Enchanted Guardian. Sharon Ashwood
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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. The night had finally cooled, but her skin was slick with sweat from running. Making a slow circle, she looked around, considering her options. The street was deathly silent, empty but for the flickering aura of a slowly dying streetlight.
Her thoughts scattered, refusing to order themselves. Only one remained front and center. I nearly died tonight. Her hand went to her side, where a sharp pain clawed her. Her fingers came away warm and wet. She stared at the blood, briefly stupefied. She couldn’t remember when the injury had happened. Maybe in those last moments, when her would-be killer had wrestled her to the ground. Tramar.
She hadn’t known Tramar Lightborn had been the assassin following her for the last weeks, but when she’d finally seen his face, it had all fallen into place—his voice, his movements, even his scent. They’d played together as children, dunking each other in the icy streams of the Hollow Hills and chasing the goats that played among the gently rolling hills. Not that such bonds meant anything among the fae these days. He’d just tried to steal whatever traces of soul she had left before he killed her, and she’d just annihilated his remains. No thoughts of burial or mourning had crossed her mind, just a need to keep the human police ignorant and herself free from an accusation of murder. And Lancelot, who’d actually done the killing. She owed him that much protection for saving her life.
Nim searched her heart, looking for grief but finding only stunned silence. Her childhood friend deserved more, but she had nothing to give. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Pain scrambled her thoughts. There was no way to know how deep the wound was, but it was bleeding freely. Healing magic wasn’t her strength, and using it might beckon to a second assassin. Holding her side, Nim began to walk aimlessly, not knowing where she was going but aware it was stupid to remain in this seedy part of town. Her bare feet hurt, already scraped raw by the hard pavement.
Nim turned a corner, instinct guiding her toward the light of a busier street. She made out the sign of a liquor store, a late-night pharmacy and a diner. Like a moth, she craved the comfort the brightness promised. She clutched her side, the pain of her wound mixing with exhaustion. It felt as if she’d cried until her ribs ached even though she hadn’t shed a tear.
A memory came uninvited: Lancelot, sitting on the dapple gray mount she’d given him, his face set in obstinate lines. He was lingering with her before a ride. He always did, except this time it was only for the moment it took to say goodbye. It was too short a time for everything she wanted to say.
So very brief for the end of everything they’d known together.
“I cannot remain with you,” Lancelot had said to her, looking down from the tall steed. The sun had turned his hair to burnished gold, giving him the look of a warrior angel. “Camelot awaits. I can make a name there. I can become somebody.”
As if he was nothing when he was with her. As if all their love was a mere ripple upon water. They had embraced and she had let him go, playing the generous lover. She’d refused to cry, at least until he was out of sight. Then she’d stood in that forest path, barefoot among the autumn leaves, and wept until she could no longer stand.
The image hit Nim like an electric shock. She reached out to brace herself against the side of a building, every nerve ending on fire. Even in her broken state, the pull of the past was intoxicating. She couldn’t give in to it, and the fact that some corner of her wanted to made it all the more imperative that she leave. Lancelot would die to defend her, and that would destroy whatever was left of the woman she’d been.
Tonight’s events meant she had to go now. She’d finally made contact with the individual who could make her disappear. Not just mundane practical aid, but the magical kind. There were only two people she knew with as much or more magic than she already had. One was LaFaye, and the other was Merlin Ambrosius, once enchanter to Camelot’s king. Nim was one of very, very few people who knew Merlin still lived.
All at once, Nim realized what street she was on and where her feet had been taking her. Perhaps part of her had known where she was going since the moment she’d begun to run. Her contact wasn’t expecting her until tomorrow, but he’d just have to deal with an early appointment.
An old-fashioned neon sign in the shape of a coffee cup blinked across the street. It marked the place where she hoped to find safety. Her fingers slipped into her pocket, fingering Tramar’s amulet. At least she had a bargaining chip.
* * *
Nim pushed through the glass door of the all-night diner, an electronic chime announcing her presence. The place smelled the way it looked—tinged with decay and antiseptic at the same time, as if it couldn’t quite decide whether to rot. There was only one patron at this hour, but that was on purpose. Merlin kept his office hours in the dead of night.
The waitress behind the counter looked up but didn’t comment as Nim walked directly to the booth in the back. Nor did she so much as blink at the fact that Nim was barefoot and her dress soaked in blood. That said a lot about the clientele.
When Nim reached the darkest corner, she slid into the vinyl booth, her skirt catching on the duct tape that repaired the cushion. A dark-haired man already sat across the table, his chin resting in his hand. He had a lean build, but the play of muscles in his forearms spoke of a hidden strength. He looked no more than thirty, but Nim knew they were about the same age. Nim had been born a fae, but she had no idea how Merlin had achieved immortality and wasn’t about to ask.
“You could at least look surprised.” She grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser and pressed them to her wound. “Our appointment was for tomorrow.”
He watched her wipe the blood from her hands. “And the other guy?”
“Lancelot killed him.”
“So your path finally crossed with Dulac’s, eh? That boy always had a way of complicating your day.” Merlin leaned back and gave her an appraising look. “Love the battlefield chic.”
“I need help.”
“Ya think?”
“I need your kind of help.”
The sorcerer narrowed his eyes, a challenging glint in their golden depths. “I don’t help anymore. These days I’m a hired gun. Or wand, if you prefer to be literal about it.”
Nim stared