Only she could save him.
Ridiculous, whispered a life spent surrounded by warriors. I’m only a woman. Any man on the field could beat me into the ground.
No, you can save him, breathed a seductive whisper that sounded like Nimue. I can give you the power. All you have to do is open yourself to me.
Any priest Gwen knew would have told her that to heed that whisper was to risk her immortal soul. She didn’t give a damn. Angel, witch, or devil out of hell, if Nimue could help her save her husband, she’d surrender her soul without a second thought.
“Yes!” Gwen could scarcely hear her own shout over the screams of death and combat. “Do it! Whatever I have, it’s yours!”
Then ready yourself, Guinevere Pendragon. It comes.
Across the battlefield, a golden ball of light appeared, streaking toward her, trailing sparks like a comet. Her instinct was to leap aside, but she locked her knees and braced.
The comet of power grew as it arrowed toward her across the heaving battlefield, until it filled her vision with searing afterimages. Her heart thudded in her ears, terror spurring it faster and faster with each breath. Instinct shrieked that the comet would incinerate her like parchment tossed into a fire.
Arthur, she thought, forcing herself to hold her ground. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. The mental chant steadied her, strengthened her. She’d ignore her terror as she’d seen Arthur ignore his own whenever duty demanded it. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur . . .
The ball of light filled her vision. She squeezed her tearing eyes shut and screamed, “ARTHUR!”
The power hit.
SIX
Gwen’s eyes flew wide at the searing heat and light. Her veins glowed beneath her skin in delicate branching pathways like streams of burning oil. She opened her mouth to scream, but could produce only a rattling wheeze.
Then the pain grew, unbelievably, still worse. Every muscle in her body knotted and jerked as her failing legs dumped her face-first in the battlefield mud. God help me if a horse tramples me.
It was her last coherent thought as the firestorm of pain raged through her. An instant later—or possibly an eternity, she couldn’t tell which—the pain was simply gone. Vanished, like a saint’s miracle.
She lay in mud that smelled of shit, blood, and worse. The stench alone drove her, reeling, to her feet.
Blinking, dazed, she looked down at what had been one of her favorite gowns, now soaked through and plastered with that stinking mud. Gwen lifted an upper lip in disgust and longed for another gown, one clean and white and smelling of rose-scented soap . . .
Gold sparks spiraled down her body, igniting the filthy gown, which flared blinding bright around her. When the light faded again, she wore cool, clean white silk that smelled of roses.
Gwen stared down at herself in awed astonishment. She’d conjured a new gown with an offhand thought. It wasn’t possible . . .
Except it was.
Power. Gwen could feel it now, a boiling cauldron of energy just barely leashed, ready to leap to her bidding. Somehow she knew all she had to do was reach out, and it would be there, eager to serve however she wished.
Power enough to find Arthur. Power enough to save him. Gwen no longer had to wait for some knight to lend her his strength; she could do what she needed herself. She was not helpless.
Not anymore.
“Find him,” Gwen breathed, reaching out one hand as she’d seen Nimue do. Golden sparks streamed from her fingertips, pouring across the battlefield, seeking the one man in all these thousands she wanted more than her next breath. Until . . .
“There.”
The hill stood across the width of the heaving, bloodthirsty, panicked mob of soldiers. Arthur fought atop it, surrounded by Mordred and a pack of his traitors, who harried the king the way dogs harry an enraged bear. Yet her husband held his own, forcing his attackers back with a sword that flashed and licked like a snake’s tongue. His shield swung in great arcs, reverberating in brazen clangs as he deflected swords, spears, and axes with a speed that seemed impossible, his feet so sure and quick in the treacherous mud, he looked more dancer than swordsman.
It should have been impossible to make out so much detail over a distance so great, but that wild, golden power enhanced her senses beyond any human limit.
Magic. Magic she knew she could set loose against Arthur’s enemies like a cat among mice, giving them the death they so richly deserved.
Do it. Let it go. Let it slay them. They’re traitors against their rightful king. They would murder him. Arthur, who’d bled, fought, and almost died for them in thirty-two battles against Saxons and Picts and his own damned people to buy a little peace for Britain.
She thought of the hip injury that had tormented him for so long. Remembered all the other wounds, physical and mental, including that haunted darkness she sometimes saw in his velvet eyes.
Slay them all, her own darkness breathed. Slay them slay them slay them slay them slay them . . .
She could do it. She could send that raging magic to cleanse the battlefield of life. She could take revenge on these fucking traitors.
But what of our men? Her gaze sought those in Pendragon red and gold, outnumbered and desperate.
They took him from me, too. Their unceasing demands stole him away. Let them die with the rest.
Slay them all. Let the magic kill every bastard one of them. Let it burn the field barren and salt the ground so nothing ever grows again.
For a moment, she hung suspended, balanced on the razor edge of bloodlust . . .
No! Convulsively, Gwen straightened. Arthur would not want this. I do not want this. With an effort, she clamped her will over the raging power so it couldn’t escape, couldn’t kill.
But that still left her the width of the battlefield from her husband. She had to use the power she’d been given, but carefully, ignoring the seductive, evil whispers in her head.
Gwen’s hands shook as she raised them. Hesitated. Not fire. She didn’t need fire. Nor earth, nor water. She didn’t want to burn, bury, or drown them. She wanted to push them. Air. I want air. The Romans’ fourth element.
Gwen called the power. It leaped to her will, joyful as a puppy set free on a cold winter’s day, all eager energy. Somewhere between that golden reservoir and her fingertips, the magic became wind.
A raging blast slammed into the fighters like a giant’s hand, flinging bodies into the air. Terrified screams rang out from those the storm seized and bore off like autumn leaves. More screams sounded as they hit, from both the victims and those they landed on.
Gwen winced. Too much force.
But the need to reach Arthur still pricked her like a knight’s spurs, so she tried again. This time she went slowly, building a breeze barely strong enough to ruffle a man’s hair into a gust that made horses dance in unease. Ears laid flat, they stared at her as if knowing she’d summoned the wind that frightened them.
But it wasn’t enough. Gwen needed to make the men move, dammit. She needed them out of her way. The wind picked up strength at her thought, becoming a battering ram that sent men stumbling.
Yes, that’s it! That’s the right strength.
So with the wind blasting before her, Gwen stepped onto the field. When the thick mud sucked at her sandals, almost pulling them from her feet, she spared a thought to hardening it into a narrow path to Arthur, still battling Mordred in the moon’s thin light. So far away. I need to go faster.
Urgency gnawed at her, its teeth sharpened by the conviction this was taking too damned long. If she’d known where he was from the start, she could have . . .
On the breast of the hill, Arthur swung his great sword at Mordred’s head. The traitor flung up his shield. The blade hit with all Arthur’s Magus strength behind it . . .
And the sword shattered.
Chunks of steel caught the moonlight as they spun in all directions, leaving Arthur staring in horror at a broken blade barely an inch long.
With a howl of
delight, the traitors fell on him, slamming him to the ground. Mordred raised his own sword above the king’s head as Arthur fought to free himself.
The blade flashed down . . .
• • •
No!” The shrieked protest ringing in her ears, Gwen bolted to her feet, her heart hammering as she stared around wildly. She was in her chamber, Nimue watching her calmly from one of the hearth chairs. Where was the battlefield? More importantly, where was her husband?
“Gwen?” Arthur shouted from the balustrade, accompanied by the sound of running feet.
He’s all right. All the strength left Gwen’s legs, and she sat down in her chair with a thump.
What just happened? Had it been a dream? But she’d never had a dream so real. The reek of horse shit lingered in her nostrils, though there was no sign of it on her gown or sandals.
“You did well,” Nimue told her.
“What?” Gwen stared at her, dazed. “What did I do?”
Arthur burst in, several knights at his heels. “Gwen!” He started to drag her into his arms, only to pause as if afraid he’d crush her. Instead he contented himself with a swift glance the length of her body. “Why did you scream?”
“Sometimes my test can be a bit . . . intense,” Nimue observed. “But she acquitted herself well.”
Merlin had entered behind Arthur and his knights. “That is good news indeed. It simplifies things considerably.” Still, he gave Nimue a searching look. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, aye. She . . .” Nimue began.
“Wait,” Arthur interrupted, his gaze astonished. “We were scarce outside ten minutes. You tested her in that brief time? And she passed? How?”
He didn’t have to sound so bloody suspicious—as if he resented that his own test had involved blades and a brush with death, while hers had scarcely mussed her hair.
Gwen glowered. She’d thought it was real, dammit. She opened her mouth, but Nimue was already putting Arthur in his place. “Time in the realm of the mind is fleet, my king. In those ten minutes, she confronted her worst fear: fighting to save you from your own rebellious subjects. She saw you die. That’s why she cried out.”
“Wait,” Kay interrupted. “Arthur fell, yet you say she passed your test?”
“The test was to determine how she would use vast power in the face of considerable temptation to misuse it,” Merlin explained.
“She could have exterminated your friends as well as your enemies,” Nimue added. “She could have struck Mordred dead with a lightning bolt from the heavens. She didn’t, even when it appeared you were going to die. Which means that if given such power in reality, we can be reasonably sure she won’t become a greater threat than whatever she fights. This is not a minor concern. Some are driven mad by gaining magic. They must be put down, much like a frothing dog whose bite kills all he attacks.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed with offended temper. “My wife is no dog, witch.”
“No, she has a point,” Gwen told him thoughtfully. “The power—I have never felt anything like it. It was like drinking lightning, intoxicating, but terrifying, too. The temptation to kill, even our own people . . . I almost lost control.” She looked at Nimue. “And you mean to give real magic to me? Are you sure? What if I . . . ?”
The witch smiled. “You will do fine, my dear. I urged your mind to show you the worst of your fears as reality. Another woman might have seen Mordred about to carry out his vicious threats against you, but your concern was for Arthur and his people. Over the years, I’ve found I learn as much from a female’s fears as from the way she faces them. I was pleased with both in your case.”
Merlin dropped to one knee before her, his long fingers curled around the Grail. “Would you drink, then, my queen?”
“Gwen . . .” Arthur began, his tone urgent.
She didn’t dare let him come up with any clever reasons why this was a bad idea. Gwen took the cup, ignoring the glowing froth riding its surface, and drank the whole thing down like a child taking vile medicine.
At first it was a sweet, fizzing mouthful. She smiled at the sensation of all those countless bubbles simultaneously popping.
An instant later, her throat went white-hot from tongue to belly. A spasm of coughing seized her, each reflexive hack sending another fiery blast through her body. It felt like whatever was in that potion was eating its way through the walls of her stomach and painting her veins with fire.
Dimly, she sensed Arthur’s big hands lifting her from her seat, intensely careful as he cradled her. Comforted—He’s safe. His death was only an illusion—she let herself spin away into the dark.
• • •
When night fell again, Gwen still slept.
Arthur balanced a grape between his teeth, concentrating on keeping his fangs from puncturing its thin green skin.
He failed. A blink later, tart juice coated his tongue. His grimace tightened his jaws, driving the fang completely through the grape with a squish.
Fuck. He spat the fruit into his hand and tossed it back into the bowl he’d taken it from. He’d learned he could no longer stomach more than three or four grapes before his body expelled them. Juice, wine, those he could tolerate. Food was problematic. All he wanted was blood.
Preferably Gwen’s.
The trick was to ensure he didn’t hurt her in the process of drinking it. Grimly, he popped another grape into his mouth and concentrated on not damaging this one.
He knew he could do it; after all, he’d gotten the hang of eggs. True, twenty of them had been crushed in the process, earning Arthur the silent displeasure of Camelot’s cook.
The grapes were even more important. Unless he could be sure he wouldn’t pierce delicate flesh with his fangs, he didn’t dare go anywhere near Gwen.
But what really terrified him was the thought of draining her white again. He knew she’d be stronger thanks to her transformation, but when he remembered the pallor of her skin, the limp body, the closed eyes . . . Arthur shuddered. How could he have treated the woman he loved as food? Not even as cunt, but food? The thought horrified him.
And yet he had to admit it hadn’t been the first time his need for her had taken on a very dark cast. When Gwen had urged him to be rougher, more demanding in his lovemaking, she’d stoked a deeper urge in him to dominate and control her. He’d restrained that urge, as he expected any civilized male would. But in the wake of his transformation, it seemed to have strengthened again. Now it felt almost as powerful as the need for her blood.
His gaze lingered on her face. She looked only slightly older than she’d appeared the day he’d first seen her seventeen years ago. Her hair had blazed in the morning sun, her merry laughter ringing as she pelted one of her sisters with crabapples. The sister—he thought it was Branwyn—had winged one back. Gwen snatched it out of the air and bit into it with small white teeth. There’d been such sensuality in the gesture, he’d sprung a cock-stand on the spot. Feeling eyes on him, Arthur had whirled, ready to snarl, only to find Gwen’s father watching him, a faint smile on his seamed face.
Leodegraunce had had his measure from that moment. Uther had nothing on that old man in sheer cunning. Gwen’s father made Arthur pay well for what he wanted, seeing to it Gwen got dower lands and the means to keep them in their marriage contract.
The king hadn’t begrudged her one denarius. He hadn’t wanted that laughing girl left impoverished by the vagaries of a queen’s fate. He’d made damned sure she would never suffer for his craving for her.
Until last night anyway. Leodegraunce would have had his head.
Arthur stole a guilty glance at his wife. She lay dressed in a white gown that made her look like a virgin, a light coverlet folded over her sweet breasts.
Sometime in the past day, the faint crow’s-feet carved into her face by her years as queen had vanished, so she looked no older than twenty. He frowned, discovering he missed those delicate lines. They’d recorded the battles, the losses, the fear and the laughter, the s
teely will he hadn’t noticed as a nineteen-year-old idiot. Those faint lines had made Gwen human, rather than the lovely doll he’d imagined her then. He’d had no idea how lucky he was to get a steel-willed beauty instead. He’d have broken the doll in a year.
And she made him more than he’d ever been.
Gwen had believed in him, had given him the courage to meet and defeat men stronger and more ruthless than he could ever hope to be.
She often accused him of being overprotective, and he supposed she had a point. Yet the fact was, he protected himself and his kingdom as much as he did her by making sure she was safe.
Gwen saw him as a great king. A hero. He’d had no choice except to become exactly that. For her. Not for Britain, not for Uther’s soulless memory. For Guinevere Pendragon, queen of his heart.
Jesu, that last thought sounded so sickeningly sweet, like honey candy. And yet that was exactly what she was.
He’d nearly killed her, for he’d been so blinded by hunger and unnatural need, he hadn’t even recognized his own wife. He didn’t dare let it happen again.
Even at this distance he could smell her, that lovely erotic musk that made him crave sex and blood and woman.
His fangs pricked his lower lip, and he grimaced at the sour flavor of his own blood. It tasted nothing like the sensual richness he could smell wafting from Gwen. It made him want to take her, hold her down and fuck her . . . Which was why he had to get the hell away from her before his self-control shattered. Arthur had come in here to watch her sleep with his bowl of grapes in order to build his willpower so he wouldn’t hurt her when she was awake and flirting.
And she would flirt, his fearless Gwen. She’d try to seduce him—not that she’d ever had to try all that hard in the first place. But this time, he could not afford to let her tempt him into bed. Not with these unnatural fangs pricking his lips. Not with his cock like a blade in his breeches.
If it were only sex he craved, he’d indulge her joyfully. She’d wrestle him with her maddeningly luscious body, and he’d flatten her beneath his weight and plunge to the balls as his hungry body demanded.
Wicked Games Page 9