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Tamsin closed her eyes, barely able to imagine what finding his brother as a statue would be like for Gawain. When she recovered, she had to jog to catch up to him.

Gawain pushed open the glass door and held it for her, his gaze already searching for a way to the bottom floor. It was close to eight o’clock and only a few students lounged on the benches near the door. Every one of them looked up as Gawain stormed through the foyer, reminding Tamsin of animals wary of a passing lion.

The stairs to the lower level were to the left. They descended and began searching the corridors, passing drinking fountains and bulletin boards, computer labs and vending machines. “I don’t see any art,” Gawain said with irritation.

“Let’s keep looking. This place is a rabbit warren.”

Gawain made a doubtful noise but kept walking. They finally found a set of double doors that opened into a separate section of the building. The first thing Tamsin noticed was a poster for a theater production, and the next was that the decor was much fancier than the area they’d just passed through.

She looked around to realize she was in the lobby of the art center’s theater, complete with wine bar and crystal chandeliers. The main doors were up a flight of marble steps to her left. There must have been nothing on that night, because the place was empty.

“There he is,” Gawain said, pointing toward the back wall, where a large block of stone stood against the wall.

They both hesitated. Tamsin sucked in her breath, suddenly nervous. She’d found the clue on the invoice—now she was struck with a sudden sense of responsibility. She’d raised Gawain’s hopes, so this had to end well.

He started forward eagerly. Tamsin followed a step behind, casting a quick spell to hide their presence from security cameras and wandering guards.

Gawain reached the tomb first. He gave a faint cry and fell to his knees beside it. Slowly he reached up, touching a hand to the figure’s frozen arm. Then he bowed his head, despair in every line of his big frame.

The figure on the tomb was life-size, his feet resting on a crouching lion—a symbol of his bravery in life. His hands were crossed over the sword hilt placed on his chest. The fall of the knight’s lashes was so real, the curve of his fingers so natural, that she could believe he would rise and stretch at any moment, yawning himself awake.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, then remembered she was talking about a man, not a sculpture.

Tamsin reached out, her fingertips grazing the cool stone of the figure’s youthful face. Her fingers touched rough stone as she reached the cheek. “There’s damage here, as if something scraped the stone. Does that matter?”

“Those are scars. His face was burned as a child.” Gawain shifted with sudden disquiet. “I don’t like seeing him this way. He was never so still. My brother seems truly dead.”

Tamsin put a hand on Gawain’s shoulder, which felt fever-hot even through his coat. She squeezed gently as a tremor of emotion passed through his body, but he didn’t seem to notice. He leaned his head forward, resting it against the edge of the sarcophagus. Hands fisted, Gawain wrapped his arms around his body, as if he would shatter with grief.

Tamsin had promised to help him, but she had not thought beyond locating the tombs. Now she blinked back tears, aching to ease his pain. Finding the knights was not enough. She had to do more before her heart broke in two.

Sudden inspiration darted through her like an electric shock. Clumsy with excitement, Tamsin dropped her backpack to the floor and fumbled with the zipper. She rummaged until she felt the side pocket inside the pack and withdrew her father’s spell book. She cradled it in her hands a moment, feeling the worn leather of the cover against her fingertips. Grimoires had a way of knowing when they’d be needed, sometimes before their keepers did. This was one of those times. She untied the thong that bound it and began turning the pages to find the entry she wanted.

The page crackled as she finally turned toA Charm to Awaken Those Who Watch. Unlike some rituals, it didn’t call for elaborate preparation. There were no potions or talismans, altars or symbols painted in sacred inks. These instructions had been old before much of that had been invented. This was simply words and will, unadorned and raw.

She began to read, slowly at first, chanting just under her breath. She felt the vine tattoo on her wrist warming, channeling her strength. The words were in the ancient tongue of witches and, while she knew it well, she hadn’t spoken it since she had learned it from her father. The language felt strange in her mouth, almost like muscles she hadn’t stretched for so long they’d gone to sleep. She felt the mark around her wrist begin to prickle with heat.

Gawain slowly raised his head, turning to look at her. “What are you doing?”

“Hush,” she said, and kept reading.

Magic began to collect in the air. It was not like the blue energy most witches used, because this spell didn’t stem from the modern school of magic. This was older, warm where the Elders’ power was cold. A mist of gold formed above the tomb, the tiny sparks glittering against the gloomy shadows.

Gawain got to his feet, apprehension filling his eyes.

She reached the end of the spell, refusing to stop until the words were done. “I know what I’m doing. Now let me work.”

Tamsin began the incantation again. She had to read it three times from beginning to end for the spell to take effect. Gawain grabbed her arm, interrupting her. “This is too dangerous. To you. To Beaumains. What if Mordred senses what you are doing?”

“Then we need to hurry.” She stepped back so she could look up into his face. “But we can’t walk away and leave your brother here.”

A stricken look flashed across his features. Of course he knew that. He was trying to protect her. She could not fault him for that, but she needed his trust.

“I beat the Lady of the Lake and her gargoyle today. Trust that I’m strong enough to do this.” Her encounter with Nimueh wasn’t quite the same as waking Gareth Beaumains, and she could see the protest gathering in his expression. “If you don’t want me to keep going, I will stop. But if you do, I will give your brother everything I have.”

Gawain pressed his lips together, clearly struggling, but he nodded. “Go on. I will keep watch.” He stepped aside, giving her room.

She released her breath, his acceptance easing the crushing tension around her ribs. She began the incantation again. The golden mist had begun to fade, but now it flooded back, brighter than before, with tiny sparks like silvery shooting stars. Magic built in an unseen presence, an invisible visitor that ghosted through the room, almost touching her, almost breathing against her skin. Tamsin wasn’t the only one who sensed it. Gawain had drawn the knife he kept in his boot and had backed away, looking up and down the room as if he sensed watchful eyes.