“I did,” she confessed. “Not anymore. She does not have the interests of the fae at heart.”
But he was relentless. “I’m told you were caught by Merlin’s spell along with the rest. I know what the fae have become.”
Soulless. As good as dead inside. Lancelot didn’t say the words, but she heard them all the same. “It’s true,” she replied. “It’s all true.”
His expression was stricken as if hearing it from her lips was poison. Good, she thought. Better to be honest. Better that he believe her to be the monster she was.
“Maybe that’s true for some. I don’t believe that about you. You still have too much fire.”
With that, he claimed her mouth in an angry kiss. Nim caught her breath, stifling a cry of true surprise. The Lancelot she’d known had been gentle and eager to please. Nothing like this. And yet the clean taste of him was everything she remembered.
His mouth slanted, breaking past the barrier of her lips to plunder her mouth. The hunger in him was bruising, going far beyond the physical to pull at something deep in her belly. Desire, perhaps, or heartbreak. She wasn’t sure any longer, but she couldn’t stop herself from nipping at his lip, yearning to feel what she had lost. A sigh caught in her throat before she swallowed it down. Surely she was operating on reflex, the memory of kisses. Not desire she might feel now. The warmth and weight of him spoke to something older than true emotion. Even a reptile could feel comfort in the sun. Even she...
Still, that little encouragement was all the permission he needed to slide his hand up her hip to her waist and she could feel the pressure of his fingers. Lancelot was as strong as any fae male, strong enough certainly to overpower her. That had thrilled her once, a guilty admission she’d never dared to make. She’d been so wise, so scholarly, so magical, but an earthy male had found the liquid center of heat buried under all that logic and light. They had always sparked like that, flint against steel.
But then his hand found her breast and every muscle in her stiffened. This was too much. Memory was one thing, but she wasn’t the same now and she refused to have a physical encounter that was nothing more than a ghost of what it should be.
Nim pushed him away. “I don’t want this.”
Something in her look finally made him stop, but his eyes glittered with arousal. “Are you certain about that?”
Nim went very still and cold inside. Whether it was anger or the absence of it was irrelevant. It was all she could do not to touch her powers and simply make him leave. “Be careful, mortal.”
He put a hand on her hip again as if staking a claim. “Morgan LaFaye tricked me from your side.”
“And Queen Guinevere tripped you into her bed?” she asked drily. “Do you think me a child to feed me such tales?”
His eyes snapped with temper. “It’s not what you imagined. I looked for you back then. I searched for months.”
“And now?”
“I want you back.” His grip tightened.
“I’m not who I was.”
“You are. I felt your heart in your kiss. You haven’t changed.”
That wasn’t true. This conversation had to end for both their sakes, so she aimed every word like an arrow. “This is who I am, Lancelot. Merlin’s spell tore my people apart. The fae crave the souls of mortals to fill the void where our own used to be. We are the monsters Arthur’s knights seek to destroy.”
His lips parted as if to speak, but she pushed on.
“We won’t stop hunting humans. We can still feel enough fear to survive the perils of the world, but nothing more. Feeding on souls makes us whole again, gives us back joy and sorrow, but the mortals die and the effect never lasts. Even so, it’s easy to become addicted, needing more and more souls to cling to some semblance of who we used to be. That’s how the queen buys our loyalty. If we invade the mortal realms there will be no end of humans to feed us. It will be our paradise.”
She’d known herself too well to risk tasting such ambrosia, but she’d seen others fall prey to soul-thrall, living only to hunt. Once, they’d been honorable, valued friends. Now they were little more than beasts.
Lancelot looked as if he might be ill. “I know all that.” He finally let her go.
“Then you know why you must forget me.”
“But you’re different.” The words were firm, but somewhere in their depths she heard a plea for reassurance.
“Don’t be naive.” Nim turned and walked away.
This time he let her.
* * *
Barely able to breathe, Dulac watched the swing of her hips as she walked away. The sight of that very female motion, combined with the lingering taste of her lips, had him aching against his jeans. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, desperate to clear his thoughts from the fog of lust scattering his every last wit.
Dulac had sought her for so long. He’d searched before the demon wars and then after, when he’d discovered her castle had vanished from the Forest Sauvage. That had been a sure sign she’d left for the Hollow Hills, but he hadn’t stopped even then.
Many of Camelot’s knights had been wary of Merlin’s sleeping spell, but Dulac had jumped at the opportunity to travel into the future. Nimueh was immortal. He was not. If Merlin’s magic worked, the knights would rise healthy and in their fighting prime when the fae returned to the mortal realms. Then, after crossing centuries, he could take up his quest anew.
Of course there were risks—what if the spell had failed or Nimueh never came back? Still, the stone sleep was his best chance. Dulac had sacrificed all to come forward in time—his name, his lands, and his wealth. In the end, the gamble had been a success because now he’d found her.
Except Nimueh had just walked away. Walked. Away. Not a tear. Not a word of regret after he’d spent centuries as a piece of stone for her sake. Heat crept up his body, anger mixing with incredulity. His skin prickled as if he might burst into flame.
He watched her turn right and disappear into the night. She didn’t go back to the celebration inside, which was as clear a message as any that she didn’t want him following her for another round in the dance of emotional push and pull. Maybe she was as dead inside as she claimed.
But Dulac wasn’t a boy or a new-fledged knight any longer, and he knew his lady. “I don’t believe you,” he said into the hot and sticky night.
This wasn’t over. When it came to bed play, Nimueh was made of fire. Dulac had felt that same spark in her now, faint but no less real. His body remembered hers, every move of their familiar dance unlocking their treasured past in his heart and flesh as much as memory. Surely it worked the same way for her—it had to.
So why hide it from him? Had he so utterly destroyed her trust?
Of course he had.
A door inside him slammed shut, sealing off the pain beneath his anger. It had a poor seal, that door, and regret leaked around every edge of it. Dulac stalked back to the sidewalk in front of the hall, wishing he was still at the bar. He needed something to dull the roiling storm inside him—but he’d learned long ago there was no cure for the addiction named Nimueh.
Wedding guests lingered on the steps of the hall, vainly seeking fresh air. Just as Dulac put one foot on the stairs, the hooded fae hurried down and disappeared in the same direction Nimueh had just gone. Dulac narrowed his eyes, aware he’d allowed himself to be distracted from his original mission. Then again, now he knew it was Nimueh the hooded figure followed. Both his missions were the same. He waited a few seconds, then glided after them.
As if the fae sensed the knight’s interest, he turned to look over his shoulder. Dulac ducked into the shadows, swift enough