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“Angmar is an example of what does not work in my regime. You, at least on days where you do not fail me, are an example of what does. The difference is a spirit of obedience.” Mordred pushed ahead into the cell and grabbed Angmar’s tangled hair, lifting the fae’s head so that Nimueh stared right into his broken face. “Those with souls have difficulty following my orders.”

Mordred made a gesture before Angmar’s face. The fae’s eyes cracked open beneath swollen, bruised lids and he began to struggle against the roots that pinned him tight. It was useless. A trickle of light escaped through his clenched teeth. Mordred bent down, inhaling it with a connoisseur’s pleasure. Angmar began to howl, the sound rising to a scream of protest and despair.

His soul. Nimueh’s heart hammered with desperate hunger. It did not matter that Angmar had once been her friend. She yearned to fill the aching void within her. Through the haze of numbness, she was aware that she should be disgusted, horrified, revolted. Merlin had damaged the fae, but Mordred made them monsters by tempting their hunger.

Nimueh had refused Mordred’s offer to feed her craving, and now he was dangling the bait again. If she took it, she would be his slave. She drew herself up, setting her jaw in refusal, but she couldn’t look away from the spectacle of Mordred tearing out Angmar’s soul.

“My lord, you don’t need to feed,” she said with cool precision. “Merlin’s spell never touched you.”

“That’s part of the joy in stealing it,” he retorted. “Excess is its own delight.”

Nimueh made no response, giving him nothing. With a loud sigh, Mordred stopped, letting Angmar’s head drop. The fae collapsed, sobbing in pain.

“There’s quite a bit left if you want it,” Mordred said, sulking. His flat expression said that he knew he’d failed to seduce her.

Nimueh stared at a spot just above Mordred’s head. The urge to wipe him from existence welled up in her like a madness. There were so few things that could kill the faery prince or his mother, and she’d possessed the greatest of them all—the sword, Excalibur. She’d given it to Arthur Pendragon to bring peace to the mortal realms, and now the sword was lost along with the king’s effigy. If only she still had it so that she could skewer Mordred’s slimy carcass!

That was anger!Nimueh schooled her face, hiding the fact that she’d just had a bout of genuine rage. Sweat slipped down her spine, a symptom of her episode. Mordred could never find out she had a scrap of individuality left or she would end up like Angmar. Mordred’s smile speared her as her gaze slowly, painfully crept toward her old friend’s shuddering form.

“There is a disturbance in the aether that tells me the witch has awakened another knight,” said Mordred. “That would be the witch you failed to destroy. I suggest you rectify that situation.”

Nimueh struggled to find her tongue. “Yes, my Lord Mordred.”

ChapterEleven

Tamsin gaped as Gawain and Beaumains embraced with back-thumping, shoulder-pounding affection. Her astonishment wasn’t at watching two time-travelers from the Middle Ages overcome incredible odds and arcane magic. It was because Gawain was actually smiling, a big grin that lit up his eyes with real joy as he ruffled his little brother’s hair. He almost looked friendly.

For his part, Beaumains tugged at his brother’s shirt. “These are strange garments, but I see you’re still wearing green. You never change, brother. Stubborn as an ox.”

“So I have noticed,” Tamsin put in with a smile. “I am Tamsin.”

She put out a hand to shake, but Beaumains bowed over it instead, the picture of chivalric grace. “Madam, I owe you many thanks for reviving me.”

“Think nothing of it,” Tamsin replied. If she hadn’t already met Gawain, she’d be tempted to swoon. Beaumains was utterly charming, the scar on his cheek giving him a rakish air.

“Nevertheless, I am entirely at your service.” He gave her a wicked grin.

“We’d best go,” said Gawain, clapping his brother on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.

Beaumains cast him a wry look and released Tamsin’s hand.

It wasn’t hard to get Beaumains out of a building filled with theater majors. His chain mail and surcoat might have been explained away as a better-than-average costume, and his bright-eyed good looks could have belonged to any undergraduate. He obeyed Gawain’s command to remain silent until they were in the car, but the questions started once they were on the road back to Carlyle.

“I don’t understand,” Beaumains said, his accent a touch thicker than Gawain’s. “Are you telling me that we have all been asleep for hundreds and hundreds of years?”

“Yes,” Gawain replied. “There is much you must learn.”

“Well, I would say that’s obvious,” Beaumains said drily, looking around the interior of the car. “What did I miss? Have they sorted the Vikings out yet?”

“They have their own television show,” Gawain said, disgruntled.

“A what?”

“I’ll explain another time.”

“Very well.” The young man’s tone was tense, but he sounded more excited than afraid. Tamsin spared a glimpse in the rearview mirror. He had his face all but pressed to the passenger window, watching the world speed by. He reminded her of a cat with its ears pricked, alert to every sight and sound.

“There are so many lights,” Beaumains murmured. “Are we at war? Are the torches built that high up to convey a signal to the enemy?”