Did you find everything you required at the stores?” he asked, gaze intent on her.
“Everything to wear and to groom myself,” she replied. “And a phone. Clary insisted I need one, although I’m not sure of all its uses yet.”
“Give it to me,” he said, holding out a hand.
She hesitated, fingers tightening on the black silk clutch purse she held in her lap. “Why?”
“I want your number.”
She slowly handed it over. She’d chosen a green leather case painted with exotic birds, but he barely noticed it as he thumbed the screen to life and began tapping in numbers. Once, he said he’d been trained to ignore distraction on pain of a beating. She believed the story. It said as much about him as his great victories.
He handed her phone back. “I put my number in. Now you can phone me.”
“Thank you.” She closed the case and put it away in her purse.
“How did you spend the rest of the day?” he asked, his tone forced now.
She noticed the tight lines of his face, a sure sign of strain. She wondered what he’d been doing in the hours since she’d seen him last. “Reading. I borrowed Clary’s laptop and just looked and looked. There’s so much to know about this time. So many marvels.” She’d searched for schools, too, falling in love with the idea of being a student. But that dream belonged to a new Guinevere that Arthur hadn’t met yet. She wasn’t ready to expose that vulnerable piece of herself to the man across from her. Not until she had a chance to find her feet.
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