Sharon Ashwood - Enchanted Warrior

Chapter 5

Gawain seethed as he slipped away from the building, using the shadows to disguise his retreat. Too many needs had been frustrated at once, and all of them by Tamsin Greene. He spun to look back. She was standing on the balcony, arms folded and shoulders hunched against the wind that tugged at her gown. With the light behind her, Tamsin seemed fragile, a slim, barely substantial silhouette. She should have been inside, out of the cold wind and shielded from unfriendly eyes.

A sudden, hot protectiveness burned through him, completely at odds with the empirical fact that she was capable of protecting herself—at least from unwanted suitors. Surely his concern was because he needed her alive to help him. Too much depended on her aid.

Gawain stood gazing at the figure high above him, wondering what ill luck one more witch in his life would ultimately bring him. He wished he could think of another way to find the tombs, but his understanding of data and archives was next to nil and what little he knew of magic he’d done his best to forget. The only skills he could bring to the tomb problem were his powers of persuasion, which had apparently deserted him.

At last, Tamsin shut the balcony door and disappeared from view. Finally stirring, Gawain checked the knife in his boot—he’d found the one he’d used at Medievaland, the blade chipped but otherwise fine. He wished he had a shirt because it was growing colder by the minute. It was time to walk away for the night and come up with a new plan.

The clock glowing in the tower over Carlyle City Hall said it was eight-thirty, and the streets were quiet. Gawain walked the few blocks to the center of town, past a restaurant, a bar and finally the parking lot beside the gas station. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets, slowly scanning the area for anything that wasn’t human. The scuff of his boots on the pavement seemed to be the only sound apart from the occasional car rushing down the main drag.

Gawain might have missed the two figures except for the tingling up the nape of his neck. The only time he welcomed the magic he’d inherited from his mother was when he hunted his enemies, and now those instincts demanded he look toward the gas pumps. When he spotted them, a warning shiver worked its way up his shoulder blades. Something about the way they were stalking across the pavement said they weren’t there for the jumbo soft drinks.

He ghosted across the parking lot and pressed himself against the wall, disappearing into the darkness. Lights from the gas station stained the greasy parking lot in swaths of lurid color. Gawain watched the tall, graceful pair of fae pause next to the ice machine. They were wearing modern dress, but he recognized their fine-boned faces and moon-pale hair. He thought of Angmar’s warning about the fae and wondered what they wanted.

A figure came out of the gas station, the glass door swinging shut with a chime. He bent over his smartphone, texting as he walked.

Gawain waited, watching the two fae. Sure enough, they were already in motion, swift and silent as sharks. Before the man looked up from his phone, one of them had clapped a hand over his mouth and the other had pinned his arms. They dragged him into the alley behind the building before the man had even made a sound.

Gawain drew his knife with a faint whisper of steel and glided to the mouth of the alley. He stopped, peering into a darkness he couldn’t penetrate. Somewhere in that narrow dead end, water trickled and garbage stank and—he was sure of it—something vile was happening.

Turning to make himself as narrow a target as he could, Gawain crept sideways, his back to the alley wall and knife clutched loosely in his hand. In these close quarters, any fight would be short and brutal, reaction time counting as much as skill. His right arm throbbed, but he’d learned to push pain aside long ago.

His eyes adjusted enough to make out the shapes of garbage bins and drainpipes. He stopped, letting his senses gather information. Music pounded from the bar down the block like a muffled heartbeat. Beneath it, he heard a low, rasping breath. He immediately swiveled toward the sound.

It took him mere seconds to surprise the first faery, pressing the edge of the blade to his throat. The human he’d seen leaving the gas station was on the ground, struggling as his body convulsed in frantic jerks.

“What are you doing?” Gawain snarled in the faery’s ear.

The faery hissed, nothing remotely human in the sound, and struggled despite the knife digging into his neck. Fae were strong and hard to overpower at the best of times—and this one seemed to be feral. Gawain took the chance of pulling the knife away long enough to bring the butt of its steel handle down hard on his opponent’s head.

The fae should have dropped like a stone, but instead he whirled, shoving Gawain against the wall so hard he dropped the knife. Blood streamed down the faery’s neck where the blade had cut, glistening in the cold glow of the streetlights. Gawain’s skin crawled. Despite the fury of the fight, the creature’s eyes were wide and staring, devoid of any emotion. He might have been fighting with a corpse.

The fae reached beneath his jacket, obviously going for a weapon. Gawain tried to duck sideways, but his opponent moved to block him with eerie speed. Gawain lunged, knocking them both to the ground. The faery grunted but rolled, struggling to pin Gawain. They wrestled for a moment, both too strong to surrender, until Gawain hit him with a savage cross, landing it right on the jaw. This time the faery collapsed in an unconscious heap. Pain sang up Gawain’s arm, but there was no time to think about it.

The second faery was straddling the human, his hands wrapped around the man’s skull. Their faces nearly touched, but this was no kiss. The fae’s mouth was open in a snarl that mixed savage pleasure with a grimace of agony. Faint blue light coursed over his hands and up his arms as if he was drawing electricity from the man’s flesh.

Gawain’s stomach twisted in revulsion as the truth came with the force of a blow. Angmar had said Merlin’s spell had turned the fae to monsters, but he’d assumed that was a figure of speech. Now he knew better. Robbed of their souls, the fae were consumed with an unbearable hunger to fill that empty void. They were hunting the souls of innocents.

The fae was so lost in the ecstasy of feeding he hadn’t noticed his friend had been knocked out cold—or that there was an enemy behind him. Gawain grabbed the attacker’s shoulders, attempting to haul him away, but the fae stubbornly clung on.

The human was starting to shudder, froth coating his lips. He would be dead in moments or worse—reduced to an empty husk. Gawain grabbed the fae’s head, cupping the chin, and snapped his neck. The spell died with a sizzle of electricity.

Gawain heaved the dead fae aside and stood panting for a moment, his breath a cloud of mist in the cold air. Despite the temperature, sweat stuck his jacket to his skin. He’d heard whispers on the street about human bodies found in alleyways and empty buildings—inexplicable, random deaths. Now he could guess the cause. Fae were strong enough to survive the loss of their souls, but a human or witch was not.

The victim had passed out. Gawain knelt and checked his pulse—strong and steady. Gawain had been in time. The man would probably wake in a minute or two, weak and aching, but alive.

Gawain gathered his knife and thrust it back in his boot. The fae’s eyes were clouding with death, but they had already lacked their vital spark. Mordred had found the perfect warriors for his cause. Motivating them to conquer the mortal world would be easy, for there was no shortage of souls to consume where humans were crammed cheek by jowl into massive cities. Gawain’s lip curled in disgust.