Enchanted Guardian
A LOVE OF LEGENDARY PROPORTIONIn another time, in a place once known as Camelot, they had been lovers. Torn apart by betrayal and lies, Lancelot Du Lac and Nimueh, the Lady of the Lake, had each suffered greatly. But the magic of the fae had reawakened a man once trapped in stone, and Lancelot was determined to find his long lost love. Only, Nim was desperate to hide her fae soul, as she was marked for death by their mutual enemy.Though centuries apart had not diminished their passion, they would once again face a dangerous test to prove each was the other’s destiny.
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âWhat could another woman give me that you cannot?â Lancelot whispered. It was more like a groan.
She sat back on her heels, looking down at him from under slitted lids. âSafety. She would bind your life around with the garlands of comfort and surety. She would keep your hearth and home and fill it with kindness. Your future would be known and beloved, a tale well told and filled with love and laughter. I foresaw this future for you in my gazing crystal, long before you went into the stone sleep. I had hoped you would have found her instead. Perhaps you still can.â
âShe sounds marvelous. A paragon. Undoubtedly a good wife and mother.â
âMany long for a crumb of such happiness as she could give.â
âWell,â said Lancelot, âwhen we find her we should introduce her to Beaumains. She sounds like his type.â
Nimueh let out an exasperated breath. âWhy not you?â
âI have you.â
SHARON ASHWOOD is a novelist, desk jockey and enthusiast for the weird and spooky. She has an English literature degree but works as a finance geek. Interests include growing her to-be-read pile and playing with the toy graveyard on her desk. Sharon is the winner of the 2011 RITA>® Award for Best Paranormal Romance. She lives in the Pacific Northwest and is owned by the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness.
For the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness, conqueror of fuzzy slippers and bane of the computer mouse. Long may your reign of terror continue.
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In case youâre wondering, heroes and villains are real. So is magic, and so are monsters. Theyâre not just childrenâs tales or relics of a long-ago past.
Take Camelot, for example. It belongs to the present just as much as it did to once upon a time, and its story goes like this:
Long ago, King Arthur won a mighty battle against the demons, but what should have been victory quickly turned to Camelotâs doom. Some say it was evil luck and others say it was the enchanter Merlinâs arrogance for, in his desperation to defeat the enemy, Merlin tried magic no one had seen before. The result was disaster. The final spell of the war ripped out the souls of Camelotâs fae allies and reduced them to emotionless shells.
The Queen of Faery swore vengeance against Merlin, the king and all the mortal realms. In defiance, the warriors of Camelot sacrificed everything they had, or loved, or ever hoped to be in order to keep us safe. Merlin cast an enchantment, turning the mighty Knights of the Round Table to stone statues upon their empty tombs. There they lie ageless and undying, ready to rise when humanityâs hour of need is greatest.
Yes, heroes are real, and so are the villains. The pitiless Morgan LaFaye is ruler of the beautiful and deadly fae. Once allies, now they feed on mortal souls because theyâve lost their own.
Now the Queen of Faery is poised to invade. If she has her way, our world is about to end.
Itâs time for Camelot to rise.
Run.
Her feet flew over the pavement, swift and all but silent. She ran like a deer, leaping over obstacles and dodging from path to lane, road to filthy alley. She ran like the wind because her death was behind her. She ran like prey.
Hide.
She found cover at last, though it was barely enough. There were two stairs down to a basement door, just enough of a dent in the narrow road for concealment. Crouching low, she made herself as small as she could. When that wasnât enough, she huddled on the ground, her knees and palms on the dirty concrete.
Words came out of the dark, soft and cruel. âWhere are you? I want to see your beautiful face.â
She held her breath, clamping both hands over her mouth to keep from gasping. Her lungs burned with exhaustion, crying out for a soothing gulp of air she dared not take.
âNimueh, where are you? Nimâooâay.â Her pursuerâs voice lilted upward in mockery. âOh, resplendent Lady of the Lake, hear my call. The queen wants a word.â
A word? Queen Morgan LaFaye wanted her dead. At least sheâd paid Nimueh the compliment of sending one of her private assassins instead of any old thug. Nim squeezed her eyes shut. There was no traffic after midnight in the commercial district and no one she could run to for help. Not that the fae ran for help from humans.
âYou took the enemyâs side,â he added. âNobody liked the prince, but he was her son. You participated in the murder of the heir to the throne of Faery.â
As if Nim needed an explanation for the Queen of Faeryâs wrath. Before this, sheâd been one of LaFayeâs advisors, and she knew defying Morgan LaFaye was seriously stupid. But dread of Prince Mordred had overtaken Nimâs fear of his mother. After a tour of the princeâs dungeon, sheâd decided someone had to put an end to the maniac. Better that than end up one of his broken toys.
