priority is finding the tombs to stop the Round Table from rising. You need to find your friends and wake them at once.”
“By all the saints!” Gawain’s vision went red, but he held on to his temper. He needed his wits, not the fury of battle. Then he took a deep breath, turning back to the fae. He had a thousand questions but settled on the most immediate. “Why are you warning me?”
Angmar shrugged, but lines of tension framed his mouth. “Not all the faery kingdom has forgotten who we are. My people love beauty and justice. We are not indiscriminate murderers, and we should not be Mordred’s toy soldiers. Those of us who have resisted his power are turning to the Round Table to ensure our freedom. Merlin created this situation. In some measure, Arthur and Camelot bear that responsibility.”
“Why trust us? Why not overthrow Mordred and his mother yourselves?”
“The rebel fae are scattered, disorganized, and afraid. We need Camelot’s leadership and its might.”
The words were barely out of the faery’s mouth when a black-feathered arrow whistled past, striking the side of a barrel. It was short and thick, a crossbow bolt rather than a true arrow. Angmar jerked aside, breath hissing between his teeth. A thin line of blood bloomed across the front of his sweater. Gawain grabbed his arm, pulling him behind a Dumpster.
A quick glance told Gawain the shot had gone unnoticed among the hubbub of the crowd—and an archer strolling through Medievaland would hardly be noticed. The assassin had chosen the perfect place to do his work. A second glance at the arrow told him it was faery craftsmanship.
“Was that for dramatic effect?” Gawain asked drily. “A little extra push to make me agree to help you?”
“No.” Angmar clutched the front of his sweater, red oozing from between his fingers. “I thought I’d dodged Mordred’s lackeys. If they know I’ve warned you, they will silence us both.”
“Let them try.” Gawain pulled Angmar’s hand away to see the sweater had been sliced by the bolt’s passage. Through the gap in the cloth, he could see the injury was long but shallow. As long as the tip wasn’t poisoned—and one never knew with faery weapons—Angmar would survive. Gawain shed his jacket, stripped off his shirt and pressed the wadded fabric against the wound. “Hold that. It only grazed you.”
Angmar obeyed while Gawain pulled on his jacket again. “One would think you’d done this before,” the faery said drily.
“Can you walk?” Gawain asked by way of reply.
“Yes.”
“Good. You need cover. I need a word with the archer.”
As Gawain peered around the corner of the Dumpster, he could see crowds packed the sidewalks, half of them children. He was more than willing to fight, but not where innocents could be harmed. But as he reached for his sword, his hand closed on empty air. He swore viciously. Of course he wore no sword. Every instinct he possessed was centuries out of date.
Angmar gave him a feral grin, drawing a gun from a holster beneath his jacket. “This time has different ways to kill, Sir Knight.”
“Perhaps,” Gawain growled. “But there are laws in this age that will make this awkward. We cannot do honest battle here in the open, where all can see.”
“So true.” With a graceful flick, Angmar drew a shape in the air that burst in a blaze of rainbow light. The same instant, everything froze, the sound of the fair cutting off as if shears had sliced it. Time itself had stopped. A juggler’s clubs hung in the air. Fluttering pennons stilled as if they were painted against the sky. Only Gawain and Angmar still moved. “This should make things easier.”
Gawain moved to help Angmar to his feet. The faery shifted awkwardly with the bundle of shirt pressed against his stomach. Despite the shallow cut, it was soaking through. Gawain gave up the effort to move him. “How long can you hold the spell?”
“Longer if you do the chasing.” Angmar pressed the Smith & Wesson into Gawain’s hand, holster and all. “Leave me here and go quickly.”
Gawain buckled it on and turned to go, but the fae caught his sleeve. “One thing more.”
Gawain turned. “What?”
Angmar’s face went rigid, as if he pushed down an inner storm. “I said Merlin’s spell changed the fae. This assassin is no doubt one of us. Do not expect compassion or mercy or any feeling at all. My people are no longer capable of it.”
For an instant, Gawain forgot everything but the faery’s words. “How did Merlin’s spell hurt you? Arthur would never say.”
Angmar’s face twisted. “The magic tore away our souls. A few of us escaped—I was not at the battle when the spell was cast—but the rest of my people are damaged beyond recognition. The new queen has used that to turn us into monsters for her war. We need Camelot’s protection to keep us from becoming the stuff of nightmares.”
Gawain stared as he remembered Angmar’s words: My people love beauty and justice. We are not indiscriminate murderers, and we should not be Mordred’s toy soldiers. Horror crept over him as the enormity of their plight became clear.
The faery gave him a gentle push. “Now go, and do what you can to save us. All of us.”
Numb with shock, Gawain ran along the strip of grass that wound behind the pavilions, searching the possible vantage points where the archer might be hiding. Concentration cleared his thoughts. The angle of the bolt had been low, suggesting the bowman had been on the ground rather than a rooftop. Moving cautiously, Gawain approached the most likely spot from behind.
Gawain ducked beneath a sparrow that had been caught midflight by Angmar’s spell. It was eerie, passing through the still and silent fairground. The packed sidewalks were filled with living statues. A child had been blowing bubbles, and they hung in the air like iridescent jewels. Gawain was struck with wonder, but he had too much experience to let down his guard. The bowman might be frozen like the rest of the crowd, and then again he might not. With every motion, Gawain was making himself an obvious target.
He was right to be cautious. He heard the snap of the crossbow’s mechanism just as a black-feathered bolt streaked his way. Split-second reflex made him dive to the side. He rolled to his feet in one smooth motion and began sprinting in the direction from which the arrow had come. It was a dangerous move, but he counted on the fact that crossbows were slow to load.
Gawain should have known in this day and age an assassin would also carry a gun. He was still weaving through a family frozen in place when he heard the shot, loud as a thunderclap in the silence.
The assassin had fired straight into the crowd. All Gawain could do was cover the child beside him and let the bullet pierce his own flesh. It ripped along his arm like a savage claw, tearing through cloth and skin. He hit the ground, the child beneath him. Gawain scrambled to his feet, bringing up his own weapon just as he saw a dark-clad figure slip away.
The enemy was using the crowd as cover. Cursing, Gawain shouldered through the fairgoers. Blood slid between Gawain’s fingers as fiery pain washed his vision with a red haze. “Hold, coward!”
The figure’s dark head bobbed through the frozen tableau. Gawain followed him down a long alley of merchants—bakers, leatherworkers, calligraphers, and an armorer’s booth. As he passed the armorer, Gawain
