saw it at once—the girl had the bride’s red hair and milky skin. “Nim Whitelaw. Antonia’s boss.”
“Enjoy the party.” Susan picked up her ginger ale and fluttered off toward the stage, a violin case in one hand. Obviously, she was one of the musicians.
Nim watched her go with faint interest. Speaking for soulless monsters everywhere, it was hard to hate weddings—or like them, either. Once upon a time, fae weddings had been swathed in starlight and garlands of living butterflies. The bride and groom would have slept in the woods on a bed made from the down of griffins to give their love the strength of lions. But that was all in a past that Nim was slowly forgetting.
“Top you up?” asked the bartender, holding the bottle above her glass. His look was filled with an invitation that had nothing to do with chardonnay.
“Thank you,” Nim said to be polite, even though she’d barely had time to touch her wine.
“Don’t you own that bookstore?” the bartender asked as he poured a generous measure. He was staring at Nim’s neckline and would have missed the glass if she hadn’t given it a magical nudge to the left. She’d gone nearly six weeks without using her powers, and the tiny push felt good.
“I do. Antonia is my employee.” Nim had always been careful to honor those who served her well. By coming here, Nim kept at least that much of herself alive.
It was also one of the last things Nim would do in Carlyle. After months of searching—and hiding from any potential assassins—she’d finally located the contact who’d promised to help her disappear for good.
“Tony’s my sister-in-law. She said you’ve been away on vacation.”
“I just got back last night.”
Bored with the man, Nim glanced toward the dance floor. The music hadn’t started but Antonia, with a white lace veil over her curling red hair, was the magnetic center of the crowd, laughing and hugging everyone who came to greet her. The groom stood at her side, shaking hands and grinning as if he’d won the richest lottery in all the mortal realms.
Nim had never felt as alien as she did in that moment, witnessing that bond. She didn’t belong at a wedding, with her empty, silent heart. She set down her glass and slid off the bar stool, suddenly sure she had to escape. All that happiness was just too much to witness.
It was then she saw him. She did a double take, sure it was a perverse trick of memory that summoned the face of Lancelot du Lac, that the wedding atmosphere had stirred the dying embers of old dreams. But then she realized Arthur must have acted on her information. Lancelot had risen from the stone sleep, and was before her in warm, living flesh.
Even for this modern age Lancelot was tall, his broad shoulders filling out a worn leather jacket as easily as they had a warrior’s garb. Her first thought was to slip away but, with the uncanny intuition of an expert swordsman, he looked straight at her. As she watched, he went rigid, a flicker of shock widening his eyes. Clearly, he’d just recognized his old lover beneath the hair dye and contact lenses.
It had been one thing to see his statue, his features frozen in stone. Lancelot alive and breathing was completely another story. His dark, liquid gaze skewered Nim, looking deep into places she’d forgotten.
Shock took her, and Nim took a step toward him before she knew what she was doing. A sudden, irrational urge to throw her wine—or perhaps a fist—overtook her. She wasn’t capable of anger, but she owed that vengeance to her younger self. He hadn’t just broken her heart when he’d left her for Camelot. He’d pulped it. The ghost of those emotions ached like a limb lost in battle, reminding her how she’d wept in lonely grief.
He pushed away from the bar and prowled her way. The summer sun had bleached streaks into his dark gold hair, and he swept it from his eyes in a gesture she remembered well. But familiarity ended there. There was a hardness around his mouth she didn’t remember. When his gaze held hers, assessing every line of her face, his expression was too guarded to read.
“Nimueh.” He shook his head as if willing himself to wake from a dream. His deep voice brought the past rushing into the present. She remembered hearing that voice in the dark, when it had gone soft and lazy after the intimacies of love.
“Nimueh,” he said again, this time with more strength. She hadn’t heard that accent for centuries—it was French, but not the French she heard now. It was something older and rougher that went straight to her core. Once she had adored the way he said her name, caressing each syllable as if she was something good to eat. Then he’d set about proving it with his generous mouth on every inch of her flesh.
“Nimueh,” he said one more time, as if her name was a prayer. Emotions chased across his face—shock, grief, happiness, guilt.
She held his gaze, willing his feelings to stop. She couldn’t return any of them and she didn’t want to answer his questions. “These are modern times. Just call me Nim. Nim Whitelaw, bookstore owner.”
He tensed at her words as if the flat statement had surprised him. “That doesn’t sound like you. It’s too plain.”
“That’s the point.” Instinctively, she looked around at the crowded room, wondering who might see them together. But no one seemed to take the slightest notice of their conversation.
He was looking her over. “You look almost human with brown eyes and dark hair. Why change your appearance?”
It was a good question, but it was none of his business. She leaned closer, lowering her voice in case fae ears could eavesdrop over the din. “Walk away. Leave. It would be far better if you never mentioned our meeting. Understand that, if you ever cared for me.”
“What do you mean? Of course I cared for you. I still do.”
“Oh.” Words deserted Nim, making her feel like an awkward child. It was a most unpleasant sensation—her insides felt oddly fizzy, as if she’d swallowed an entire case of champagne. A dim memory said the sensation was panic or perhaps excitement. Such feelings couldn’t be, but Lancelot had a way of making the impossible happen. After all, once upon a time she’d fallen in love with him—a penniless mortal with nothing more than good looks and a steady lance, pun completely intended.
She waited a moment, hoping she would think of something to say, but her mind remained blank. Or crowded. She couldn’t decide which, but the sensation was overwhelming. The need to run and hide ballooned inside her, threatening to stop her lungs.
“Goodbye.” She spun on her heel to leave.
He caught her arm, pulling her up short. Nim scowled down at the long, strong fingers. Fine scars ran along his tanned knuckles, evidence of a life around blades. Heaviness filled her, a primitive reaction to the strong, aggressive male taking control of her in the most basic way. Once it might have grown into anger or lust, but now it confused her.
“Take your hand off me,” she said, letting her voice fill with frost.
“No.” He pulled her closer, turning her to face him. “You will answer my questions.”
Nim jerked her arm free. They were so close, she could feel his warm breath against her skin. “About what?”
