Enchanted Warrior by Sharon Ashwood Page A

On the fourth, Tamsin hit pay dirt.
    It was a bill for transport, just a few words on a preprinted invoice form from what looked like a small local company. Tamsin’s stomach flipped, a wash of excitement making it hard to concentrate on the words in front of her. It was the second page of a carbon copy form, and the ink had faded to a pale gray. At the bottom was some writing she didn’t understand, but the top looked like directions for delivery. All she could make out there was “stone” and “knight” and “Pacific College for” and “History.” Pacific College for the Study of European History, she guessed. It had been absorbed by Oceanside University in Seattle back in the nineties, but the campus itself hadn’t moved. This was the first real clue she’d found.
    Excitement pounded in her chest. She had to tell Gawain. Unfortunately, he was out wandering around Medievaland in search of bad faeries and he didn’t have a cell phone.
    Without warning, the door opened, letting in a gust of cool air. Tamsin looked up, shock sliding through her like a slim blade of ice.
    There was a fae standing in the doorway. Tamsin had never actually seen one before, but there was no mistaking what species the female belonged to. She was exquisite, her skin a dark honey brown so smooth and fine it look polished. Her hair was frost white and fell in a thick tumble to her hips. In that exotic coloring, her eyes seemed to shimmer like green gems. Tamsin noted with surprise that the fae held a set of car keys in her hand. She’d never thought about such creatures driving, but she supposed they had to get around somehow.
    The female took a step into the office, the heels of her boots clicking on the tile. Tamsin’s first thought was of the newspaper article Gawain had shown her, and his tale of soul-devouring hunger.
    Tamsin jumped slightly as the office door clicked shut. She licked her lips, fighting the urge to panic. The woman was exquisitely lovely, but her eyes were empty as a doll’s. A creeping dread began to rise in Tamsin, protesting the presence of such utter wrongness. Forcing an outward calm, Tamsin folded her hands across the invoice, obscuring the fading text.
    â€œMay I help you?” she asked, her voice cracking on the last word. Where was Gawain?
    â€œMy name is Nimueh, and you are Tamsin Greene, the historian.” The woman’s voice was low and rich, though spoiled by an odd, flat quality. “Am I correct?”
    â€œYes.”
    Tamsin would have expected her visitor to look around for a chair, perch on the desk or make some move to get comfortable. Nimueh stood stiff as a wind-up mannequin, staring at Tamsin with unblinking eyes. It was, in a word, creepy.
    â€œI was sent by Lord Mordred, son of the Queen of Faery,” announced Nimueh.
    Tamsin scrambled for options as her spine went rigid. “What does Lord Mordred want?”
    â€œHe should have destroyed you last night,” the fae added without emotion.
    â€œWhich begs the question of what else there is to say,” Tamsin snapped, her temper rising. “Sorry to disappoint.”
    â€œLord Mordred is curious. He is not accustomed to setbacks.”
    As if Tamsin had lived just to spite him. She bit back nervous laughter.
    The fae regarded her coolly. “Accordingly, he generously offers safe passage to you so that he might learn why you survived his power.”
    â€œHow thoughtful.” All the aches from last night throbbed in reminder of how close Tamsin had been to extinction. “Why didn’t he come himself?”
    â€œI am less threatening. You are more likely to respond favorably to me.”
    â€œReally?” Tamsin asked, unable to stifle sarcasm. “Are we going to exchange tips on manicures and boyfriends?”
    â€œHow you approach this is your decision.”
    Tamsin sat back, keeping the movement relaxed. She was sure Mordred had the