Enchanted Warrior. Sharon Ashwood
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wanted answers. Her father, Hector Greene, had been the coven’s loremaster before her. He’d traveled the world, searching out rare manuscripts about magic until a drunk driver had forced his car off a cliff when Tamsin was thirteen. There had been little left to bury.
Tamsin pulled into the driveway of her apartment building and, a few minutes later, locked the dead bolts to her studio apartment. She collapsed onto her bed, pulling a blanket over her because the heater never quite did the job, and finally began to relax.
She reached over the side of the bed to where she’d dropped her backpack and rummaged for the side pocket where she kept the book her father had given her. This had been his favorite grimoire, an ancient text with a peculiar collection of spells. She untied the leather thong that held it shut and began to turn the worn pages as she did at least once a day, letting the familiar words comfort her. Handling it was like having her father close again.
The yellowed pages crackled as she turned them. She traced the red-brown handwriting with her fingertips, feeling the depression where the nib of a pen had stroked the page. A charm against roaming spirits. A spell to attract a familiar. A chant to protect against pox. She turned the page again and stopped. Although she had looked through the book literally thousands of times, every so often it showed her a new spell. Tonight was one of those occasions. A Charm to Awaken Those Who Watch. Tamsin raised a brow. The watchers couldn’t be very effective if they were sleeping on the job. She scanned the ancient words, recognizing a language so old it had been all but forgotten in Merlin’s time. She wondered why the book had produced the spell now, but it did that sometimes. Old books of magic had minds of their own.
Tamsin read until the light faded and then put the book away. She had started to drowse when she heard the stealthy slide of the balcony door. She bolted upright, nearly falling when the blanket twisted around her ankles. Tamsin kicked it aside and scanned the apartment. There was a kitchen nook and a bathroom, but it was basically one large space with nowhere to hide.
The balcony door was open, the night wind pouring through a two-foot gap. It was possible for a good climber to get from the fire escape to the balcony, which was why she kept the door locked—but no lock was foolproof. Fear was an icy explosion beneath her ribs. There had been burglaries all over the neighborhood, some of them violent.
She cleared her throat. “Take what you want. I don’t have much.”
“I’m not here for your property.”
She sucked in a breath as she recognized the voice. It was Gawain, his words pitched so low she could barely hear him. She searched the room until she found his form, a shadow within shadows by the curtain. Even the blurry outline of his broad shoulders brought a rush of confused emotions—unease and anger mixed with irrational attraction. Her words dropped to a whisper. “You’re stalking me!”
A pause followed. “No, you’re not my prey. Not that way.”
Then in what way was she prey? Her imagination called up a dozen images, some gruesome, some undeniably hot. “Then why are you here?” Her fingers trembled as she reached for the light switch. She yearned for brightness to dispel this insanity.
“Don’t,” he said, the word louder than before. “Leave it dark.”
Tamsin pulled her hand away, wondering just how good his night vision was. “I want light.”
“We’ll be too easy to see from the street.” Shadows stirred, and she heard the glass door slide closed. A moment later, the drapes blocked out the nightscape. “Now turn it on.”
She did, and her floor lamp bloomed to life. It wasn’t bright, but it was enough to see the tall form of her visitor leaning against the wall, his right arm cradled in his left. He was hurt—he’d found a fight since she’d last seen him. And he was missing his shirt, leaving a well-defined six-pack exposed to view. Tamsin’s mouth went dry as ashes. It really was too bad he was crazy.
“What are we hiding from?” she asked. “And what happened to your arm?”
“Both questions have one answer, but it’s not the first thing you need to know.”
Tamsin drew in a breath but couldn’t get any air. “Are you going to hurt me?”
“No.” He leaned his head against the wall, seeming weary although his eyes had lost none of their watchfulness. It was obvious that he was still wary of her power. “Not now. Not unless you use your magic.”
“Then why don’t you sit down?” Tamsin said, just as distrustful.
“I don’t need to sit down.” He sounded annoyed and stubborn, his hand moving to hide the crude bandage around his arm. She could see the edge of it beneath the cuff of his jacket, and it looked as if he’d tried to bind his wound with his left hand. “I don’t have time. Lives depend on getting the answers I need.”
That piqued her curiosity, but safety came first—and that meant calming him down. “I’d feel better if you sat. You’re rather tall.”
His expression hardened another notch. “I can watch you better from here.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Without waiting for him to answer, she stalked to the kitchen nook and grabbed the bottle of red wine she’d opened the night before. It was almost full.
“What are you doing?” Gawain growled, turning to keep her in sight.
She set the wine and two glasses on her tiny table. “I’m offering you a drink because I’ll certainly need one if we’re going to continue this ridiculous conversation.”
It was too dark to see that piercing blue gaze, but she could feel it all the same. He was all predator, all male, and his will was iron. Tamsin braced herself, summoning her courage. She had to take control of the situation. “You seem to know your history. Maybe you understand the old rules of hospitality. If you accept my wine, then we have a pact. We treat each other with respect while you’re under my roof.”
He made a low sound of surprise. “You’re offering me guest rights?”
“I am.”
To her relief, he gave a slow nod and pulled out one of her wrought iron chairs. “I accept.”
Gawain sat down carefully, as if expecting the chair to collapse beneath his muscular frame. Then he braced his injured arm on the glass tabletop, the tension in his shoulders easing as he studied her. His expression was still guarded, but she caught a glimpse of smug satisfaction, like a cat that had finally got its way.
The very masculine look made Tamsin’s cheeks warm. She poured the wine, her fingers trembling slightly. “Why did you come to my home?”
“The church is being watched.”
Startled, Tamsin spilled a few drops of wine. She set the bottle down, her mind racing. “Watched?”
He nodded. “I followed you here so we could talk alone.”
“About the tombs? I don’t know any more than I did three hours ago.”
“You have the means to find out, historian.” His lips curved down. He had a sensual mouth, the kind that betrayed emotion as easily as the eyes. “Events force me to insist that you hurry.”
“Oh?”
He pointedly raised his injured arm. “I’m running out of time.”
Gooseflesh ran up her arms. “And out of time means what?”
“Today it meant a bullet.” He picked up a wineglass in his good hand. “Tomorrow something worse. Shall we drink to good health?”
Tamsin’s whole body tensed. “Someone shot you? Did you call the police?”
“My story would be a bit much for them.” He continued to hold the glass midair, pointedly waiting for her to drink first. Witches were adept with poisons.
Tamsin took a sip, but now her hand was unsteady. Crazy