Sharon Ashwood: Enchanted Warrior

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.

Chapter 3

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 run home, like a chick diving beneath the coven’s protective wing. But then her future would end at the edges of their small, isolated town.

After a deep breath, Tamsin held the phone to her ear again. “Tell Mom I’ll come home for Thanksgiving. But only for a few days. I need this job.”

“Okay, okay,” Stacy said softly. “I’m worried about you.”

The cloud of energy around the phone turned to a faint rose color—a sign of her sister’s concern. “Call me if you need me,” Stacy added. “Anytime, you hear?”

Tamsin smiled through sudden sadness. “I hear you. I know how to keep myself safe.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, sis.” Tamsin ended the call and slipped her phone into the pocket of her costume.

Tamsin rubbed her arms, unable to let go of the heaviness the phone call had left behind. The Elders didn’t reveal much about the shadow world, but Tamsin’s father had. There were other magic users beside the witches—faeries and ogres and who knew what else just beyond the comforting lights of the modern world. Once there had even been demons.

Not that anyone believed those old tales. It had been surprisingly easy for witches to move from an everyday fact of village life to the local bogeyman and then to no more than a Halloween costume. Humans had lost track of the shadow world, and when they encountered it, they rarely reacted well.

Like Tamsin’s last lover, who had also been her first serious relationship. He’d been a teaching assistant, a few years older and an expert in European history of the Middle Ages. It had been like dating a daydream—everything she could wish for, every box checked. She’d laid her heart at Richard’s feet, and for a time he’d seemed to do the same. They’d been sleeping together for almost a year when she’d forgotten to hide what she was. The slip had been minor—she’d lit a candle with a word of power.

Richard’s reaction had been instant. He’d rolled out of bed and pulled on his pants almost in one move. When he’d looked up, the light from that fateful candle falling across his features, she’d seen real terror. And then he’d uttered the words she’d least expected to hear: “Get away from me, witch.”

The episode had happened well over a year ago, but it still stung horribly. All the rage and hurt of that breakup gathered afresh in Tamsin’s soul. She curled her hands around her knees, nails digging through the soft fabric of her skirt. She would not be treated that way, ever again. If Gawain did show up demanding answers, she’d tell him what he could do with his wretched monuments.

Tamsin jumped to her feet and hurried back inside, where she retreated to the chapel’s vestry. Her tiny office was set up there, although it looked less like an office than a fort made of file boxes. A musty smell drifted from decades of paper records waiting for her attention. Most dated from the seventies, when the crumbling church had been moved over from England. Despite some public objections, the building had been sold to Medievaland’s founder, who had promised to restore it once he had moved it to Washington State.

Switching on her computer, Tamsin scrolled through what little information she had on the recent history of the Church of the Holy Well and searched for anything about the tombs. All she found was a mention of the crypt—it had been filled in, but one hundred and fifty grave monuments had been packed and shipped with the rest of the building. The records stopped there.