barely gone another dozen yards before he realized they were heading in a circle. The place where Gawain had left Angmar was just ahead. He heard a whisper of movement from the left and another bolt hissed past his ear, missing by a fraction. Gawain smiled, a brief, deadly flash of teeth. The shot had given the enemy’s position away. In a fluid motion, Gawain threw the knife. He dove forward, using the side of a hut for cover.
A sharp cry said Gawain had thrown true, but it was followed by the sound of running feet. Gawain sprang into motion again, aiming for the Dumpster where Angmar was hiding. He heard the curses and scrapes of a struggle. A moment later, Gawain glimpsed two figures locked in combat.
He pounced, knocking the attacker backward against the side of the overstuffed Dumpster with a dull thud. An avalanche of garbage slid down around them, sending up a noxious stench. Gawain drew the gun and held it to the enemy’s throat. Then he froze.
His adversary’s lips drew back, showing sharp canines. “Hello, cousin.”
“Mordred.” Gawain snarled the name like a curse. Loathing welled up at the sight of his kinsman’s pale, narrow face. Lank black hair straggled across a broad forehead, framing pale gray eyes that reminded Gawain of dirty ice. With some disappointment, Gawain realized his knife had only grazed his cousin’s cheek.
“It’s been too long,” Mordred purred. “It was your brother’s execution, wasn’t it? Poor old Agravaine.”
“Be silent,” Gawain said between clenched teeth, but he still couldn’t stop the wave of regret and fury. He’d found what Agravaine’s sword had left of their mother.
“Can’t blame old Aggy. He was just avenging your father. Mom poisons Dad—what’s a son to do?” Mordred said with a cruel smile. “Trust me, I know about family squabbles.”
Rage swirled through Gawain’s brain like powerful whisky. Blowing Mordred’s skull apart would be far too quick. Gawain curled his free hand around the other man’s throat. “You were Agravaine’s closest companion. I blame you for his downfall. The serpent in Eden could have taken lessons from your slithering tongue.”
Mordred began to gasp, his face turning red, but the time-stopping charm ran out. With an almost physical force, the cacophony of the fair slammed against Gawain’s ears as they were plunged back into a sea of motion. Mordred used the distraction to break free and stumble backward to where Angmar was sprawled facedown in the dirt, apparently unconscious.
Gawain crouched, weapon in hand. Mordred mirrored his stance, eyes calculating. Now that Angmar’s spell had broken, they had only moments before someone discovered their fight. Gawain had to act now, but public murder would put an end to his freedom.
He hesitated an instant too long. Mordred dropped to his knees beside Angmar, grabbed a fistful of the fallen faery’s hair and whispered a single word of power. The air shimmered as if heat were pouring over them in waves—except it was cold conjured by Mordred’s magic. Ice flowed like water across the ground, making Gawain slip and fall to one knee. Mordred gestured, and a blast of blinding cold shocked him, stealing the strength from his limbs. Frost suddenly coated Gawain’s sleeves, and the gun dropped from his numb fingers.
“Stay where you are!” Gawain roared, already knowing he had lost. “Angmar! I will bring you home! I swear it!”
The two men vanished in an ear-popping rush of magic.
Gawain crawled to his feet, biting back a torrent of curses. He had to find out where Mordred had taken the fae. And once he had, he would require the swords of his fellow knights to take Mordred down.
But to do that, he had to find the tombs. Tamsin Greene had to provide that information, and quickly. Without it, he was lost.
Ten minutes after Tamsin had watched Gawain vanish, she was still sitting on the steps outside the church, her chin in her hands. A cloud passed over the sun and she looked up, grimacing as she caught sight of the gargoyles perched over the porch staring down at her. The weather was freezing cold, but she couldn’t bring herself to go back inside. Gawain had targeted every one of her vulnerabilities. He’d overpowered her, aroused her, challenged her and, in the end, rejected her. The moment he’d detected her talent, he’d shut down and moved her from the box marked “woman” and put her in the one marked “witch.” Untouchable. Repulsive. Dangerous.
The memory of it left her shaking with fury.
Her cell phone rang. “Hello?” She snapped as she answered it, not able to keep her mood from leaking into her voice.
“What are you doing in Washington State?” Tamsin’s sister demanded, fear edging the frosty words. “I went away for a week. Just one week and you skipped town like a fugitive.”
“I got a research job. It came up unexpectedly and I jumped on the opportunity.” Immediately, Tamsin’s anger collapsed into homesickness. She pressed the cell phone tight to her ear, as if that would bring her closer to Stacy. “It’s at Medievaland Theme Park.”
“Are you serious? Fake jousting and wenches with beer?”
“It’s better than it sounds. The church has a fabulous collection of early manuscripts. You know old documents are my thing.”
“Carlyle is on the other side of the country,” Stacy protested. “You’re thousands of miles away.”
Tamsin leaned against one of the stone pillars of the porch, grateful of its ancient, sturdy support. “I got approval from the Coven Elders to take the job.”
“You did?” Stacy sounded shocked.
“I’m not a fool.” The old witch families kept their members close, and breaking their rules was a serious mistake. Their punishments had been the same for centuries—loss of a witch’s powers and a lifetime of servitude in the Elders’ cold gray halls. “They want me here examining the collection. The coven hasn’t had a researcher since Dad passed.” Her breath hitched at the mention of her father, even after a decade with him gone.
Stacy heard it and paused before continuing. “What about, you know, Mom’s plans?”
“What plans?” Tamsin asked, though she knew perfectly well what her sister meant.
“Mom worries you’ll end up alone. She says she’ll talk to the Elders about a match for you.”
Tamsin blew out an exasperated breath, rubbing at the tattoo on her wrist. Elders arranged marriages when and where they saw fit, but that hardly ever happened in the modern age. Still, Tamsin planned to minimize that risk by proving herself valuable as a loremaster—and staying as far out of the Elders’ sight as possible.
“Talk her out of it,” she begged. “Please.”
“I’ll try, but Mom treats me the same way,” Stacy said. “It’s not just about finding a husband. She worries something bad will happen if I go to the corner store. A witch needs her coven’s protection, especially these days. The shadow world is stirring.”
Tamsin pulled the cell phone from her ear. A dark cloud of energy shimmered around it, the magical echo of Stacy’s unhappiness. Tamsin swallowed hard, shards of emotion caught in her throat. It would be so simple to give in and
