Arthur hadn’t been in favor of a unit of gargoyle protectors in the beginning, but as the fight to free Camelot and unite all of Avalon heated up, he’d relented, taking it upon himself to help train every cat, wolf and dragon that enlisted. No one had expected The Guard would become as vital to Arthur’s success as his own knights.
And then Arthur had fallen in battle and everything changed.
Cutting off that train of thought, Lucan started to press Mac again for an explanation, only to be interrupted by a burst of feminine laughter.
“They’ll let anyone in here it seems.” Mac straightened as two huntresses managed to clear a path through the surrounding immortals.
Nessa, the tallest of the two, stopped. Clearly having overhead Mac, she smiled sweetly—and flipped him off.
The other huntress with her laughed before elbowing past a Fae. “This place is packed tighter than Merlin’s ass.”
A hush fell around them, every conversation grinding to a halt at the mention of the exiled sorcerer’s name. Not even the whispered mentions of Excalibur could silence a group of immortals so effectively, and there wasn’t anyone in the room who wouldn’t shed blood to possess the lost sword.
After Arthur’s defeat, the sword had vanished, along with Arthur’s heir, Constantine. The missing knight had supposedly forged the six mystical daggers that, when reunited, would point the way to Excalibur, and fulfill the prophesy of Arthur’s resurrection.
While Lucan couldn’t deny the existence of the daggers—the Callaghans had already found two—he wasn’t any more convinced that they would actually lead to Arthur’s sword than he was of finding Santa Claus living at the North Pole.
“Is nothing sacred to those mercenaries?” Mac paused. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Although mercenary
As long as those who petitioned Rhiannon for a wraith’s service didn’t seek to strike out at the goddess, she didn’t care what the former knights were tasked to do—the more horrendous the job the better as far as she was concerned.
Lucan angled his body toward Mac. “You sure you’re just not jealous that they’ve got bigger balls than you do?”
Mac snorted. “I’d feel free to banter about
“I changed the subject? You’re the one shooting your mouth off when Nessa wouldn’t need a reason to stuff your tail down your throat.”
As if she heard them, Nessa grinned and blew them a kiss, the curve of her lips bordering on rabid.
“We were talking about Briana.”
“No, before you got fixated on your huntress we were talking about what we’re really doing here.”
“My huntress?” Mac sputtered. “I’d sooner have my fur ripped off with hot wax and hand-stitched back in with a rusty needle than spend two minutes alone with her.” He took a swig of his beer. “That female is not fighting with a full armory, my friend.”
Lucan waited, knowing Mac would eventually get to the point of their meeting, and hopefully without any more questions about Briana.
“What do you know about possession?” he finally asked.
“It’s nine-tenths of the law?”
Mac snorted. “I’m talking complete possession of an immortal, and I don’t mean someone being temporarily compelled by magic. I mean full on, get into their skin and drive the boat for a while.”
“I’ve never seen even Rhiannon manage something like that.” Few gods took an interest in immortals beyond Rhiannon’s huntresses. Most of them slept now, which was fine with Lucan. Sleeping gods didn’t grow bored and war with each other out of spite, or look to the immortal races, that they otherwise ignored, to fill their ranks. If Rhiannon wasn’t waiting for Arthur’s return, she too might have lost interest in immortal power struggles.
Mac sighed. “That’s what I thought, but something, or someone, was definitely behind the wheel. The guy had no memory of what happened, just the sensation that he wasn’t alone in his own body or some crazy shit, and then the next thing he knows, he’s breaking stone at sunset on Camelot’s walls.”
“Unfortunate.” Especially since Lucan doubted the unlucky gargoyle had an alliance with Morgana.
Arthur’s sorceress half-sister, Morgana, had laid siege to Camelot with what was left of her army after Arthur’s defeat at the battle of Camlann. She hadn’t even spared time to mourn the loss of her own son before laying claim to the only real home Lucan had ever known.
With casualties in the hundreds, countless wounded and Arthur dying, it had taken too long to rally those who could still fight. By the time they could make a strategic move to stop the sorceress, Morgana had already claimed the throne, killing Arthur’s wife, Guinevere, soon after. Whatever Arthur’s remaining forces—lost without his guidance and leadership—might have been able to accomplish, ceased to matter the second Rhiannon sought retribution for her son’s death.
“You’re late.”
Lucan glanced at three men who joined them. The accusing comment, which had come from Briana’s middle brother, Tristan, was laced with a tolerance he didn’t even pretend to mirror with his expression.
It didn’t matter that Tristan’s mate had survived the assassination attempt Lucan had been bound to carry out. He’d fought the murderous instinct to kill for as long as he could.
The fact that Tristan knew he’d chosen the agony and madness of failing to complete his assignment was likely the only reason the cat hadn’t tried to take him out after their confrontation months ago.
“Let’s take this conversation upstairs.” The suggestion came from Cale, who motioned to the office above.
Lucan followed the others, his gaze lingering only briefly on the bathroom door as they passed it.
“Ass kicking,” Mac hissed under his breath, strategically putting himself between Lucan and the bathroom he was pretty sure Briana had disappeared into.
“How bad is the situation?” Cale closed the office door, sealing the five men inside the rooms overlooking the bar.
Still feeling like something was off, Lucan chose to stay close to the window where he could keep an eye on things.
As if suspecting he knew exactly what Lucan wanted to keep an eye on, Mac joined him by the window. “Too early to tell yet. What have you heard?”
Cale leaned against his desk, his two brothers flanking him. “Same as you, a few very isolated incidents of immortal bodies being commandeered. Sorcha’s waiting to hear back from a few of the huntresses to see what they know.”
Mac surprised Lucan by not even wincing at the mention of the
“For now,” Cale agreed. “Or it could be that other races don’t want to appear weak or vulnerable and are keeping their mouths shut.”
Whispers of another Campaign had every immortal on edge. The last Campaign, the bloodiest war between the gods to date, had nearly destroyed Avalon and took centuries for the immortal population to recover. Already some factions seemed to be aligning for any advantage that could spare them from being a casualty of a power struggle that made the one between Arthur and Morgana look like toddlers fighting over a tricycle.
“Until we know for sure I think we should play our cards close to the vest.”
Cian grinned. “Sure you’re not being a little touchy about huntress involvement after that picture—”
Lucan cut him off before Mac’s growl became more than a good-natured
“I think some people call it loyalty. You should try looking it up.” Tristan crossed his arms, his eyes more animal than human. Everyone in the room knew his comment had nothing to do with loyalty to a goddess, and everything to do with the fact that he hadn’t forgiven Lucan for betraying a centuries-old friendship and attacking
