Enchanted Guardian. Sharon Ashwood

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      “The human authorities are particular about executions. They like to do it all themselves.”

      Dulac—he was Dulac among the men, never Lancelot—shook his head. He’d awakened to a drastically reduced Camelot in a new and strange world. “Then what are we supposed to do? Pat the fae on the head and tell him to run along back to his homicidal queen?”

      They were walking the night-dark streets of Carlyle. According to Gawain, it was unusually warm for this part of the world, and Dulac took his word for it. The heat had developed a second life as the sun sank like an exhausted balloon, leaving skin sticky and tempers short. The taverns promised iced drinks and easy laughter, but that would come later. Dulac and Gawain had work to do.

      “We do all our work in secret. The rules of lore and magic are...well, let’s just say people think everything we stand for belongs in books for wee kiddies.” Gawain’s Scottish accent deepened to a burr. “It’s demoralizing. Explaining that enchanted knights are waking up because Queen Morgan has mobilized revenge-happy faeries to attack and destroy the mortal realms—well, my lad, that’s a speedy trip to the madhouse.”

      “I’d already be there if it wasn’t for you and Arthur,” Dulac said honestly. “I don’t know how you managed when you were the first to wake up.”

      “It got better once I found Tamsin,” Gawain said, referring to the witch who was his lover—the same witch who had revived Dulac from the stone sleep. “Before her, I only had the spell to fall back on.”

      Merlin’s spell had provided a wealth of basic information, bridging centuries of change in language and a thousand mundane details, such as how to work an elevator or what a stoplight was for. There were still gaps, but Dulac was quickly figuring them out.

      It was the larger changes that bothered him. “Nothing here is friendly. There are barely any armorers. Very few horse markets. I’m not certain this time requires a knight like me.”

      “Of course it does,” Gawain said gruffly. “And you have to admit there are advantages to this day and age. I do like indoor plumbing.”

      “I’ll give you that one,” Dulac agreed. “And coffee.”

      Dulac had shed his sword and armor for smaller blades, a battered leather jacket and jeans. He stopped at a corner, waiting for a low black car to drive by before he crossed. The rumble of its engine called to something inside Dulac. He’d owned powerful chargers, reveled in their speed and power. These vehicles were the warhorses of the modern age. He wanted one badly enough that his palms itched. It was hard to save the world when your only option was public transit. He stepped off the curb, swearing when a cyclist nearly clipped his toe.

      “I’m going north from here. There’s plenty of problems up around the White Hart,” said Gawain once they were across. “South is yours to patrol.”

      Dulac nodded, paying close attention to what Gawain had to say. This was his first time out on his own since awakening, and he would take nothing for granted.

      “Listen, there’s been an increase in fae sightings in Carlyle and we don’t know why,” said Gawain. “Don’t assume a lone fae is actually alone. Keep your fights out of sight of humans, and come back in one piece.”

      With that, they gripped one another’s forearms in salute and parted.

      Once Dulac went south, the road grew darker and his mood along with it. He’d seen little of the fae after the demon wars, but he’d got an education since awakening in Carlyle. There was no question that Camelot’s one-time allies were now a fearsome enemy and, as Gawain had said, getting far too common on Carlyle’s streets.

      Hugging the shadows, he closed the distance between himself and a fae male walking ahead. Ordinarily, they were easy to spot. Most were tall and slender, with skin ranging from olive to the rich brown of ancient oak. Their eyes were brilliant green, their hair as pale as moonlight. All were inhumanly beautiful. This one, however, wore a sweatshirt with the hood drawn up and his body bent forward. Obviously, he didn’t want to be recognized.

      Dulac didn’t need to ask why. The male was following a dark-haired woman who walked briskly through the puddles of streetlight, handbag swinging in time with her steps. There was an air of impatience about her as if she was late and rushing to an appointment. At that distance, Dulac couldn’t see her well, but caught the impression of a willowy beauty. Moving swiftly, the fae kept back just enough to remain unnoticed, but moved imperceptibly closer with each block. He was hunting her just as Dulac was hunting him.

      Abruptly, the woman turned and trotted up the steps of a community hall brimming with noise and lights. Dulac relaxed, slackening his steps now that she was safely inside—until the fae turned and followed her through the doors. She was more than a random victim; she was a target.

      On full alert again, Dulac jogged to catch up. The signboard outside the hall announced the event was a wedding celebration. Was the woman a guest?

      He took the stairs two at a time and shouldered his way inside. The doors were propped open to let in fresh air, although the breeze wasn’t putting a dent in the sweltering atmosphere. The place was dim and echoing, the walls and floor plain wood. The ceiling, crisscrossed with crepe paper streamers, was open to the rafters. The milling press of bodies set Dulac’s nerves on edge, confirming the reason he was there. Events like these—where people were crowded together, unguarded and a little drunk—were a predator’s favorite hunting ground.

      Dulac straightened his spine, feeling steadier now that he had a job to do. As long as there were villains, there was a purpose for knights like him.

      He strode into the center of the room, searching the crowd. Blasts of amplified sound blared from the small stage where a band was setting up. Finding no sign of the fae, Dulac pushed through the crush at the back of the hall to discover a bar.

      He was rewarded almost instantly when he saw the woman from the street perched on one of the stools. Her hair was dark and cropped at the shoulders, her bangs cut in a severe line across her brow. Her dark blue dress was crisp and businesslike, the only feminine touch a pair of extravagantly high heels that made her legs seem endless. But there was something that caught his eye besides her elegant figure. The way her long, slender limbs moved, or the curve of her spine, or the tilt of her head—something about her was extraordinary. Instantly, his body tensed in pleasure and warning.

      The woman was fae. Then she turned her face in his direction, and he was looking at his Nimueh.

      * * *

      “It would take a soulless monster to hate a wedding like this,” said the young human in a daring yellow dress. “Don’t you think?”

      The Lady of the Lake had barely sat down after hurrying through the streets to get there. She sipped her drink and manufactured a smile. “Have you taken a poll?”

      The woman—barely more than a girl, really—leaned against the bar, her eyes shining in a way that went beyond the champagne. She was on a romance-induced high. “A poll?” She had to speak up to be heard above the happy crowd.

      “Of soulless monsters. I’d be interested where they fell on the bell curve of wedding-haters.”

      The girl gave a surprised laugh. “Right beside the father who had to pay for it СКАЧАТЬ