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  “I don’t know. I’m going in circles. I should let you go but I don’t want to give you up. I wish I could say that I’d changed by becoming less selfish, but I think I got angrier instead. I don’t want to run anymore. I want to fight LaFaye and take back my life.”

  Lancelot gave one of his very rare smiles. It began in his eyes. They seemed to change color, growing more golden even as his cheeks creased, fine lines fanning out where the sun had weathered his face. And then the rest of it came—all teeth and a soft, deep chuckle from deep in his chest. Nim burst into tears—not from misery, because his happiness had swept that away in an instant. She was simply, utterly overwhelmed by everything she felt for him.

  It seemed so strange to cry after so long—the hot, messy physicality of it, with burning eyes and throat and ribs aching from her sobs. The last time she’d cried like this had been during the wars, when she’d said goodbye to her castle and gone back to the faery homeland in the Hollow Hills. Everything had paled after that, as if she’d crossed a boundary to a kind of grief that tears couldn’t touch.

  But now she was back and her emotions were out of control. The physical act of weeping had no dignity—the hot tears and aching throat, the fact that her breath seemed to have broken into jagged, painful sobs. “I’m sorry,” she gulped. “I don’t understand why I’m doing this.”

  She pulled the damp towel from her hair and pressed it to her face. But she couldn’t stop. Everything she’d stored up—all the fear of her time with Mordred, the torture she’d witnessed, the degradation of her people, the sudden dizzying pleasure of finding Lancelot again—it was all coming out now. It was as if her emotions had been building up and up, not so much extinct as repressed. As they found their way out from the bottom of her soul, she felt desperately vulnerable.

  “Hush,” Lancelot murmured, hugging her close. The gesture was undemanding, the kind of comfort that invited her to snuggle into the crook of his shoulder and weep her fill. She buried her face in his chest while his big hand cradled the back of her head, the other smoothing the damp strands of her hair. Despite his gentleness, Nim was mortified. She was the ice-cold Nimueh of the Lake, wearing nothing but a towel and her nose was running like a leaky faucet. The embarrassment only made her cry harder.

  With his free hand, Lancelot found a box of tissues and put it beside her. He pulled one out and dried her face with tender care, blotting one cheek, then the other. At first it was pointless because she kept crying, wave after wave of pent-up distress letting go, but he kept at it. Finally she was exhausted, the sobs fading to hiccups and then to nothing. She sagged against him, wrung out.

  “Feel better?” he asked, brushing a kiss against her temple.

  “I do.” Her ribs hurt and her eyes were sandy, but she felt transparent, as if there was nothing left of her but a glass vessel where her flesh should be. All the grief and all the anger she hadn’t been able to acknowledge for so long had finally been put to rest. She felt utterly, completely cleansed.

  He kissed her lightly on the lips, a promise of more comfort, more warmth. Nim melted, dark heat gathering inside her. She put her hands against his chest, barely resisting the urge to dig her fingers in and cling there for dear life. He smelled of clean soap and freshly laundered cotton. The sheer masculinity of him was a drug.

  Then his smartphone buzzed on the dresser, skittering sideways like something possessed. With a curse, Lancelot lunged for it and glanced at the screen. “It’s Arthur.” He thumbed the screen and put the phone to his ear.

  Instinctively, Nim pulled her towel tighter. The bubble of their privacy faded even as Lancelot’s expression grew darker. He rose from the bed, his energy seeming to coil. Without hearing a word of what Arthur said, Nim knew there was trouble.

  “An attack? Or was it a warning?” He listened a moment longer, his gaze finding Nim’s. “I’ll be right— Hello? Hello?”

  He ended the call and slid the phone into his pocket. “The call dropped. Something’s loose at the theme park. They think it’s an animal, and not a natural one.”

  Nim rose from the bed. “A creature of LaFaye’s?”

  “Arthur thinks so. It would be a coincidence otherwise.”

  “Of course.” Regret hardened in her chest. It was the first time she’d been emotionally alive in so long, and Lancelot was about to leave her alone. Logic said he had to go, but it stung.

  He pulled on his boots. “It’s already attacked a security guard.”

  “Then you had better go.”

  He cupped her face in his hands. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  He kissed her again, sweetly and yet with a touch of lust that said he meant to keep his word. Nim pulled on clothes and followed him downstairs. She got to the living room in time to watch him pull weapons from a chest. He slid his great sword with the ruby-studded hilt into a sheath that hung down his back. He had heavy leather guards called vambraces buckled around his forearms, and knives for his belt and boots. The last thing he added was a Smith & Wesson. His fingers moved quickly, strapping them on and then slipping on a leather coat to hide them. He would be hot, but he would need the protection of the leather in a fight.

  “Be careful,” she said, thinking of the smile he’d just given her.

  But her words seemed to dissolve into nothing. In another minute, he was gone, leaving her alone.

  Nim stopped herself before she trailed him to the door like a housewife waving her man off to work. Instead she poured a mug of the cooling coffee and forced herself to swallow it. Lancelot had left her behind because she couldn’t go to Medievaland, not with Arthur under pressure to turn her over to LaFaye. That was as it had to be.

  Nim’s restraint lasted less than a minute. She slammed the mug down and stared out the window. The day was getting hot, the sunlight taking on an aggressive hue that matched her mood. She folded her arms, replaying the conversation she’d had with herself in the shower. Yes, she was in hiding and ready to run for a good reason. But was this how she wanted her future to go?

  She was the enchantress, and yet here she was hanging back while mortals chased a magic beast. By choosing to hide she’d given up her power in every possible way. Of course it was impossible to impact her own fate if she refused to act, to be quiet and hope her enemies never noticed she was there. She had always claimed that she fought her own battles, but was that true? How much fighting had she done lately?

  Anger bubbled through her like champagne. She dug her fingers into her hair—the hair that wasn’t her own—ready to tear it out by handfuls. Maybe she wouldn’t be the same Nimueh she’d been before. Maybe how she changed was up to her.

  Nim chose to be stronger. She would fight.

  Chapter 17

  Dulac’s home was close enough that he could run to Medievaland in under ten minutes, but he took extra time to dodge down alleyways where few would notice a fully armed knight on the move. Even this close to Medievaland, running armed to the teeth would attract unwelcome questions and that would only delay him more.

  When he arrived, the park looked bright and sparkling in the early morning sun, its flags and pennants snapping in the breeze. Gawain met him at the gate, looking grim. He had a massive yew longbow and a quiver of red-feathered arrows slung across his back.

  “Explain what happened,” Dulac demanded. “Arthur didn’t give much information when he called.”

  Gawain shot him a dark look. “I’m surprised he gave you anything but a smack to the head after you walked out last night. You can’t talk to a king that way, not even Arthur.”

  “There will be time enough to debate my disobedience later.”

  “I hope you’re right about that. There’s a wee hungry beastie on the loose.”

  Dulac didn’t like the sound of that. “How wee?”

  “The only good thing is that the park isn’t open yet,” Gawain said. “We can teach it manners before the tourists arrive.”

  Gawain led the way into the park with a pur
poseful stride. The clock on the church tower said it was seven thirty, earlier than Dulac had realized. His stomach reminded him that he hadn’t had breakfast yet. “So what happened?” Dulac asked, catching the tantalizing scent of coffee on the breeze.

  “Apparently the night watchman heard something around dawn. A stray dog or raccoons, he thought, until it tried to eat him.”

  “Are you sure he wasn’t just drunk or scared?”

  Gawain shook his shaggy head. “The man has teeth marks in his flesh the size of a bear’s. It chased him down to take a bite. This isn’t a case of some poor creature wandering in from the forest and needing a ride home. It was nasty.”

  Dulac grunted his understanding. “Description?”

  “It had big teeth.” Gawain shrugged. “That was all the man remembered. He ran to the clubhouse and woke Beaumains and Palomedes from their drunken stupor. Their accounts aren’t much more reliable.”

  It wasn’t unusual for the younger knights to sleep on-site. “So what are you and I doing here? Two experienced warriors should be enough to clear out any vermin.”

  “Try again.” Gawain’s disgust was clear. “One by one we’ve been calling in the knights. All of us together haven’t been able to take care of it. No doubt that’s why Arthur finally called you. So far we’ve been able to keep everyone else off the grounds, but sooner or later the staff will stop asking questions and demand to be permitted on-site.”

  And modern humans would not understand this kind of danger. “So I’m the exterminator of last resort?”

  Gawain gave him a crooked grin. “You’re good with dragons.”

  “You think this is a dragon?” Dulac stopped in his tracks. He definitely needed coffee.

  “Hard to say.” Gawain grabbed Dulac’s sleeve and pulled him along, taking a path between the brightly colored merchant tents. “Only the watchman has actually seen the thing. We’ve just heard the roaring.”

  “LaFaye left us a present.” Dulac made it a statement, not a question.

  “Unfortunately, I think you’re right.”

  They’d reached the edge of the midway, which sat on the far side of the park from the tourney grounds. The rides and shooting galleries were silent and still, the great metal structures rising into the sky like enormous frozen beasts. Despite the broad daylight, the effect was eerie.

  Gawain stopped before the metal turnstile that led to the rides. He put his hands on his hips, his expression grim. “We’ve lost cellular reception, so coordinating the men isn’t as easy as it might be.”

  “Magic.” Its presence interfered with a lot of technology. That explained why Gawain had met him at the gate, and why Arthur’s call had dropped earlier.

  “We think we’ve trapped the beast somewhere in the midway. The lads have set up a perimeter. They can hold it if you and I go in and do the hunting.”

  Dulac nodded, his mind already calculating a plan of attack. Full armor and a battle charger would be a nuisance in the narrow, congested landscape of the midway. He didn’t need much more than what he’d brought with him. He pulled the sword from the back sheath with a hiss of leather and steel. “Let’s do it.”

  Dulac didn’t have any experience with fairgrounds beyond Medievaland, but to him the place was endless—a sprawl of walkways, concession stands, and monstrous contraptions with names like Dragon’s Tail and Spear of Doom. The rides circled a long narrow lake dotted with slides and wading pools and surrounded by lush greenery. The power must have come on with a timer, because the central fountain was already splashing in noisy plumes. A fine mist cooled Dulac’s face, welcome relief from the rising temperature. Gawain fell into step beside him, watching the grounds to the right while Dulac scanned the lawn to the left. The fun house squatted there, gaudy and crooked. Nothing moved. He turned back to the water. Nothing—until a flock of sparrows exploded from the canopy of branches that trailed in the water.

  With no need for words, the two men bolted, Gawain taking the path to the right of the water, Dulac sprinting straight ahead. Something was beneath the surface of the lake and swimming fast. Silver ripples marked its arrowing wake as it disappeared beneath a veil of weeping willows. Dulac ran, boots pounding on the carefully swept walks. Kiddie swings and recycle bins flashed by, reminding him of the toddlers meant to play in this park.

  The sight spurred him on, making him push even faster. Camelot’s presence—and by extension his own—made this town the fae’s first point of attack. That made defeating LaFaye and all her armies personal. No one would suffer because Dulac lived in Carlyle. This was his town now.

  Across the water, Gawain stopped, planting his feet and drawing his massive bow. Three arrows thrust into the water, one after the other with incredible speed. They were too close together to tell which one struck first, but a whoosh of water sounded and a snarl of pain cleaved the air. Dulac skidded to a stop as something leaped to the shore. The trees blocked his view, but he got an impression of a green and burgundy hide. Whatever it was looked about the size of a pony, but it was much faster. Even as Gawain loosed a fourth arrow, it was bolting across the lawn, a streak of clawed limbs and whipping tail. Dulac charged after it, knowing it would take time for Gawain to catch up. He didn’t relish the thought of cornering the beast alone, but they couldn’t afford to lose it in the maze of the park.

  With the unerring instinct of any creature under attack, the thing aimed for cover. The nearest cave, complete with a twisting waterway and convenient hidey-holes, was the Tunnel of Love. Dulac mentally cursed as the beast slithered inside. Dulac hated the tacky place to begin with, and in these circumstances it would be a death trap. He paused at the entrance, casting a quick glance at the waterway with its tiny, two-person boats meant for snuggling lovers. The scene was eerily quiet. Normally there would be music and the hum of equipment, but the ride’s operators had not yet arrived for the day. That was good—silence meant Dulac could rely on his hearing.

  He sheathed his sword, deciding the tunnel was too narrow for the long weapon. Drawing his hunting knife with his left hand and his Smith & Wesson with his right, he stepped into one of the small boats and from there hopped onto the narrow walkway that ran at the base of the tunnel wall. The path was meant for service workers, not broad-shouldered warriors carrying weapons, and Dulac had to turn sideways and creep along with his back to the fake stone wall. To his relief, it was not completely dark. The timer that had started the fountains must have turned on the dioramas inside the Tunnel of Love.

  Dulac made it to the first turn and crouched, making himself as small a target as possible. Surprise was his only advantage, but most creatures had an excellent sense of smell. The small breeze was in his favor, but was it enough to hide him? Possibly. The air was dominated by the stink of something green and heavy with magic, much like rotting lilies. A suspicion formed in Dulac’s mind and he inched forward again, rounding the corner.

  There was a diorama built into the far wall, so brightly lit that it made him blink. The figures were poorly done, the work clumsy and unimaginative. Dulac ignored it to concentrate on the shadows beyond. He thought he heard a splash and froze, listening closely to the lap of water against the boats.

  He waited until his legs began to cramp, but heard nothing more. Silently, he ghosted forward, working his way through the twists and bends of the ride and ignoring the bright tableaux as they loomed up on either side. Each one depicted famous lovers. Many he did not recognize, but a few he did. Tristram and Isolde. Paris and Helen. Dido and Aeneas. Whoever had designed the ride had harbored a grudge against happy endings.

  He had to keep his mind on the job, but the tunnel worked against him, the last turn putting him all but face-to-face with Antony and Cleopatra, their tale one he knew well. The workmanship was better here, the Egyptian queen almost lifelike as she reclined on her bed, the poisonous asp at her breast. The great Roman general lay slumped in his death agony.

  Dulac always counted Mark Antony an idiot for getting himself
killed and, worse, failing to keep Cleopatra safe. But now he had more sympathy for the pair. Love and duty were not always easy to reconcile. Even now, Dulac was keeping Nimueh from his king and hoping against hope all would end well.

  Maybe it would. After all, Arthur had let Dulac walk away last night. Proud and difficult as he was, Arthur was a good man who could be a friend when it counted. It was that simple decency, as much as any grand vision, that held the remnants of Camelot together. But how long would that last in the face of LaFaye’s threats?

  Something lunged from the darkness. Reflex made him duck. Dulac caught a flash of red eyes and fired the Smith & Wesson, getting off two shots. He sucked in a breath, hoping for a reprieve, but he was disappointed. Rather than making the beast back off, the bullets just enraged it.

  It pounced forward, landing in the water, but with its front feet planted on one of the tiny boats. Dulac braced himself, ready to fire again, but the thing merely studied him with glowing scarlet eyes. It had neither fur nor scales, but something in between. At first glance it looked like a large lion or tiger, with a red-and-black mane that faded to a bright green body and whiplike tail. But it was not an animal. It was made of green vines twisted together to give it the semblance of bone and muscle. The beast was entirely made of petal, leaf and savage thorn.

  Dulac took these details in without allowing himself the luxury of shock. He was ready when the creature launched forward with a massive spring that brought it nearly on top of him. Dulac fired again, but the bullets passed through the beast’s body without doing any real harm. It had no vital organs to destroy or blood to spill. He dropped the useless gun and shifted the knife to his right hand.

  The beast lashed out a paw. Dulac raised the knife, but with feline quickness, the claws trapped his arm and it lunged to bite. Dulac twisted away, catching a glimpse of the long, savage fangs the security guard had compared to a bear’s. He wasn’t far wrong. Dulac felt the scrape and the sticky wetness of the creature’s maw, but he sprang sideways, landing in one of the boats before its jaws could close on him. From there, he leaped to the opposite ledge, putting at least a scant few feet between them. The move reversed their positions and now Dulac stood with his back to the exit of the tunnel. He balanced on the balls of his feet, ready for their next encounter.