“Goodbye.” A moment later, she was alone in the apartment with Hawk. She eyed him anxiously but he headed for the door.
“You ready?”
Trisha nodded silently as he opened the door and then she frowned at him. “Don’t you have a jacket?” she asked. “It’s cold outside.” All he had on was a gray polo shirt and dark slacks. The gauze bandage still shrouded his arm.
“I’ll be fine. I’ll get another one after I drop you off. Let’s go.” He ushered her out before she remembered that his coat had been shredded along with his arm during his battle with Chantal.
“How’s your arm?” she asked, following him down the hall to the elevators.
“It’s fine.” He jabbed the call button and they both watched the floor display over the door slowly ticking up.
“You can probably take that bandage off now,” she said, shooting a sideways glance at him. “If Lucas is already healed after a couple of days –”
“I’ll take care of it later.” The elevator dinged and he gestured her inside. He punched the button for the garage level and they descended in silence.
The garage was nearly full when they stepped out and Hawk looked around with a frown. He dug into his pants pocket and extracted a key fob, holding it up over his head and pressing the lock button. He was rewarded with a beep and a flash of light off to the left and he trudged in that direction. Trisha hurried her pace to catch up to him.
“Thanks, by the way,” she said quietly.
“For what?” The Jaguar was just ahead, a sleek gold-hued sedan. It beeped again as he unlocked the doors.
“For saving me. From Chantal.”
He looked down at her with a scowl, as if he was about to make some sarcastic comment. Then his eyes softened and he nodded. “You’re welcome.” He walked around to the passenger side of the Jaguar and opened the door for her. “Let’s get you home.”
42
The first thing she saw when she entered the house was the blood. Someone had tried to clean it up, but there were still spatters on the wall and a large dark stain on the carpet. The heavy, cloying scent churned her stomach as she looked around frantically.
“Papa?” she called. “Papa, are you here?” There was no answer.
She found him lying in his bed, so still that, for a heart-stopping moment, she thought he was dead. His chest rose and fell slowly, though, and she fell on her knees at his side.
“Papa, I’m here,” she whispered hoarsely. “What did they do to you?”
Someone, Lionel most likely, had removed his shirt and the wrappings covering his earlier wounds were still in place, overlaid with a new set that was already dark with dried blood. Another bandage encircled his head, holding a large bloody pad against the left side of his skull. She reached out tentatively to touch it and he jerked his head away, grimacing in pain. She touched the back of her hand to his cheek. His skin was burning. “Oh, Papa,” she breathed.
She carefully stripped off the rest of his soiled clothing and used a wash cloth to gently bathe him with cool water. He barely stirred under her ministrations, hardly aware of her presence, but he seemed to rest more easily once she was done.
She removed the bandages, working very slowly to peel the head wrappings away from his crusted wounds. A piece of his skull the size of a silver dollar was missing in his left temple, but it was already beginning to close. Another pencil-sized hole on the other side was already scabbed over. She rewrapped everything with fresh gauze, cursing Nim and her Knights under her breath.
The injuries to his side and chest were nearly healed and she left them uncovered, just dabbing them with ointment to help the process along. She covered him with a thin blanket to protect him from chills and turned her attention to the front hallway.
She worked on her hands and knees like a charwoman, scrubbing away the blood stains and turning the soapy water dark red in short order. She was able to gets the walls reasonably clean but the carpet had a large brownish blotch that no amount of effort would remove. She was tempted to rip the carpet up and throw it outside, but she left it where it was. At least the smell was gone.
She stripped and showered, scouring her father’s blood and Lionel’s semen from her body, and then brought all of their stained clothing into the laundry room, throwing everything into the washing machine on the heavy duty cycle. She didn’t have many clean clothes left and she’d have to replace his bandages again later, so she just took one of Savard’s flannel shirts to use as a robe. She spent a moment with the collar pressed again her nose, breathing in his scent, before she went back to check on him.
He hadn’t moved much but he was stirring now, as if he was in the midst of a bad dream. He murmured something and she leaned over him, straining to hear his words.
“Cherie,” he whispered. “Où es-tu?”
“Papa,” she said quietly. “Can you hear me?”
“Cherie?” His hand moved out from under the blanket and she gripped it tightly in hers, blinking away the warm moisture that threatened to spill down her cheeks.
“Mama is gone,” she told him gently. “C’est moi, Chantal, votre fille.”
“Cherie,” he said again, longingly, and then he subsided, slipping back into a deeper sleep.
She knelt at his side for a long time, still holding his hand and stroking his face with her fingertips. His skin was darker than usual and his hair much thicker, as if he was stuck partway through his transformation, but she didn’t care. No matter what form he took, she loved him desperately.
When it seemed he would sleep for a while, she tried to leave, but his fingers clenched reflexively around hers. She could have freed herself but she couldn’t bear to do so. Instead, she carefully eased over him and lay down on the bed beside him, resting her cheek on his shoulder and holding his hand.
“I won’t leave you, Papa,” she promised. “No matter what.”
43
The drive from the apartment to Trisha’s house was uneventful, other than some minor congestion on Beacon Street. Hawk scowled at the road ahead and Trisha stared out through her window. The dull gray clouds lowering over the city portended another bout of snow later in the day, but for now the air was crisp and clear.
They had to take a roundabout route to the Longfellow Bridge because of all the one-way streets in the downtown area. Hawk stolidly followed the written directions on his phone, not once asking the Boston resident for her opinion, even though she could have cut at least five minutes off their drive. The silence finally got to her while they sat at the light waiting to turn onto Cambridge Street. She cleared her throat softly.
“I’m sorry about your car.”
Hawk’s eyes flicked to her for a moment and then resumed their staring contest with the red light. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I didn’t say it was,” she said, a hint of testiness in her voice. It was most definitely Chantal’s fault. “I’m just sorry you’re stuck here having to deal with it.”
He shrugged carelessly. “It’ll be fine.” The light turned green and the car behind them honked a millisecond later. Hawk showed his middle finger to the driver and then turned into the westbound lane towards the Longfellow Bridge. “They just need to replace the back window and the passenger door. And repaint the roof,” he added in a sour afterthought.
“Will your insurance cover it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have a rider on the policy for panther attacks.”
That startled a laugh out of her and he grinned in response. It was the first genuine smile she’d seen on him and it completely transformed him. The scowl lines on his face faded and his blue eyes seemed brighter, looking years younger and more alive somehow. He was also, she realized, very handsome when he wasn’t glowering at everything and she felt her ears warm.
“Well, maybe you should just say it was vandalized or something,” she said awkwardly, brushing her hair back to give herself an excuse to look away.
“Yeah, that might be better
.”
They fell silent again as they crossed the Charles River and Trisha gazed out at the handful of hardcore boaters braving the weather. In a few minutes she’d be home and she’d say goodbye to Hawk and she’d be on her own once more. She would go back to work in the morning and pretend that nothing had happened over the weekend, never knowing whether they would ever find that cairngorm or return to Avalon or stop Viviane from whatever she was up to. She should have been happy, but somehow it all felt empty and pointless.
“So what happened to Guinevere?” she asked suddenly.
“What?” Hawk looked at her as if she just asked him what platypus tasted like.
“Guinevere. Nim said she was just a pawn in Viviane’s evil plan, but she never said what happened to her afterwards. Is she still alive too?”
The frown reappeared on Hawk’s forehead. “No. When things went south, she joined a convent and stayed there until she died.”
“A convent?” Trisha had never heard that part of the story. “What about Lancelot? Why didn’t she marry him?”
“She probably realized what an arrogant prick he was.” Trisha just blinked at him and he sighed. “What do you know about Lancelot?”
“Uh, nothing, really. He was a Knight of the Round Table, I guess. Wasn’t he supposed to be the best knight in Camelot or something?”
“They called him the Greatest Knight. He was very good with a sword and lance,” he admitted grudgingly, “and handsome enough, I suppose. He was also shallow, pompous, and self-centered.”
“That doesn’t sound very appealing to me,” Trisha observed uncertainly. “Why would Guinevere pick someone like him over Arthur?”
“Therein lies the tale, as they say.” Hawk chewed the inside of his cheek for a while. “He was the son of the King of Benwick but he called himself Lancelot du Lac, Lancelot of the Lake. Do you know why?”
“Something to do with Avalon?” she guessed.
Hawk nodded. “When he was very young, Viviane kidnapped him and raised him in Avalon as her own child. He stayed there until he grew into manhood and journeyed to Camelot just about the same time Guinevere arrived.”
It took a minute for the implications of that to percolate through Trisha’s mind. “It was a set-up?”
“It looks that way. There was nothing in Guinevere’s character to suggest she would be unfaithful to Arthur, until Lancelot rode through those gates.”
“So Viviane sent him to seduce her and cause a civil war.”
“I don’t think Lancelot ever knew what her plan was, or even that there was a plan at all. He wasn’t smart enough to be trusted with something like that. Nim thinks Viviane cast a spell on him, and maybe Guinevere too, to make them fall in love with each other.” Trisha looked at him askance and he just shrugged. “The details don’t matter now. Between their betrayal and Merlin’s disappearance, Camelot didn’t stand a chance. Viviane won.”
“Why didn’t Nim and her sisters stop her, then? Didn’t they wonder what she was doing with a young boy?”
“They didn’t know he was there. He was kept hidden from them, just like Merlin.”
“Oh. So what happened to him afterwards? Was he killed in that battle?”
“He wasn’t even there.” Hawk sounded disgusted. “He was off on some other damn crusade or something. He died a few months after Guinevere, still pining after her.”
“Oh.” Hawk’s tale wasn’t at all like the movies she’d seen growing up and she felt curiously depressed. Stories about medieval knights and ladies were supposed to be all about chivalry and romance, not adultery and betrayal. She looked out her window, trying to regain her composure, and realized that they were stopped in front of a white clapboard house. It took her a moment to recognize it as her own. “Oh! We’re here.”
“Are you going to be all right?” Hawk asked. He actually sounded like he cared.
“Yes, sure, I’ll be fine.” She wasn’t at all certain about that but there was really nothing either of them could do about it. She and Hawk looked at each other and Trisha had the same feeling she’d had before at the end of a first date that had gone disastrously wrong. Do we shake hands or kiss or do I just leave? She finally chose the latter and opened her door, shivering at the blast of frosty air.
“Thanks for the lift,” she said, She got out and then leaned back in. “Good luck with –” She stopped. They wouldn’t have any luck on their Quest without her, at least as far as they were concerned. “– things,” she finished lamely.
“Thanks,” Hawk said gravely. “Take care, Trisha.”
She nodded silently and closed the door, stepping back as the Jaguar pulled away from the curb smoothly and disappeared down the street. She sighed and trudged up the steps to her front door, suddenly feeling completely wrung out. The prospect of a warm bath and a soft bed kept her feet moving, though.
The door was locked, just like she left it, but for some reason her keys weren’t in her coat pocket like she expected. She patted herself down frantically until she remembered they were back in Lionel’s mansion, along with her purse, her wallet, and her clothes. She yanked futilely on the door latch before thumping her forehead against the hard, frigid surface of the door.
“Great,” she muttered. “That’s just great.”
44
She dozed fitfully at Savard’s side, starting awake every time he jerked in his sleep or murmured something inaudible. He was still very warm and she finally extracted her hand from his, easing away from him and unbuttoning her shirt to let the cool air of the room dry the sheen of sweat from her body.
He mumbled something, sounding distressed, and she reached over to touch his face. “Papa?” she asked quietly, not wanting to wake him unnecessarily. “Are you all right?”
“Cherie.” His hand fumbled around as if he was searching for something.
“I’m here,” she assured him. She took his hand and placed it between her breasts where he could feel her heartbeat. A faint smile played around his lips, barely visible in the dim light leaking in from the hallway, and he rolled onto his side, pressing against her and resting his cheek on her shoulder, just as she had done to him earlier.
“I had a dream,” he whispered, his breath brushing gently across her neck. “You were gone and I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“I’m right here,” she told him again, squeezing his hand to make sure he understood. “Go to back to sleep, you’re still not well.”
“Cherie,” he murmured. His hand slipped down to cup her breast, startling her. She tried to move it back but he resisted and she finally left it there. He still wasn’t completely aware of his surroundings and she worried that his head injury was worse than she first feared. He didn’t seem to remember that his wife, her mother, had been dead for twenty years now. His slow, steady breathing was reassuring, though, and her own eyes drifted closed.
He shifted closer, his knee sliding on top of her leg, and something pressed against the outside of her thigh. She assumed it was a fold of his blanket and she reached down to move it aside, but it was warm and firm and felt like his arm, but it was far too low on his body to be that. She ran her fingers down its length and felt it twitch under her touch.
Her muddled brain finally realized what she was holding and she tried to jerk her arm back, but Savard moaned in the back of his throat and pulled her closer, trapping her arm between them. His hips moved slowly and his cock slid up and down her thigh, growing even longer and harder.
“Papa, stop!” she told him, trying to wriggle free from his grasp, but he only held her tighter, using his leg to separate hers as his hand stroked her breast. He buried his face against her neck, breathing in her scent, and his movements became more urgent.
“Cherie,” he growled, and that primal sound raised the hairs on the back of her neck, sending a shiver all the way down to her toes. She struggled to free herself, but he was much heavier and much stronger than she was.
He pulled himself over her, straddling h
er leg as he used both hands to caress her breasts, thumbing her nipples and drawing a gasp from her throat even as she tried to push him off. It was like trying to move an oak tree.
His breathing was harsher now, his chest heaving, and his mouth hung open, exposing the pointed tips of his fangs. His half-lidded eyes stared longingly at her body but he didn’t seem to recognize her at all. She clawed at his cheek, desperate to distract him and bring him back to himself, but he caught her arm effortlessly and pinned it back on the bed. He took her other arm and did the same before pushing her thighs apart with his knees.
“Papa, no, stop!” she shouted frantically, but he was deaf as well as blind to her, his animal half in complete control now. She twisted with all her strength to free herself, but she may as well have been an ordinary human girl for all the good that did. She stared wide-eyed at his cock, long and dark and hairy, thicker than her forearm, throbbing with every beat of his heart.
A low rumble, deep and sensuous, sounded deep in his chest, and he pulled his hips back slowly, drawing the length of his cock along her nether lips and teasing her clit. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt her cunt gush despite her fear.
“Papa, no,” she whispered. She tried one more time to get free, bucking her hips, but all that did was open herself wider for him. The swollen tip of his cock rested between her lips for a moment and then he thrust into her.
She screamed as his cock split her open and slammed into her womb, filling her more than she ever thought possible. He pulled back and pounded into her again and again, each time going ever deeper until she thought he would break her in two. His breath came in short gasps and the heat of him burned her inside. She closed her eyes, feeling the tears stream down her face as she waited hopelessly for him to be done with her.
Then the twitch started deep inside her, spreading quickly through her with every stroke. The rhythm of her breathing aligned with his and she raised her hips to take even more of him inside, the pain and shock transforming into raw pleasure. She spread her legs as far as they would go and he released her arms, grabbing her knees to pull her hard against him. She clutched her breasts and teased her nipples until they stood up like pencils.
Gawain (Knights of Excalibur Book 1) Page 24