“What’s going on?” Haden’s muffled voice reached her, along with his pounding on the door.
They’d locked it earlier. She was still in her room. That, at least, was good news.
Rough hands grabbed her by the shoulders. “Sasha?” Those hands gave her a shake.
Another round of pounding came from Haden. “Arthur. Let me in.”
Derek didn’t release her. “Sasha? Baby? Oh, God. Open your eyes, princess.”
Did he not remember putting the ring on her finger? She tried to respond to his desperate plea. The horrible dread in his voice scared her more than her inability to move.
Next came the sound of splintering wood. Had someone smashed the door open? “What’s going on?” Haden must’ve forced his way inside.
“I don’t know. I woke up and found her like this.”
Woke up? Had he passed out, too? Why’d he wake up then, and not her? What the hell was going on? She wanted to cry, but her eyes wouldn’t open. She couldn’t force her body to push tears out of the ducts. Couldn’t do anything but listen to everything going on around her.
“Woke up?” Haden parroted her question. A long pause followed. What were they doing? “Derek, get your pants on.”
“My pants?” Derek sounded confused, but then she heard a rustle. That’s right. He’d been naked when he stuck that damn ring on her finger and spelled her. Freaking spelled her. What had happened to him in the bathroom?
A scuffling noise was followed by the odd sensation of floating. Her body rocked as Derek—it had to be him—laid her on the bed.
“Now . . . step away from Sasha,” Haden instructed. Insisted.
“Like hell.” The two words exploded from Derek.
“What’s going on?” A third voice joined the mix. Tristain?
“Something’s wrong with Sasha,” Derek said before Haden could.
“What?”
“I don’t know. She won’t wake up.”
Sasha jiggled as someone leaned over her and warm hands touched her face. Derek’s voice sounded closer. “Sasha, please.” His voice broke on the word.
She tried. She tried so hard. Wanted to reassure him she was okay. Tell him she was still here.
“Look at her ring.”
She caught Haden’s whisper.
“Shit,” Tristain muttered.
What?
The sound of feet crossing the soft carpet reached her straining ears. Had someone left the room?
A tug pulled at her hand.
“It won’t come off.” Desperation and panic sounded in Derek’s voice now. Panic.
A hand touched her neck. “I don’t feel a pulse,” he choked.
Another shake. A cooler touch replaced Derek’s.
“What the hell did you do to her, Arthur?”
Shit. They went there. After all, Derek was technically responsible and since he’d been alone with her, the most likely culprit.
Why had he done this to her?
Wait. What. Did they just say I don’t have a pulse?
How could that be?
I’m right here. I can hear you.
“What’s going on?” Lance burst into the room. This wasn’t going to be good if Haden had sent Tristain for Lance.
“She’s gone, Lance.” Haden had given up on her already?
I’m here. I’m here.
“I didn’t do it.” Derek didn’t budge from her side, but the fine hairs on her body started to stand on end.
“Look at her ring. It’s black,” Haden said. “And it won’t come off.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Derek asked after a pause.
“You, uh . . . well, I’m sorry, but you were the last one who touched it,” Haden murmured. Poor Galahad didn’t want to be accusing Derek right now. She’d be more than happy to do it for him. “Now it’s on her finger, black instead of red . . . ”
I’m not dead. She screamed the words in her mind, her lips and body uncooperative and unmoving.
“Derek, step away from her.” Lance’s voice sounded like a caged cougar. Sasha cringed inwardly.
“No.”
A strange hum moved through her body, like the sensation of a low bass when you stood near the stage at a concert.
“I said, step away now.”
“I’m not leaving her.” The now familiar popping sound of glass—Derek had blown a light somewhere in the room.
“Shit,” Haden muttered.
“If you don’t move, we’ll make you move.”
Haden stood, the bed sprung back up as he moved, jostling her body. “Uh, Lance. He’s starting to glow.”
A long, tense silence followed. Her nerves wanted to jump out of her skin. So much electricity in the air.
“Derek.” Now Lance used a tone she’d never heard from him before. Reasonable. Soft. Which meant Derek must be scaring him, too. Not good. “You might hurt her if you release all that pent-up electricity in here. Don’t do something you’ll regret forever.”
Another silence.
“You have to help her,” Derek finally said, the words more command than plea. The tingling sensation lessened around her. Had he moved away?
He and Lance must’ve both retreated, because the knight’s answer came from out in the hall, as far as she could tell. “I’ll send Waine. He’s a healer.” He paused. “Haden?”
“I’ll stay with her until Waine gets here.”
Someone took her hand. She tried to squeeze back, but her body remained a useless lump.
Silence.
Despite that whole “no pulse” thing, Sasha feared her heart might beat its way out of her chest as she and Haden waited. Please let Waine be able to fix this.
“What’s going on?” Waine’s voice sounded from a distance.
Before Haden could answer, a massive explosion blasted the air and rocked the bed on which she lay.
Oh my God. Derek. Please tell me you didn’t just blow yourself up. Or Lance.
“What the fuck?” Haden shouted. “What’s going on? Did Derek—”
“No. We’re under attack.” Waine’s voice came from off to her right now, near the window. “Go. I’ll protect Sasha.”
“Don’t let them take her.”
She wanted to cry. To scream. To rail against the fates. Vulnerable didn’t even begin to cover the situation she found herself in. Not even the day Morgan Le Fay had uttered that fucking curse had she been this exposed. This helpless.
And where was Derek? Was he part of the attack? She wasn’t certain of anything now. Not even her own state.
Had her quest for mortality trapped her in a new hell, alive but dead to those close to her?
Chapter 17
The blast rocked the house, causing Derek to stagger against the stairs, his brain still foggy from whatever had happened after he and Sasha made love. The last thing he remembered was making his way to the bathroom before waking up and finding Sasha lying beside him in a crumpled heap on the floor . . . dead.
Oh God, she couldn’t be dead. He loved her. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. He hadn’t.
“Get out of this house.”
Derek glanced over his shoulder at Lance at the top of the stairs. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving Sasha.”
“I don’t have time to argue with you. If you didn’t notice, we’re under attack.”
Another explosion and the chandelier above them rattled, the crystals sounding like shattered glass, though the fixture remained intact. In the same instant, a heavy metal barricade rolled down over the windows, slamming shut with a loud clang. Similar clangs echoed from all over the mansion.
Now he couldn’t leave.
“Where are the others?” Derek asked as Lance rushed past him.
“Downstairs.”
“Fuck.” Derek willed away the lethargy still clutching at his muscles and followed Lance.
Dust shrouded the foyer. Miraculously, the doors appeared not to have been compromised. He didn’t know how lon
g that would last. During his time in Afghanistan, he’d witnessed plenty of explosions and the carnage they left behind. And although the doors were solid iron, there should have been nothing but debris littering the tiled foyer.
He skidded to halt in the living room, where all his knights congregated.
Yes, his knights.
He may not remember what happened to Sasha, what had put her into a state of unconsciousness—he refused to believe she was no longer of this earth. But he recalled the swath of memories that assailed him after they’d made love, memories as clear now as if he’d just lived them, as much a part of him as those that made up this lifetime. He was King Arthur. He had led these faithful men into battle many times. He would again.
Only he didn’t think they trusted him at all now.
They were talking among themselves, already armed and ready to fight. He couldn’t determine whether they weren’t aware of his presence or were deliberately ignoring him. Derek suspected the latter. Either way, it didn’t matter. The house was under attack, and he would do whatever needed to be done to protect the woman who owned his heart.
“What’s the plan of action?” He rolled up and clapped Lance on the shoulder. “We don’t have much time. Whoever they are, they’re probably setting up to blast the door again. We need to organize a perimeter around the entryway. They won’t be expecting us to face them head on. We will have the element of surprise.”
“This doesn’t concern you, Arthur,” Lance spat at him. “You’ve done more than enough damage. Be gone with you.”
“If you hadn’t noticed, I’m barricaded in as much as you are. I can’t go anywhere.”
“I’m not debating this. Find a corner and sit in it.” Lance sneered at him like he was three years old and not a grown man.
Derek drew himself up to his full height, hands clenched in fists at his side. “You will not ignore me,” he thundered. “I am your king, and you will follow my instructions.”
His outburst silenced the chaos.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Gareth asked.
“Exactly what I said. I am the king you followed centuries ago. I am King Arthur.”
“Don’t fall for his trickery,” Lance asserted. “We all watched Arthur die, disappear into thin air. This man is no more Arthur Pendragon than I am. This is a trap set by Morgan Le Fay. And we don’t have time to discuss this absurd declaration.”
“Lancelot. My supposed right hand. The man who stole my wife. This doubt doesn’t surprise me. And you’re right—we have no time. But I will fight to protect this house. I will fight to protect the woman I love, who I will not believe is dead. I will fight alongside my Knights as I did fifteen hundred years ago. And you will fight with me.”
He called upon the energy always simmering deep within, forming an energy ball larger than he had before, and turned to face the door. He was ready.
“The time for fighting among ourselves is over,” Derek declared. “We face this battle together. As we’ve always done.”
Haden stepped up beside him. “I’m not saying I believe you’re Arthur. But I will stand and fight with a fellow warrior.”
Derek kept his gaze trained on the door but nodded.
One by one, each of the other six knights silently came to stand at his side, weapons ready.
Lance was the last to do so. “I fight with my brothers.”
“Understood,” Derek replied.
Another explosion slammed the house, and as he suspected, the doors couldn’t handle a third bombardment. Shards of iron flew outward. As one, he and his men dropped to the floor, weathering the stings against their skin and ripping into their clothes. Luckily, they were far enough away to avoid being thrown back.
As soon as the force of the blast dissipated, Derek surged to his feet and rushed the door. As the first of the assailants entered, he hurled the energy ball in his hand. With a flare of blue light, ten men were lifted and hurled backward, slamming against the walls with such force they dropped to the ground, limp and unmoving.
But he couldn’t get ready fast enough for the next wave of men who entered. The Knights opened fire, only to stop almost immediately as the bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the men and pinged around the foyer.
“Shit,” Lance yelled. “They’re magically warded. Go hand to hand.”
They dropped their firearms and reached into their clothing. All seven men managed to produce some sort of weapon—daggers mostly. Gareth pulled out some kind of baton, which, with the click of a button, extended into a long stick. With a roaring battle cry, they ran into the fray.
Derek rushed the man closest to him. With a series of punches and kicks, he stunned the guy before he could take action. A well-placed roundhouse floored his foe. He swung around, taking a fighting stance, ready for the next guy.
A bullet whizzed past his face. Fantastic. So they could shoot him but not the other way around. He ran full tilt toward the shooter. Before the man could pull the trigger, Derek performed a perfect baseball slide. He came in with such force, legs extended straight, he snapped the guy’s ankle with a sickening crack. Leaving bad guy number two writhing in pain on the floor, Derek hopped up.
For a brief moment he stood in the alcove formed by the stairs, partially covered by the staircase winding above his head. No one else had him in his sights. He took quick stock of his knights.
To his right, Tristain ducked and weaved against a much larger opponent. But the knight maneuvered with such dexterity, Arthur had no concerns. Beyond Tristain, Val slid the blade of his dagger up to the hilt into the belly of his opponent, who dropped to the floor. The other four remained on their feet as well, though Lance, Gareth, and Haden had been forced back into the formal sitting room beyond.
“Gareth, watch your back,” Derek yelled at the man farthest from him. Gareth ducked and spun, taking the man’s feet out from under him. His knights’ smaller statures were proving to be an advantage. Had they trained for this eventuality? He’d bet they had.
Meanwhile, taking the time as a gift, Derek formed another ball of energy in his hands. He didn’t want to risk hitting his men, so he ran through the chaos of fighting, shifting and juking to avoid being hit, to the other side of the foyer where men continued to pour in through the disintegrated doors, over the rubble that partially blocked the entrance now, slowing their approach.
He cocked his arm, ready to hurl his magical weapon, when thwap. His neck snapped back from the force of the rifle butt hitting his forehead. His feet went out from under him and he went down hard. For a stunned moment, he lay on the marble floor, winded, with blood dripping into his right eye, blurring his vision so he didn’t see the muzzle from the gun until it was too late.
The shock of pain as the man shot him didn’t register for a long second. Not until Derek turned his head to find a stain of red expanding over his shirt at his left shoulder.
The strangest tingling sensation . . . he looked down at his right hand to find white, jagged lines of electricity running up and down his skin. Two boots appeared in front of his face. On instinct, Derek reached out and wrapped his hand around the man’s ankle. The electricity skating over his own skin shot out of him. As he held on tightly, the man above him seized and shook, jerking in his grasp, then collapsed.
Wiping the blood out of his eyes with his good hand, Derek grabbed the guy’s gun, which had clattered to the floor nearby. It was worth seeing if their own weapons worked against them. He ignored the sharp pain in his shoulder and forced his left arm to do his bidding. Using the sight, he lined up for a shot, then blew out a breath and gently squeezed the trigger.
A man dressed in black fatigues coming through the doorway dropped.
“Get their guns,” he yelled to his knights as he stood. “They work against them.” His left arm was beginning to go numb, dangling uselessly at his side. He tossed the gun he held to Val, who stood closest to him.
A quick glance showed his men following his lead, grabbin
g up any weapons closest to them. A movement caught his attention, and his gut tightened as he discovered five men making their way up the stairs.
Sasha.
Derek formed an energy ball and aimed it at the man in the lead.
He missed.
“Fuck.”
He aimed again, but a body slammed into him before he could take his shot. Derek rolled with the momentum of the blow. His years of physical training and combat kicked in, and he managed to come out on top, pinning his attacker beneath him with a knee on his neck. He formed a small energy ball and forced it into the guy’s mouth.
“Sorry, buddy. Can’t hang around for the funeral.” Leaping to his feet, he ran for the stairs.
He passed Lance, who’d fought his way back into the foyer, on the way. “I’ve got the arseholes upstairs,” he yelled as he passed. Taking the stairs two and three at a time, he made it to the second level, where the five men were checking rooms, hunting for Sasha, no doubt.
Derek needed to take them all out in one shot. Raising his hand high above his head, he pictured white lightning grasped in his fist, like images he’d seen of Zeus in history books.
He hoped to God this worked.
As soon as his body buzzed with energy, he dropped to a knee, slamming his fist into the floor. Splinters of white light shot out along the floor, searing the carpeting as it traveled the length of the hall, though it didn’t touch the walls or tables. Each man in turn went down as the electric tendrils reached them, jerking and screaming as voltage took over his body.
Thank God.
He stood and leaned over the railing, looking to the foyer below. He and his knights had taken out at least thirty men, but another twenty or so continued to fight. Could he do it again? Take out the rest of the men without harming his own?
Memory of a time long ago, a similar situation arose. He could do this.
Stepping over the railing, he held on with his one good hand, balancing on the edge, and gathered the energy he needed, centering it in his chest.
As soon as he was satisfied he had gathered enough power, he yelled.
“Knights. Remember Lyonesse.”
In seconds, every one of the seven men scrambled to the top of a piece of furniture or on the stairs.
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