Enchanted Warrior. Sharon Ashwood

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СКАЧАТЬ in her throat. It would be so simple to give in and run home, like a chick diving beneath the coven’s protective wing. But then her future would end at the edges of their small, isolated town.

      After a deep breath, Tamsin held the phone to her ear again. “Tell Mom I’ll come home for Thanksgiving. But only for a few days. I need this job.”

      “Okay, okay,” Stacy said softly. “I’m worried about you.”

      The cloud of energy around the phone turned to a faint rose color—a sign of her sister’s concern. “Call me if you need me,” Stacy added. “Anytime, you hear?”

      Tamsin smiled through sudden sadness. “I hear you. I know how to keep myself safe.”

      “Love you.”

      “Love you, sis.” Tamsin ended the call and slipped her phone into the pocket of her costume.

      Tamsin rubbed her arms, unable to let go of the heaviness the phone call had left behind. The Elders didn’t reveal much about the shadow world, but Tamsin’s father had. There were other magic users beside the witches—faeries and ogres and who knew what else just beyond the comforting lights of the modern world. Once there had even been demons.

      Not that anyone believed those old tales. It had been surprisingly easy for witches to move from an everyday fact of village life to the local bogeyman and then to no more than a Halloween costume. Humans had lost track of the shadow world, and when they encountered it, they rarely reacted well.

      Like Tamsin’s last lover, who had also been her first serious relationship. He’d been a teaching assistant, a few years older and an expert in European history of the Middle Ages. It had been like dating a daydream—everything she could wish for, every box checked. She’d laid her heart at Richard’s feet, and for a time he’d seemed to do the same. They’d been sleeping together for almost a year when she’d forgotten to hide what she was. The slip had been minor—she’d lit a candle with a word of power.

      Richard’s reaction had been instant. He’d rolled out of bed and pulled on his pants almost in one move. When he’d looked up, the light from that fateful candle falling across his features, she’d seen real terror. And then he’d uttered the words she’d least expected to hear: “Get away from me, witch.”

      The episode had happened well over a year ago, but it still stung horribly. All the rage and hurt of that breakup gathered afresh in Tamsin’s soul. She curled her hands around her knees, nails digging through the soft fabric of her skirt. She would not be treated that way, ever again. If Gawain did show up demanding answers, she’d tell him what he could do with his wretched monuments.

      Tamsin jumped to her feet and hurried back inside, where she retreated to the chapel’s vestry. Her tiny office was set up there, although it looked less like an office than a fort made of file boxes. A musty smell drifted from decades of paper records waiting for her attention. Most dated from the seventies, when the crumbling church had been moved over from England. Despite some public objections, the building had been sold to Medievaland’s founder, who had promised to restore it once he had moved it to Washington State.

      Switching on her computer, Tamsin scrolled through what little information she had on the recent history of the Church of the Holy Well and searched for anything about the tombs. All she found was a mention of the crypt—it had been filled in, but one hundred and fifty grave monuments had been packed and shipped with the rest of the building. The records stopped there.

      Tamsin sat back in the chair, mystified. So where were the tombs? Had every single one been sold or loaned out to other places? She didn’t particularly want to help Gawain—he hadn’t been kind or pleasant to her at all. And yet, he had raised some very interesting questions. She hitched forward on the sagging computer chair, put her fingers on the keyboard and began searching for clues.

      By closing time, Tamsin had a headache from staring at the screen. The remainder of the afternoon had flown by, but she’d found no answers. Still pondering the mystery, she crawled into her ancient Camry for the drive home.

      This wasn’t the first dead end Tamsin had found in the past week. Beneath its colorful, family-friendly surface, Medievaland had hidden depths. She’d heard rumors that its library—purchased along with the rest of the crumbling church—held books of magic so old they were rumored to have been handwritten by Merlin the Wise himself. But no employee she’d talked to had heard anything about this most valuable part of the library’s collection. If it existed, it was kept well out of sight.

      Tamsin meant to find the truth, and not just because the Elders wanted answers. Her father, Hector Greene, had been the coven’s loremaster before her. He’d traveled the world, searching out rare manuscripts about magic until a drunk driver had forced his car off a cliff when Tamsin was thirteen. There had been little left to bury.

      Tamsin pulled into the driveway of her apartment building and, a few minutes later, locked the dead bolts to her studio apartment. She collapsed onto her bed, pulling a blanket over her because the heater never quite did the job, and finally began to relax.

      She reached over the side of the bed to where she’d dropped her backpack and rummaged for the side pocket where she kept the book her father had given her. This had been his favorite grimoire, an ancient text with a peculiar collection of spells. She untied the leather thong that held it shut and began to turn the worn pages as she did at least once a day, letting the familiar words comfort her. Handling it was like having her father close again.

      The yellowed pages crackled as she turned them. She traced the red-brown handwriting with her fingertips, feeling the depression where the nib of a pen had stroked the page. A charm against roaming spirits. A spell to attract a familiar. A chant to protect against pox. She turned the page again and stopped. Although she had looked through the book literally thousands of times, every so often it showed her a new spell. Tonight was one of those occasions. A Charm to Awaken Those Who Watch. Tamsin raised a brow. The watchers couldn’t be very effective if they were sleeping on the job. She scanned the ancient words, recognizing a language so old it had been all but forgotten in Merlin’s time. She wondered why the book had produced the spell now, but it did that sometimes. Old books of magic had minds of their own.

      Tamsin read until the light faded and then put the book away. She had started to drowse when she heard the stealthy slide of the balcony door. She bolted upright, nearly falling when the blanket twisted around her ankles. Tamsin kicked it aside and scanned the apartment. There was a kitchen nook and a bathroom, but it was basically one large space with nowhere to hide.

      The balcony door was open, the night wind pouring through a two-foot gap. It was possible for a good climber to get from the fire escape to the balcony, which was why she kept the door locked—but no lock was foolproof. Fear was an icy explosion beneath her ribs. There had been burglaries all over the neighborhood, some of them violent.

      She cleared her throat. “Take what you want. I don’t have much.”

      “I’m not here for your property.”

      She sucked in a breath as she recognized the voice. It was Gawain, his words pitched so low she could barely hear him. She searched the room until she found his form, a shadow within shadows by the curtain. Even the blurry outline of his broad shoulders brought a rush of confused emotions—unease and anger mixed with irrational attraction. Her words dropped to a whisper. “You’re stalking me!”

      A pause followed. “No, you’re not my prey. Not that way.”

      Then in what way was she prey? Her imagination called up a dozen images, СКАЧАТЬ