Even for this modern age Lancelot was tall, his broad shoulders filling out a worn leather jacket as easily as they had a warrior’s garb. Her first thought was to slip away but, with the uncanny intuition of an expert swordsman, he looked straight at her. As she watched, he went rigid, a flicker of shock widening his eyes. Clearly, he’d just recognized his old lover beneath the hair dye and contact lenses.
It had been one thing to see his statue, his features frozen in stone. Lancelot alive and breathing was completely another story. His dark, liquid gaze skewered Nim, looking deep into places she’d forgotten.
Shock took her, and Nim took a step toward him before she knew what she was doing. A sudden, irrational urge to throw her wine—or perhaps a fist—overtook her. She wasn’t capable of anger, but she owed that vengeance to her younger self. He hadn’t just broken her heart when he’d left her for Camelot. He’d pulped it. The ghost of those emotions ached like a limb lost in battle, reminding her how she’d wept in lonely grief.
He pushed away from the bar and prowled her way. The summer sun had bleached streaks into his dark gold hair, and he swept it from his eyes in a gesture she remembered well. But familiarity ended there. There was a hardness around his mouth she didn’t remember. When his gaze held hers, assessing every line of her face, his expression was too guarded to read.
“Nimueh.” He shook his head as if willing himself to wake from a dream. His deep voice brought the past rushing into the present. She remembered hearing that voice in the dark, when it had gone soft and lazy after the intimacies of love.
“Nimueh,” he said again, this time with more strength. She hadn’t heard that accent for centuries—it was French, but not the French she heard now. It was something older and rougher that went straight to her core. Once she had adored the way he said her name, caressing each syllable as if she was something good to eat. Then he’d set about proving it with his generous mouth on every inch of her flesh.
“Nimueh,” he said one more time, as if her name was a prayer. Emotions chased across his face—shock, grief, happiness, guilt.
She held his gaze, willing his feelings to stop. She couldn’t return any of them and she didn’t want to answer his questions. “These are modern times. Just call me Nim. Nim Whitelaw, bookstore owner.”
He tensed at her words as if the flat statement had surprised him. “That doesn’t sound like you. It’s too plain.”
“That’s the point.” Instinctively, she looked around at the crowded room, wondering who might see them together. But no one seemed to take the slightest notice of their conversation.
He was looking her over. “You look almost human with brown eyes and dark hair. Why change your appearance?”
It was a good question, but it was none of his business. She leaned closer, lowering her voice in case fae ears could eavesdrop over the din. “Walk away. Leave. It would be far better if you never mentioned our meeting. Understand that, if you ever cared for me.”
“What do you mean? Of course I cared for you. I still do.”
“Oh.” Words deserted Nim, making her feel like an awkward child. It was a most unpleasant sensation—her insides felt oddly fizzy, as if she’d swallowed an entire case of champagne. A dim memory said the sensation was panic or perhaps excitement. Such feelings couldn’t be, but Lancelot had a way of making the impossible happen. After all, once upon a time she’d fallen in love with him—a penniless mortal with nothing more than good looks and a steady lance, pun completely intended.
She waited a moment, hoping she would think of something to say, but her mind remained blank. Or crowded. She couldn’t decide which, but the sensation was overwhelming. The need to run and hide ballooned inside her, threatening to stop her lungs.
“Goodbye.” She spun on her heel to leave.
He caught her arm, pulling her up short. Nim scowled down at the long, strong fingers. Fine scars ran along his tanned knuckles, evidence of a life around blades. Heaviness filled her, a primitive reaction to the strong, aggressive male taking control of her in the most basic way. Once it might have grown into anger or lust, but now it confused her.
“Take your hand off me,” she said, letting her voice fill with frost.
“No.” He pulled her closer, turning her to face him. “You will answer my questions.”
Nim jerked her arm free. They were so close, she could feel his warm breath against her skin. “About what?”
His nostrils flared as if scenting her. Still, Nim studied his tense jaw and the blood flushing his high cheekbones. The heat of his emotions made her feel utterly hollow. His hand closed around her wrist again, almost crushing her bones.
“There are too many people here,” he growled.
“There are enough people here for safety. Perhaps I don’t want to answer you.”
His eyes held hers a moment, dark fire against the ice of her spirit. That seemed to decide him, for he pulled her close and took a better grip on her arm. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
He didn’t reply, but steered her toward the door, moving so fast she skittered on her heels. She thought about calling out—she knew people there, even if they weren’t actual friends—but it went against her instincts for secrecy. When he pushed her down the stairs and back into the night, the velvet dark seemed to muffle the sounds around them. He paused at the bottom of the steps, seeming to consider where to go next.
She took the opportunity to pull against him, but this time he held her fast. “Don’t.”
The threat was real. Her fighting skills were nothing compared to a knight’s. Lancelot could crush or even kill her with a single blow. Still, that didn’t make her helpless, and she would not let him forget that fact. Rising up on her toes, she put her mouth a mere whisper from his ear. “You forget what I can do. My magic is nothing less than what it was when I was the first among the fae noblewomen. I can defend myself against your brute strength.”
Just not against what he’d done to her heart. She closed her eyes a moment, feeling his breath against her cheek and remembering the past for a long moment before she denied herself that luxury. “Let me go,” she repeated.
In response, he pulled her to the side of the building, refusing to stop until he was deep into the shadows. The ground was little more than cracked concrete there, tufts of grass straggling between the stones. He pushed her against the siding, her back pressed to the rough wood. “Not until I’ve had my say.”
He had both of her arms now, prisoning Nim with the hard, muscled wall of his chest. Anyone walking by might glimpse two lovers in a private tête-à-tête, but Nim drew back as far as she could, something close to anger rising to strike. No one handled her this way, especially not him.
“Then talk,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Aren’t you even surprised to see me?” he demanded.
“Why should I be? Your friends are awakening, why not you?” She wouldn’t tell him it was she who had traced his tomb and called his king. She needed to squash any personal connection between them. Even if she was whole and their people were not at war, he had betrayed her.
He put a hand against her cheek, his fingers rough. She jerked her chin away, burning where his touch had grazed her.
His expression was bitter. “You know why we wake.”
The threat of her queen. She dropped her voice so low he had to bend to hear her.