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Hector gave a smile she remembered from childhood—warm and filled with mischief. He grasped her hand in his, kissing it. “Delighted to.”

They began reading, their voices weaving together in a web of magic. Tamsin fell back through the years. It had been far too long since they had done this, father and daughter. It was like coming home and remembering who she really was all at the same time.

The dome of gold had faded to a mist, but now it came back stronger, glittering like a fine rain.

Hector’s voice rang low and firm while Tamsin’s made a softer invitation.

The rain became a fall of diamond-bright sparks that began to cling and slide down a solid form.

Tamsin’s words nearly faltered as she saw what the brilliant light outlined—a sleeping man, tall and broad shouldered, with a gleaming, wicked sword that reached from his chest to his heavy-booted feet.

She made out a neat beard and fall of waving hair, a strong, handsome face and pointed crown.

Just as it had with Beaumains, color seeped into the sleeping form, painting him in reds and golds, with the lions on his surcoat a brilliant yellow.

Tamsin stared and stared, unable to take in what was before her.

Every illustration, every painting of Arthur Pendragon had looked just like this man.

She glanced up at her father, noticing the tears tracking into his beard. With a sudden ache in her throat, she realized her father had raised this king from the time he was a boy. Arthur was his foster son. In a strange way, he was almost her brother.

The vine tattoo on her wrist warmed, channeling her strength as it had when she’d raised Beaumains.

But even with Hector’s help, this awakening was harder.

Maybe it was because they were breaking the cloaking spell, too, but the harder she pushed her magic, the more it seemed to resist her urging.

Her head began to throb in a way that made her stomach queasy. Tamsin closed her eyes.

And snapped them open again when she heard her father’s indrawn breath.

At once she saw the tomb was nothing but a piece of stone.

This time, she knew enough to look around.

Arthur of Britain stood at the door, staring out at the courtyard.

Although she could see only his back, she had no trouble taking his measure.

He stood with confidence, a man surveying all that was his.

With her inner sight, Tamsin perceived the golden aura of majesty around him, the power that was his birthright and his burden.

It wasn’t witchcraft—she could tell at a glance that the king was fully human—but something just as old.

“Your Majesty,” said her father.

Arthur spun to face Hector, his ice-blue eyes snapping. He drew his sword, wielding its enormous size as if it were no more than a fork. “Sir Hector,” boomed King Arthur in a voice clearly used to command. “What, by all the devils, is going on?”

Hector grabbed Tamsin’s arm, pulling her down so that they knelt before the king. Tamsin bowed her head, noting the supple leather of the king’s boots just before the tip of Excalibur swung into view. It caught Hector’s chin, forcing him to look up.

“I exiled you. How dare you return to my castle?”

Finally free to move in the courtyard, Gawain launched into a furious attack.

Mordred blocked every blow with easy expertise that spoke of magic more than practice—a dangerous shortcut.

It was a fast way to burn through power only to have it fail at a crucial moment—but Mordred was the Prince of Faery.

He had reserves most could only dream of.

All Gawain could do was buy time, and it was clear Mordred was confident enough to play along.

Mordred’s next blow shuddered against Gawain’s sword with inhuman force. Gawain staggered back, barely able to raise his shield in time to meet the next blow. He cursed as his vambrace bit into his arm.

“What’s the matter, Mordred, trying to compensate for squandering your army on a demon’s breakfast?” Gawain taunted.

Mordred cursed. “More where they came from. I have the whole of Faery at my beck and call.”

“But will your mama let you have them? You always did break your toys.”

Mordred countered with an upward thrust. Gawain moved to block it, but Mordred snarled and dropped the point of his sword just before it struck.

Gawain didn’t have time to adjust, only twist to avoid it.

The edge missed his breastplate but drove in behind.

Gawain felt Viper tear through the mail of his shirt and score his ribs in a searing, white-hot bite that went down to the bone.

His mind blanked with the agony as he spun and drove his shield into Mordred’s shoulder.

They flung apart, reflexes alone keeping Gawain on his feet.

The light in the Great Hall was almost blinding now, spilling golden rays into the courtyard like a wandering sun. The spell was nearly complete. Gawain only had to keep fighting for a little longer.

And then he heard the raucous clamor of crows. Both opponents looked up at the sound, for both knew what it meant. A swirl of black birds was diving out of the sky, melding into one horrific raptor with a beak like a scythe.

The demon had found them.