7
The king pushed his way out of the café and strode down the street, his temper steaming. Other pedestrians cleared a path, pulling dogs and children to safety. He was aware of it all, but barely, as he stormed down the sidewalk with no sense of direction or purpose.
Arthur had reassured himself that Guinevere was safe, but he was far from satisfied. There had been a few moments when he’d seen her before she’d noticed him, and those moments had been a revelation. She’d glowed from within, as if a long-forgotten hope was awakening. It was a glimpse of the girl he’d first met, the one he’d wanted for himself before danger and politics and arguments had crushed that light out of her. And then, of course, there had been the modern clothes, with those tight black jeans caressing her thighs. He had witnessed many unanticipated marvels in his lifetime, but those legs had pride of place at the top of the list.
And then he’d seen the life die out of her the moment he’d opened his mouth. It was one thing to believe she was better off without him, and quite another to see the evidence with his own eyes.
Arthur crossed the street, dimly aware of the bustle around him as he grimly replayed the scene in the café. The image of Guinevere’s soft curves, so evident in those modern clothes, tangled his thoughts badly enough that he almost didn’t hear his phone ringing. He pulled it from his jacket pocket, finding a quiet doorway before he answered. “Yes?”
“Pendragon?”
“Who is this?” One more misgiving crowded into Arthur’s mind. The male voice was unfamiliar, and no one addressed him by his surname. It was always “my lord” or “Your Majesty” or simply “Arthur.”
“We haven’t met, but you encountered my associate in the woods.”
The statement cleared Arthur’s head in an instant. This was about the dragon. “You mean your associate with the fiery temper?” Arthur asked drily.
“The same. I assume you got my email?”
Arthur cast a quick look around the street, just in case he spotted someone else talking into a phone. There was nothing but the usual busy street under a fitful sky. “What do you want?”
“I’m curious.”
“About what?”
“I’m conducting an experiment.”
The voice was rough, but the timbre and accent suggested it belonged to a fae. That was enough to make the skin at his nape prickle with foreboding. Still, Arthur let the moment stretch on. As a king, he’d learned the power of silence long ago.
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