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When Nim frowned but didn’t answer, he turned to Antonia. “Do you have any idea where Susan might be?”

  “I talked to her friends already. After the wedding reception, the diehards went to the White Hart.”

  “The bar downtown?” Nim asked.

  Dulac frowned, remembering what Gawain had said. There had been problems there before.

  “Susan’s bandmates saw her in the parking lot around two o’clock,” Antonia continued. “One moment she was there and the next she was gone. Her car is still there. She’d left her violin on the hood. That’s how we know something’s wrong. She’d never leave her instrument sitting out where it might be stolen. It’s her baby and the most expensive thing she owns.”

  Dulac drew closer, folding his arms. He was next to Nimueh now, their shoulders nearly touching. “Go on.”

  “Right before that she was talking to a pair of strange-looking young men.”

  “What do you mean by strange?” Nimueh asked.

  “Tall, with their hair bleached white.”

  He exchanged a glance with Nimueh. Fae. He did a quick calculation. Tramar would have been dead by that time. This was a different pair and from the sound of it, they were hunting. A young, pretty human female would be a choice target—sport and a soul to drink in one convenient package.

  Nimueh’s fist clenched in the fabric of Dulac’s sleeve. “Please give us a moment,” she said to Antonia in a voice that brooked no argument. “Wait for us downstairs.”

  Confusion settled over Antonia’s features, but she left, closing the door behind her. Nimueh turned to Dulac. “You were leaving.”

  “I was.”

  She pressed her hands to her temples, as if her head was aching. “You should have left this room before Antonia came to me just now. I should have left Carlyle before you found me here. I desire nothing more than to disappear from sight, and yet at every turn I find you back at my side.”

  He folded his arms. “The forces of lore and magic seem to want us together.”

  She gave him a dry look. “Either that or you simply will not go away.”

  “Admit that you need my sword. I’m a knight and there is a job to do.”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes. “I need your help. These hunters hurt my people.”

  The words might have confused someone from the twenty-first century, but Dulac understood. The Lady of the Lake protected those who served her, no matter what century it was. Anyone who touched her staff or their families was asking for swift retribution. Beneath the disguise she wore—so plain, so banal, so human—he could see the shining creature she’d been, the sorceress and lady of a white stone castle deep in the Forest Sauvage.

  Time meant nothing in that moment, and he was again the penniless young knight who had adventured from France into the wilds of the Western Isles. He’d been nothing—desperate to make his name and restore the honor of his family. His armor had been so dented and mismatched he’d been called “the ill-made knight.”

  One day, he’d gone deep into the Forest Sauvage and there he’d found a lake as still as glass and crowned with mist. He had stood on the shore, his old horse cropping the long, lush grass, when a silver boat had come soundlessly across the water, barely a ripple creasing its surface. And then he had beheld the Lady of the Lake, sitting in the prow and wrapped in a cloak of gray, her long white hair unbound and flowing like a second cape. All Lancelot’s cares had melted away beneath a wave of dumbstruck awe. He’d never seen a fae before. After Nimueh, he would have sworn he’d never seen a female. She’d eclipsed every woman before and since.

  And here she was again, at her best in defense of someone she cared for. The trials she’d suffered hadn’t changed this one essential thing. This was the lady he knew.

  “A human won’t survive the loss of her soul. The pain alone—” Nimueh broke off, leaving Dulac to imagine what she might have suffered the night before. “The pain alone will rob her of reason. Fae sometimes keep their victims alive for days, drinking them a sip at a time so they can savor the rush of sensation. Death will only be the last torment this young woman suffers.”

  She stood with her fists clenched as if holding something back with sheer will. Dulac would have called it grief or fury, but she would deny emotion and he didn’t know what to believe. He would reach her far more easily with a practical solution. “Where is the White Hart?”

  “Across town. It’s near an abandoned house the neighbors say is haunted. I would say it’s haunted by rogue fae and we should start looking there.”

  “Wouldn’t that be the first place Susan’s friends would go? It’s an obvious hiding place.”

  Her face was set and pale. “All the more reason to get there first. We will survive an encounter with hunters. Ordinary humans will not.”

  The “we” wasn’t lost on him, but he kept his expression cool. She’d given him an opening and he wouldn’t ruin it by spooking her now. He pulled out his smartphone—as marvelous a device as anything Merlin had ever dreamed up.

  “What are you doing?” Nimueh asked, almost with suspicion.

  Lancelot tapped his contact list. “I have a few friends who jump at any chance to rescue fair maidens. They would never forgive me if I kept this all to myself.”

  Chapter 7

  The Price House, also known as the most haunted house in Carlyle, looked precisely the way Nim would have expected. It dated from gold rush days and had three stories fronted by an impressive porch. Time had left it sagging, with much of the ornamental scrollwork rotted away. Even in broad daylight, the place looked forbidding.

  She parked her Audi S3 sedan down the block. Lancelot sat in the passenger seat, his long legs looking cramped despite the roomy interior of the sedan. She studied his handsome profile for a long moment, wondering at his ability to overset every plan she made. If he’d shown up at the bookstore an hour later, she might well have been on her way to the airport. Instead, here she was miles from where she had intended to be and sitting outside a supposedly haunted house containing an unknown number of murderous fae.

  “What now?” she asked.

  He held up his smartphone, reading what looked like an entry from an online encyclopedia. “It says here the original owners were great collectors and after their death the house was turned into a museum. Then it went bankrupt and was sold to a land developer who in turn lost all his money in the economic downturn of the 1980s.”

  “I’m not sure how that helps us.”

  “Neither do I, and yet there is something bewitching about the amount of useless information these little devices can provide.” He tucked the phone away, his movements as graceful and precise as a hunting cat’s. The closer Lancelot came to a battle, the more he took on the predatory aura of a lion. She knew without asking that he anticipated a fight.

  “I’m going to look around,” he said, getting out of the car. “My friends have to cross town. They won’t be here for a few minutes.”

  Nim stayed where she was, the experience with Tramar chaining her to her seat. “Be careful.”

  Lancelot circled the car and opened her door. “I know you want to keep out of sight of the other knights, but until they arrive you’re coming with me. I’m not leaving you alone on a deserted street.”

  He was correct. Many of the knights knew her face, and she didn’t want gossip leading the queen her way. Furthermore, Nim didn’t want to leave the safety of the Audi, but she accepted his large, strong hand and got out of the car. As soon as she was standing beside him, she knew it was the right decision. He was a knight, and his physical presence was as good as a shield—but more than that, he radiated the will and confidence she couldn’t seem to find. Everything would be better with him by her side.

  The house was on a large lot, but it was one of a row of vacant, crumbling places waiting for bulldozers. The opposite side of the street was nothing but empty fields, and the White Hart the nearest business beyond that. It was little wonder that the fae had chosen this place—t
here were no neighbors to speak of for several city blocks, and yet there was hunting enough in the crowded apartment complex a bare mile away. There was privacy and opportunity both.

  As they drew near their target, Nim stretched her magical senses, probing for signs of life. It was only after a fruitless attempt that she remembered her magic was bound. Stars! A sense of helplessness sucked the breath out of her. She was safe from detection, but she had no more power than the victim she hoped to rescue. Sure, she could undo the binding, but then she’d be visible again and waste the value of LaFaye’s amulet. Nothing seemed to be a good solution.

  She reached instead for the Smith & Wesson tucked at the small of her back, touching it for reassurance. Her other hand reached out, her knuckles brushing the folds of Lancelot’s coat for the same reason. He made her feel physically safe.

  Lancelot was a consummate fighter, the best anyone had ever seen—even from the moment he arrived outside her castle in the Forest Sauvage. Mortals had sometimes wandered by her lake, and she’d given them a meal and a bed for the night. Lancelot had repaid her hospitality with a demonstration of his fighting skills. It was all he’d had to offer.

  It was then she’d seen something special in the young knight with the bad armor. As a noble, it had been her prerogative to offer him a place in her household. She’d given him a fine horse and fine weapons, taught him languages and educated him in the ways of the court. By the time he’d left her, he’d been a paragon of chivalry.

  They had not become lovers at once. Not, in fact, for some time. She was a creature of the mind, given to books and spells and slow to trust the needs of the flesh. But while she’d shown him the intricate world of the intellect, he’d guided her to the blazing fires of mortal passion. She had learned the difference between existence and life.

  No, Nim corrected herself, Lancelot was far from safe, for she’d never been content with anyone else ever after.

  He stopped, catching her hand. Nim’s thoughts returned to the here and now and the moldering mansion straight ahead. The broken windows looked down at them like squinting eyes.

  “Won’t there be guards watching the street?” she asked, although as soon as she said it, she guessed the answer. These weren’t LaFaye’s personal assassins. These fae weren’t even professionals—these were trash. Soul addicts tended to hunt at night and sleep off their fevered madness during the day, oblivious to anything but the rush of stolen emotion.

  “We’ll soon find out if there are sentries,” Lancelot replied lightly. “I see a single front entrance. I’d like to find out what’s in the back.”

  With that, he glided down a crooked wire fence that ran between the derelict houses. Nim followed, careful not to lose her footing on the lumpy ground. There was a garden at the back that had been swallowed by a tangle of wild blackberries. Lancelot crouched in the long grass, pulling Nim down beside him so he could keep his voice low. “Two exits at the back. One looks like it leads into the cellar.”

  A figure passed before a main-floor window. A tall, thin figure with white hair. She heard Lancelot suck in a breath. He’d seen it, too. They’d only guessed that Susan was held here, but they’d been right about the house being a haven for rogue fae. So far their predictions had held true.

  Nim studied the place, trying to figure out the layout inside. There had to be fifteen rooms in a place of this size. They could imprison a human almost anywhere inside. Then movement drew her eye up to a second-floor window—the only one that still had curtains. The sash was up and the hot summer breeze was stirring the light panels, tossing them wide to show a glimpse of the derelict room beyond.

  “In a house with barely a chip of paint left, why the curtains?” she asked. “Is there something special about that room, I wonder?”

  “Do you believe they’re holding Susan there?”

  “I don’t know. The second floor is more secure, but an open window is not. It’s worth investigating.”

  He shook his head. “The house is full of dry rot. Climbing in or out of there would be risky.”

  She turned to meet his deep brown eyes. “And waltzing through a house full of fae criminals is not? Look at the advantages. If we go in an open window, we don’t need to pick the lock.”

  One corner of his mouth curled up. “I’m more likely to carry the day when I’m not falling from twenty feet up. Even the brickwork around this place looks like it would crumble under my weight.”

  “I’m lighter. I could do it.”

  He frowned, but in a considering way. He’d never underestimated her abilities. “I’m sure you could, but even if those fae aren’t like Lightborn, they’re dangerous.”

  And I should be sitting in the airport by now. But this time, the thought had less power over her. Her fear had faded because she was there for a good reason and Lancelot was a solid, steadying presence beside her.

  Nim was wishing for binoculars when she saw something move behind the lace curtains. It was impossible to see what it was, just a streak of moving color. Her acute senses had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with her fae blood, and binding her powers hadn’t dulled them. Still, they had limitations.

  She strained to catch the movement again, afraid her mind was supplying images she wanted to see instead of what was truly there. Then a feminine voice splintered the afternoon heat—a muffled cry of protest, barely audible even to fae ears.

  Nim wheeled to Lancelot. “I’m going in.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Wait. The other knights will be here any minute. There’s no need to risk yourself.”

  “You have no idea what losing your soul is like,” she said, her voice a bare whisper. Tension thundered in her ears, but the image of the girl in the yellow dress blazed through her anxiety. “She’s just a young human. A minute is far too long.”

  Nim pulled away from him and ran to the side of the house, keeping low. She reached the foot of the wall, looking up to see the curtain billow out against a cerulean sky. To her left was a drainpipe, but it was covered in rust. To her right was the chimney, the mortar crumbling from between the bricks. She dug her fingers into the chimney and began to climb, the soft soles of her sneakers gripping the bricks with ease.

  She moved in near silence, her agility and strength greater than a human’s even without her powers. It didn’t take long to scale the first dozen feet. A quick glance over her shoulder told her Lancelot was guarding her ascent, his long knife in one hand and a gun in the other. The sight of him made her climb faster, eager to finish the job and get them all out of danger. She’d reached the sill when she heard the slam of a door and a sudden movement on the grass below. The urge to look down was like a blade against her spine, but she dared not waste the time. If someone saw her clinging to the bricks, they would shoot.

  She drew level with the window and reached out for the sill. A stick propped up the sash, so she was careful not to disturb it as she steadied herself to look inside. However, when she put weight on her outstretched arm, her hand came away with a fistful of dust and splinters. The frame was crumbling with age and neglect. Lancelot had been right about the risk of climbing.

  She scaled another few feet and this time hooked a foot through the window, using an awkward lunge to crawl through the opening. She knocked the prop holding up the sash and the frame dropped on her shoulders with a vicious thump. With the wind knocked from her lungs, Nim slithered onto the grimy floor.

  The room was empty of fae, but neither were there prisoners conveniently awaiting rescue. She cursed softly, but was distracted by sounds of fighting rising from the yard outside. As she jumped to her feet, she glanced outside to see men running, some with swords, others with guns. When she recognized Gawain, she knew reinforcements had arrived. She pulled back from the window, keeping out of sight.

  Now it was up to Nim to do her part. She took a second, slower look around, wrinkling her nose at the smell of ancient filth. There was no furniture except for an old mattress on the floor, a bl
anket rumpled at its foot. Nim stepped forward and pressed a hand to the mattress. The room was warm, but this was damp with sweat. Someone had been there, and recently. A pair of bright yellow shoes—the same shade as Susan’s dress—were carelessly tossed in a corner.

  Nim started to rise from her crouch when she felt something beneath the blanket. She pulled back the cloth to see a chain of dull silver ending in a broad cuff. That answered why it had been safe to leave a window open.

  Was this where the fae kept their humans until it was time to feed? Was the cry she had heard Susan, as the girl was unchained and taken away for another session of unthinkable torture?

  The image that formed in Nim’s mind obliterated everything else. She drew her gun and glided toward the door, wincing when a floorboard creaked. She reached for the brass handle, turning it slowly. It was unlocked. She listened, leaning toward the crack as she opened it an inch. There were plenty of sounds, but they were all coming from outside. She let the door drift open, willing the hinges not to creak.

  When she reached the corridor outside, it was empty but for stairs leading to the rooms above and below. Where had they taken Susan? It had to have been just minutes ago. Nim listened to the sounds around her. There was fighting downstairs, spilling in from the yard. Not the first place she’d take a prisoner. She glanced up, but the condition of the ceiling said there’d been considerable water damage on the third floor, perhaps from a leaking roof. She’d try her luck in the immediate area first.

  Six doors faced onto the hardwood hallway, including the room Nim had just left. A few stood open and one was missing altogether. Most of the rooms were little more than stinking burrows, telling the tale of how far these fae had sunk in their addiction.

  The fourth room she peered into was different. The window had been boarded up, but a single candle threw a pool of light over the space. Some attempt had been made to furnish it with a sagging sofa and a moth-eaten rug. Unfortunately, what it had acquired in fabric it had gained in the stink of mildew. Nim stifled a sneeze.