Enchanted Warrior. Sharon Ashwood
Only then did she notice a newspaper folded and positioned in the middle of her desk. “What’s this?”
“Proof of what I’ve told you.”
She picked up the paper and glanced at the headline. “It says there was a mugging. What does that prove?”
In a single, lightning-fast movement, he snatched the paper and slammed it down on the desk. “This happened last night. I was there. Read it carefully.”
Suddenly he was too big, too physical. The fury rolling off him pinned Tamsin to the chair. “Look!” He jabbed a finger at the paper. Then he visibly reined himself in. “Please.”
At first she couldn’t. It was as if her spine had fused with fright. Then, one degree at a time, she managed to move her head. There was a picture of a narrow alley, the outline of a body marked in chalk. The owner of the gas station next door had found the unidentified corpse. “This is awful, but I don’t understand the significance.”
“The deceased male was a fae. There were two, but apparently the other survived and walked away. Now read the article below.”
She did. A man had been found wandering the streets last night. He was hospitalized now, suffering from amnesia.
“The fae attacked him,” Gawain said. “I saved his life, but I could do no more. They were consuming his soul.”
Tamsin looked up from the paper, bewildered. “They were what?”
“The fae were robbed of their souls, so now they devour those of innocent strangers. If I cannot find my king and brother knights, there will be no way to stop their army from taking what they want. I cannot begin to guess how many mortals will die.”
The harsh regret in his words shook her. She picked up the paper, studying the eerie scene again before she set it facedown on the desk. The articles weren’t exactly proof, but the times coincided with some of the disturbances Stacy had reported. That had to mean something.
He was utterly somber, nothing but pure determination etched on his face. “Will you help me?”
She hesitated, and not because she begrudged him her aid. Even if he were mad, it would be straightforward enough to find one of the tombs and send him on his way. But maybe—just maybe—she was starting to believe him. “What are you going to do if I find your king? Hover over his effigy and wait for him to wake up?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
Tamsin imagined him sitting by a tomb for days, weeks, even years, waiting for his lord to cheat death. He had that kind of single-minded purpose. “Why spend the time looking for Arthur?” she asked. “Why not lead the attack against the fae yourself?”
“For the same reason you do not hire a blacksmith to etch the head of a pin,” he said, matter-of-fact. “We all have strengths. I am the best fighter, but Arthur is the strategist. And there are other reasons.” He looked as if he wanted to say more but didn’t. He obviously wasn’t ready for full disclosure.
Even so, his words made sense to Tamsin. She fiddled with the edge of the newspaper, fraying it between her fingers. “I’ve tried looking in the files. It’s going to take forever to get through them, and if what you say is true, we don’t have that kind of time.”
She heard his indrawn breath. She hadn’t exactly said she would help him, but she’d given him hope. A mix of emotions made her palms go clammy. Agreeing to this meant spending more time in his company, and that was a terrifying prospect. Worse, it had a dark appeal that made her insides grow warm with anticipation. Tamsin wasn’t sure how far she trusted herself.
Gawain found a second chair beneath a stack of files and sat. His eyes were on her face, reading her every expression. “Go on.”
“There might be another way,” Tamsin said slowly. “I came to Carlyle because rumors say there is a collection of ancient books of magic in town. I want to find it and study what’s there.”
Gawain frowned. “You don’t know where it is?”
“No. Strange as it may seem to outsiders, that’s common among my people.” She took another sip of her chocolate. “Covens guard their archives jealously. Most of the real information on magic was lost after the war against the demons. Merlin’s spell compromised our powers and, well, let’s just say magic users weren’t popular after he was through. Years of persecution followed and most of our books were burned.”
Tamsin paused, wondering if she should be telling him her plans. At the same time, an idea was forming as she spoke. “The only books that survived were well hidden. Scholars like my father, and now me, have to talk our way into collections to study the materials. There is no coven in Carlyle, which makes me think the books I’m looking for might be in a private library.”
“And what does this have to do with the tombs?” Gawain asked, the tension around his eyes reminding her of how little he liked magic.
She set the cup down. “I’m getting there. The rumors say the books were originally part of this church’s property and came with it when it was moved. They might have belonged to Merlin the Wise himself.”
That got Gawain’s attention. “You seek Merlin’s books?”
“I do. Since Merlin enchanted your tombs, the books may help us find your knights. I could try locating them by magic. One seeking spell might even find both at once.”
Gawain didn’t speak, but leaned forward in his chair, waiting for her next words.
“So that is how I can help you,” Tamsin concluded. “Now I’ll tell you how you can help me.”
His response was clipped. “Name it.”
Tamsin took a deep breath, bracing herself. “A seeking spell requires an object connected to the thing or person you’re looking for. You’re the closest thing I’ve got to those tombs.”
“You want to use me?” Gawain bolted from the chair, blue eyes wide with wrath—or maybe it was alarm. “I am to take part in your witch’s spell?”
“It’s up to you,” Tamsin said, her throat so tight it hurt. “How badly do you want to find your king?”
It was dark when Gawain arrived at Tamsin’s apartment building a few hours later. His steps slowed as he approached the front walk, for he did not want to be there—not at all. Not when the reason for the visit was to cast a spell. He would rather have faced an enraged ogre than be in the same room with a witch at work—and yet somehow he had agreed to it. That had to be proof of his desperation.
Gawain knew well enough that magic could heal as well as harm. If the stakes were high enough, he could and would endure its presence for the greater good. After all, he had allowed Merlin to turn him to stone so he could follow his king into the future. It was just...
Memories of his childhood crowded in. His mother, Queen Morgause, had been as beautiful as a night-blooming flower—or at least that’s what the poets had said. All the recollections Gawain could dredge up were of nightmares. The nameless, many-legged things she kept in her workroom and called her pets. Her deadly potions. The sight of her strangling his hound so she could use the unborn pups for a curse. And then there was the way she had died—slain by her own son, Agravaine. Gawain’s younger brother’s mind had not survived the twisted evil in their home.
And Gawain, alone of all his brothers, had inherited the potential to create that darkness anew. That was not a future he was willing to accept. As soon as he was old enough, he’d picked up a sword and ridden off to serve the young king, believing an honorable death would cleanse his soul. He’d survived, but never allowed himself to use the least hint of his inherited magic. Not after—well, he refused to think about certain events.
Which begged the question of why he was knocking on a