her face, her cheekbones sharp against the frame of her coal-black hair. The buttons had torn from the tight skirt of her dress, giving him a flash of slender, olive-skinned thigh.
Though she shook with the aftershock of the fight, in every other way Nimueh seemed calm. She raised a hand, fingers spread, muttering words beneath her breath. The breathless summer night grew thick and close, almost as if an invisible fist were crushing them. Her hair fluttered around her face in a breeze that he couldn’t feel. A faint blue glow gathered around her, sparking and twisting as if it were alive.
Dulac felt a faint pop in the air. A sudden wave of heat made him spring aside. Moments later, Tramar’s body burst into white-hot flame, releasing an acrid cloud of smoke. They both stared at the fae’s body for the few moments it took for it to turn to a smear of ash. He could hear her panting as if she’d run a race. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied.
He spun to face her and grabbed her shoulders so he could look her over, but he never made it past her face. Tears tracked down her cheeks. “You’re in pain.”
“It hurt,” she said, her voice husky. “Losing my soul was agony the first time, like someone ripping my bones through my flesh. This time it was even worse. I knew what it would be like.”
He pulled her close, needing to hold her even though she would surely push away. To his surprise, she simply rested her head against his chest, her faint exhalation almost a sigh.
They’d stood together this way once before, the morning he’d left her. She’d curled against him just like now, her hair the color of the palest dawn light and her eyes wet with a grief she’d refused to admit. Go. Her voice had been soft. I cannot keep you to myself anymore.
He’d never returned. Shame burned him like white-hot fire.
As if Nimueh shared that memory, she drew away, putting space between them. She shook herself slightly as if recovering from a temporary lapse. “I’m fine,” she said coolly. “Thank you for your assistance.”
The formal words checked him before he could gather her back into his arms. He bit back sudden anger. “Why was Lightborn following you?”
“The queen sent him to kill me.” She met his eyes, her own defiant. “He’s tried before. LaFaye blames me for her son’s death. In truth, it was only partially my doing, but that does not matter.”
He’d heard the story from Gawain, but it wasn’t what he wanted to discuss now. “You’re not safe. Eventually she’ll send another assassin.”
“I know.”
“Nimueh,” he said, the word turning to a plea.
A moment passed, the night falling into a hush so complete all he heard was his own heartbeat. He could sense the pull of Nimueh’s presence, as if her blood and bones called to his. Perhaps it was mutual because, unexpectedly, she reached out her hand and clasped his. Her cool fingers were so slight they barely covered half his palm. He froze, certain that the smallest movement on his part would collapse the bridge she’d permitted between them. It was the first time since they’d met tonight that she’d reached out.
Dulac took a breath, but let it escape without speaking. Once, words had flown between them with barely a pause as if there wasn’t enough time in all eternity to share everything they’d wanted to say. Now he wasn’t sure what to say beyond the obvious: assassin, kill, danger. A barking dog could have imparted the same thing. He squeezed her hand gently, trying to give comfort.
She allowed the pressure, though she didn’t return it. Then her fingers slid away and she took three quick steps, scooping up something from the ground. When it flashed in the errant light, he saw it was the amulet. She slid it into a pocket, then paused to regard him, her expression matter-of-fact. “Don’t tell anyone this happened. Don’t even mention you saw me.”
It was then he saw the dark stain on the side of her dress. He hadn’t seen blood on Lightborn’s knife, but somehow she’d been cut. Adrenaline jolted him one more time and he lunged forward, but she was too quick, sidestepping him with fae grace.
“You are wounded.” The words came out angry, but Dulac was past caring about manners. “You need a healer.”
“Let me go. You’ve done enough.” The words were quiet, her face utterly composed. “The only thing more you can do is keep silent, even to Arthur. A careless word will only help the next killer who comes looking for me.”
He knew that already, and knew these days Arthur would be merciless when it came to any fae, even her. An overwhelming need to keep her safe sped his already pounding heart, but frustration made him savage. “Then tell me where you are at all times!”
Her brows raised. “Pardon me?”
“Don’t be a fool. I can’t protect you if I don’t know where you are.”
Her eyes closed as if gathering herself. “Goodbye, Lancelot.”
There was a movement in the dark. By the time he realized she was leaving, he was alone.
That was all it took for Dulac’s control over his pain to slip. The adrenaline left his body in a rush. Immediately, he collapsed, retching as the residue of Tramar’s spell blew past his control. All the agony he’d pushed aside by sheer will flooded back with interest.
His body retaliated, lashing out through every nerve. Dulac rolled to his side, gasping and cursing under his breath. This punishment was the price of his gift—if that’s what a person called his bloodthirsty urge to fight.
How long he sprawled there, he didn’t know, but eventually Tramar’s punishing spells dwindled without the fae’s magic to fuel them. Only then did the pain fade.
Clammy with sweat, Dulac’s skin grew cold, his shirt clinging to his back and chest. He raised himself on an elbow, shaking his head to clear it.
A jumble of ideas crowded in on him, but two stood out above all the rest. Nimueh still had a piece of her soul and Morgan LaFaye wanted her dead. He took a deep, shaking breath.
There was a reason he’d come through time. Nimueh needed him.
Nim ran and ran and ran, her single thought, to put distance between herself and the scene of Tramar’s death. The agony of having her soul ripped apart returned in a flood of nausea. She retched into the gutter, the wine she’d drunk coming back in a hot, acidic flood. But as soon as she could stand, she sped into the darkness again. If she’d had any doubts about leaving Carlyle, they’d vanished. Death she could face. She couldn’t risk another attack like that one.
Miles passed before Nim slowed her steps. She wasn’t sure where to go. She’d had to park some distance from the reception and had been on her way back to her car when Tramar had chased her. Now the car was miles in the opposite direction. Her shop and apartment were too far away to walk, and she’d lost her shoes. She didn’t trust cabs or the bus—she couldn’t bear to be enclosed with no way to run. If there were more assassins with more amulets, using her magic might well be a death sentence.
At that last thought, she came to a complete stop, her breath coming in short, sharp pants.
