Lancelot returned the kiss, deepening it. Nim arched into his embrace, the line of her body curving into his. Her fingers dug into his shirt, then sought its hem so that she could run her fingers over the hard curves of his chest. So what if she was petting him again? There was no point in denying herself. She drew each instant of the kiss out, tasting his lips, his tongue, the sweetness of his need.
He released a breath in a sound of wordless surprise. It made her chuckle, and she liked the sound of her own pleasure. “Not bad for a soulless fae?” she teased.
“Whatever it was that damaged you, it’s healed.” He slipped off the couch and pulled the curtains, plunging the room into a murky half-light. He locked the door before returning to her side.
“What are you doing?” she asked, although his intent was plain.
“I’m proving it to you.”
“But this building is filled with knights.”
“Not at the moment,” he said. “They’re all out congratulating themselves on killing the ravaging shrubbery.”
“But we killed the shrubbery, not them.”
Lancelot slid an arm around her. “Never believe a knight about what he’s killed or how big it was, especially if he’s been drinking.”
Nim turned in his arms until she straddled him. Her fingers strayed to his belt buckle. “What about the size of his lance?”
“A knight never lies about his weapons.”
“Of course not. That would be unchivalrous.”
“If you believe that, I have a castle to sell you in Wales.”
She giggled. It wasn’t a sound she often made, and he stopped it with his lips.
“Hush,” he whispered. “There’s a building filled with lusty young knights.”
“You said they were all outside.”
“Maybe they are. Maybe not.”
That only made her giggle harder. “You’re horrible.”
“Be quiet.”
“I’m being quiet!” she gasped.
“No, you’re not.”
That only made everything seem louder. Both dissolved into silent laughter, which made zippers and buckles impossible. Together they pulled off Lancelot’s shirt and her skirt, but those were their only victories. The more impatient they got, the clumsier their fingers.
Finally, Lancelot surged to his feet. “Come.”
Nim locked her legs around him, letting herself be carried along. In two strides, he had her against the wall, her hands pinned over her head. He held her there with one massive hand and used the other to unbutton her shirt. His hips rocked gently as he worked, priming her for what was to come. The sensation robbed her of coherent thought.
Once her shirt hung free, he licked her skin, teeth grazing the lace that edged her bra. Groaning, she slid up his chest to allow him better access. With that, he finally released her hands, and she gripped his shoulders as he freed himself from his jeans. His body heat warmed her through her panties and she grew wet with anticipation.
“May I rid you of this undergarment?” he murmured in her ear.
The formal way he said it made Nim smile, but she was beyond laughing now. She gave a nod, and her panties fell in silky shreds.
His finger glided along her slit. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Incredible, glorious pressure filled her. She gasped, arching back against the wall so she could angle herself to take him. There was a lot to take, every stroke easing in more and more until every nerve of her body sang with the sensation. He thrust again and again and she had to clench her teeth to keep from crying out. The threat of discovery made it better and worse, inconvenient and daring and conjuring an innocence they’d both lost long ago. Lancelot pressed his mouth over hers, swallowing her moans as he found all the right places.
Minutes later, he brought them both to a shuddering climax.
Nim slid down his body with a whimper of satisfaction. Her limbs tingled as if every nerve had overloaded, but the seeds of anticipation were already taking root. She took Lancelot’s hand, drawing him back to the couch. The touch of his skin on hers intoxicated her, and she wasn’t ready to stop.
She was in love with him. Not like she had been before, in her long-lost castle by the lake, but in a new and powerful way. She wanted him for the man he’d become, not the fledgling knight he’d been. That Lancelot had worshipped an ideal version of his lady, but idolatry didn’t last. This older man valued her for who she was now, and she allowed herself to hope that would endure.
She slid off her bra, cradling his head as he suckled one breast, then the other. He cupped her, kneading gently and then not so gently, bringing the pooling desire in her womb to a hot, liquid ache. He knew her body, understood exactly what made her respond. To her surprised delight, Lancelot remembered it all.
As they began to make love again in earnest, her heart raced with joy. Maybe she had traded one magical power for another, because wasn’t this a kind of sorcery? She tried to imagine giving up the experience of passion and, even more, the capacity to give it. Although it had happened to her, although she had lived in icy blankness for centuries, the long years without emotion seemed like a terrible dream. The moment the cold had shattered, it had become hard to re-create in her mind. Nothing she could ever want, not even magical powers, could tempt her back to existence as a soulless shell.
After Nim had been pleasured to exhaustion, she collapsed in Lancelot’s arms. Their limbs twined together on the narrow couch. For the first time in forever, she was happy. She was with the man she loved and everything was simple.
Without meaning to, Nim fell into a deep dream. The first episodes were gentle and meaningless, but the storyline inexorably drew to a scene from the past, a conversation only two people knew about. She might have called it the prelude to a nightmare, except it had been real.
Real was worse.
* * *
Merlin summoned Nimueh just before the demon wars. She found him at the top of his high, round tower, hunched at a cluttered table. A fire smoked in a pit in the middle of the room, but it threw no heat against the winter chill. She didn’t even consider removing her cloak.
“How do you expect to stop the demons?” she demanded. There was little point in being polite when Merlin was working. He never noticed the difference.
“I will stop them with magic,” he mumbled. “It’s not like swords will do the job.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Not even the fae know the right spells.”
Her people had tried desperately for centuries to cast the demon scourge into the abyss but never succeeded. Now Camelot proposed an alliance of all the free peoples against the hellspawn. That would improve the odds, but it would take a new and spectacular weapon to guarantee a win.
She paused at his elbow, studying the crumbling book open on the table. It was so old not even Nimueh understood the runes inked upon its pages. Her gaze shifted to the notes Merlin had scrawled on a torn scrap of paper. Her mouth went dry with terror and excitement. “What’s this?”
“What do you think it is?” the enchanter asked in a defensive tone. She knew he was desperate to help Arthur against the demons, but this was her first glimpse at the emotions Merlin kept hidden behind his fierce intellect.
For a long moment she said nothing, her mind whirling. Merlin’s raven picked at the remains of his dinner, rattling the pewter plate as it gobbled up bread.
“That’s demon magic,” she finally said.
Merlin looked up then, his amber eyes burning with defiance. “Our magic—witch or fae—is too weak to stop them. Why not use their own battle spells against them?”
Nimueh’s lips parted. “What you propose is unthinkable.”
Anger darkened his features. “Which is why we’ve lost every time. We’ve been following the rules.”
Panic danced inside her. “You don’t know what will happen if you cast that spell.” She stabbed a finger against his notes. “I don’t know. No one does. It probably won’t ev
en work.”
He shrugged. “Are you going to stop me?”
She met his eyes, responding to the dare in his expression. This was just like him—flashy, gaudy, dangerous. “You’re either brilliant or insane.”
A grin split his face, but it wasn’t happy. “I know.”
Then he sobered. “I need your help. I can’t do it alone.”
* * *
Nim startled awake. She was lying on Lancelot’s chest. The sun shone through a gap in the curtains, the beams right in her face, but its warmth didn’t touch her. The dream pulsed like a living thing in her mind, giving off a sense of dire foreboding. All at once, her future with Lancelot felt frail as a new shoot pushing up through frozen ground. With or without her magic, the past wasn’t done with her yet.
Chapter 21
The next evening brought fresh adventure. One of the highlights of Medievaland was the King’s Banquet, held every Saturday night for guests who wanted an authentic medieval feast minus the fleas and dubious kitchen sanitation that Nim remembered. Those early revels had been good feasts with surprisingly inventive dishes, but she thought Medievaland’s caterers were wise to stick with familiar dishes, ending with a cheesecake molded to the shape of a peacock.
“I’m in the mood for revelry after LaFaye’s evil vegetation,” said Gawain as he flopped into a chair, Tamsin at his side. “We have something to celebrate for once. Let the wine flow and we’ll show the tourists what a great thing it is to be in Camelot.”
Nim agreed. Even though she was still haunted by her dream of Merlin, it was hard to hold on to fear with cheerful laughter ringing into the warm summer night. The trestle tables were set up in a broad U beneath a huge, white pavilion. Each table was flanked by long benches, except for the high table that sat lengthwise across the head of the tent. This was where the king sat in a carved, high-backed chair, with his most trusted men on either side. Lancelot was at his right with Nim, Gawain and Tamsin on the left.
“Wine, my lady?” said a liveried page with tattoos snaking down his wrists. He was a modern employee of the park. Beneath his tunic, she could see the edge of a T-shirt, but otherwise he fit the part. She nodded and let him fill her metal goblet.
Lancelot squeezed her hand under the table. He wore soft boots with dark leggings tucked into their tops and a long, loose tunic belted at the hips. It wasn’t exactly court dress, but the outfit would be more useful in case he had to fight. Nim liked the clothes on him, especially the open neckline that let her admire the strong muscles of his throat. She, on the other hand, was far less comfortable in a heavy gown of cerulean blue. Nevertheless, Nim knew she looked like herself for once, with a silver veil hiding her dyed black hair. I’m back, she thought. I’m the Lady of the Lake once more.
“The theme park does a good job,” she said to Lancelot under her breath. “It’s not trying too hard. The focus is on a good time so it feels like a proper feast.”
“Almost,” Lancelot agreed. “There aren’t any fistfights yet.”
“That didn’t happen terribly often. Only when Sir Kay was there.”
“Or Bors. Or Agravaine. They weren’t happy unless someone got a black eye.”
Nim wrinkled her nose. “I was at all the wrong parties.”
He leaned close. “Stick with me and I’ll show you the best chivalry has to offer.”
She pulled back in mock horror. “Drunken brawls?”
“Chivalry’s been oversold. I always preferred a good tavern.”
They laughed, and the sound mixed with the music of the lutes and recorders and drifted into the night. The panels of the tent were tied back to let the breeze through, so that the only wall was the one behind Arthur. This far from the heart of town, the air was clean and the stars above sharp against the inky sky. Candle lanterns hung along the ridge pole, each one dropping on a long chain to light the scene below.
And what a scene it was—every diner there was dressed in some interpretation of medieval costume, though few were outfits Nim had ever seen. But no one—not even the actual medieval folk—really cared about such details. There was food and drink and song and good company. What else mattered?
Indeed, what else? If Nim had this, would she ever miss spells? The idea mixed with the echoes of her dreams and darkened. Instead of making her happy, it felt like a net tangling around her heart.
“What’s amiss?” asked Lancelot, placing a finger against her brow. “You’re frowning.”
“Nothing is amiss,” she lied, wishing Merlin had vanished to oblivion the way everyone assumed. She kept his secrets out of guilt and a complicated sense of obligation, but now he had another hold over her. Either he couldn’t restore her magic, which was bad. Or maybe he could and that was worse because she didn’t want it back at the expense of her emotions—but knowing she mustn’t ever touch it would drive her insane. There was no way she could discuss the matter with Lancelot—especially not there, with the king only feet away. Merlin was supposed to be dead.
Nim felt Lancelot’s gaze as if it were a physical pressure. “I don’t believe you,” he said.
“Very well. Look about you.” She gestured with one hand, taking in the entire tent. “We agree this is a good replica of old Camelot. If that’s true, something will go wrong. Remember Gawain and that green giant who tried to chop his head off?”
Lancelot groaned. “Every time we had a feast like this, Arthur would demand something spectacular or magical for entertainment. He called them ‘wonders’ and they never ended well.”
“He’s not going to try that now, is he?”
Lancelot took her hand in his and kissed her palm. “There are no green giants at Medievaland. Or drunken unicorns. Or those trolls who ate Guinevere’s yapping lapdogs.”
“Those were the days,” Nim said, though in retrospect she felt sorry for the dogs.
“We’ve been patrolling the park. Everything is safe.”
“Even from drunken unicorns?” she asked softly.
“Especially them.”
It wasn’t as silly a conversation as it might sound. Although Camelot technically ruled the mortal world, it dwelled on the cusp of magic. Arthur owed the mystical power of his kingship to the shadow realms, and he was bound by the same rules as the faery queen. That bond was what made him powerful enough to wield Excalibur and present a real challenge to the fae. Without it, he would have no hope of holding back the faery queen. Camelot and its king had a special place on enchantment’s borders, but that made strange happenings a matter of course.
Arthur had risen from his seat and was stopping to speak with the guests, giving each one a personal welcome. When he reached Lancelot and Nim, he lifted his goblet in a toast. “The pair of you appear as if destined for one another. I can see now why you always claimed your heart was reserved for the Lady of the Lake.”
“Because it was true,” said Lancelot. “Let us drink to women worth waiting for.”
He raised his goblet to Arthur’s and they drained their wine. Nim blushed and took a sip to hide behind her own goblet while the servers hurried to refill the men’s drinks.
“May your union be long-lived and filled with joy,” said the king, taking another long swallow. “Let us forget the past and embrace present amity.”
Nim knew that was as close to an apology as Arthur was likely to give for his jealousy over Guinevere, but she felt the sincerity in it. She was relieved when Lancelot rose to give Arthur a warm smile, accepting his words.
“I am ready for any scrap of happiness,” said Arthur. He looked it. The uncertain light of the tent showed the tired hollows of his face.
“You need a holiday,” said Nim. “You’ve worked hard to get Camelot established again. It’s not a crime to take a day of rest now and again.”
“It is good advice, my lady,” he said. “Unfortunately, it’s harder to take time off than it sounds.”
Nim exchanged a glance with Lancelot as Arthur returned to his seat. “I wonder what the King of Ca
melot would think of a beach holiday in the Caribbean?” she said softly. “It would be worth the price of the ticket to see him lounging in a deck chair and reading a trashy book.”
And then they were laughing again, shadows forgotten. Food arrived—slightly cold, but otherwise tasty—and jugglers frolicked and tumbled in the large center space between the tables. The best dish was the tiny tartlets stuffed with herbed chicken, because Lancelot fed them to her with his own hand and kissed her between each bite.
Meanwhile, young women in low-cut gowns were swarming the knights like bees on honey. “It’s a good thing I’m here to defend your honor,” she murmured.
“From those wenches?” Lancelot raised his eyebrows. “What would I want with them?”
“The other knights don’t seem to mind.”
Gawain was with Tamsin, but the rest—including the king—seemed delighted with the attention. In fact, Arthur seemed inclined to unleash his considerable charm and a steady succession of buxom lasses sat on the arm of his throne and melted under the onslaught of his smile.
“They’re just fans having fun,” said Lancelot. “And we’re gentlemen. No one breaks hearts here.”
“Keep an eye on Arthur,” Nim said quietly. “He’s filled his goblet a few times too many. I don’t blame him for letting off steam, but he’s getting rather too merry.”
“Once upon a time, at a banquet like this I would call for a wonder,” Arthur was saying to a perky redhead with an aggressively corseted bosom. His words were a little thick as he propped himself on his elbows as if he needed the arms of his throne to keep steady. “Mostly at Yuletide, but sometimes I’d do it if things got dull around the castle. A good magical display is ideal for shaking off boredom.”
“Just like that?” said the girl, snapping her dainty fingers. “You’d just say ‘presto, let’s have a wonder’ and someone would come up with it?”
“Hmm?” Arthur said, as if he’d already forgotten the conversation.
She slid from the arm of the chair to perch on his knee. It was an awkward maneuver and she landed in a heap against him.
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