Knight of Darkness (2 page)

Glastonbury Abbey was a cesspit of human filth and
debauchery. But back in the day when Avalon and Camelot had been part of the human world, it’d been a marvel of engineering and beauty. The ribbed vaulting of the nave had been painted bright colors and gilded until it shone like the very sun. The stained-glass windows had been a riot of color that caught every ray of sunshine before spilling it in brilliant rainbows against the stone floors.

People had journeyed from all over just for a chance to see it. The monks who’d called it home had taken great care to keep up its beauty. Their voices had once rung out in a capella chants like an angelic choir.

But that was then.

Now it existed in a shadowy realm where there was no color at all, only shades of dismal
gray. And it had been brought here by sheer accident.

In the original plan, only Camelot and Avalon were supposed to have been taken behind the veil to conceal them from the world of mankind in order to protect that world from the evil that had infected this one. But Damé Fortune wasn’t always kind, and Glastonbury, along with her prestigious abbey, had been taken behind the veil, too.

Unaware of what was happening on that fateful night when Avalon and Camelot were concealed, numerous men and women had been caught in the middle of this battle and been trapped here, out of time. In the human world, their families had assumed they’d run off or died. But in this world, they still lived through the centuries and remembered a time when their world had been vast and they could leave Glastonbury or Camelot as they pleased.

But that was lost to them.

Banned by accident from the realm of Avalon, their only choice now was to live in Glastonbury or to venture into the lands of Camelot, which were fraught with evil beings who lived only to torture and kill those foolish enough to approach them.

For obvious reason, the occupants of Glastonbury chose to stay in the limited neutral zone. Yet with every passing year, their neutrality dwindled, and the inhabitants were beginning to look more and more like the twisted souls who called
Camelot home. It was a shame really. At one time, they’d been mostly decent people. But then, in times of war, it was always the innocent who suffered most, and in this war, they were the innocent bystanders who’d been caught between the two most powerful forces on earth.

If one stood in the northernmost tower of the abbey or the Tor, they could glimpse the division of the lands. To the left was the curtain of light and color that delineated Avalon. To the right was the dark gray world that was Morgen’s Camelot.

It should be easy to cross the line of demarcation. But looks were definitely deceiving. To the soulless and damned beings who lived in Camelot, the light of Avalon was truly painful. It burned so much that only a small handful of them could bear it.

For those who lived in Avalon, the darkness was something to fear. It was said that any who dared to venture to it would be consumed by it. To live in darkness was to surrender all that was good inside you. The Dark was a vicious mistress who demanded the sacrifice of morals and decency.

And in the middle of those two lands was this one. Banished to eternal night, there was no color here, any more than there was in Camelot. The sky fluctuated from black to a drab gray. Days blurred together as the townsfolk tried to find any solace from their fate that they could.

But there wasn’t much to be had.

And just like the inhabitants of Camelot, they, too, despised those who lived in Avalon.

At one time Merewyn of Mercia had lived in the realm of the light. Not in Avalon itself, for that was something she’d never even known existed. No, she’d lived in the land of Mercia as a princess. More beautiful even than Helen of Troy, she’d been the most sought after girl of her time and had been forced to watch men kill one another just for a chance to see her smile.

She’d hated every minute of it. And when her father had told her that the time had come for her to marry a man who saw nothing more than her beauty, she’d summoned one of the creatures that called the darkness home. With magick best left untouched, she’d conjured one of the Adoni—an elfin race so cruel that even demons feared them.

In the light of a full moon, Merewyn had made a bargain that had haunted her ever since. She’d traded her beauty for freedom, or so she thought. A sore bargain that, for Merewyn had had no idea of the repercussions that would come.

Now she was in the abbey, hidden behind a wall with her mistress—the very being who’d stolen her beauty and enslaved her.

She ached to know what they were doing here in the bar, but didn’t dare ask. Her mistress didn’t tolerate questions. Then again, her mistress tolerated very little.

With an envious eye, she stared at her mistress’s
long, curly, blond hair. All of the Adoni were beautiful, but even by their exceptional standards Narishka stood out. Petite and curvy, she was what every man dreamed of touching and what every woman dreamed of being. Except for the blackness of her soul, which was only matched by that of her heart.

“Get me more wine, worm.”

Merewyn blinked at the unexpected order. That delayed reaction cost her as Narishka backhanded her.

“Are you deaf as well as ugly, chit? Move!”

Her cheek stinging, Merewyn grabbed the goblet from in front of Narishka and scurried away before her mistress struck her again. She hated her limping gait that was caused by one leg being shorter than the other—an accident that had happened the only time she’d ever tried to escape her cruel mistress.

She glanced back through the wall to see if Narishka was watching her, but she couldn’t tell. The wall completely concealed Narishka’s presence.

“Watch where you’re going, hag!”

She stiffened at the harsh words of the knight she’d almost brushed against in her haste. “Beg pardon, sir.”

Still he shoved her away from him, into the back of another man. Turning, the man cursed and screwed his features up in distaste as he saw her hideously pockmarked face and matted hair.

“Get off me, you heinous gorgon.”

Then he, too, shoved her away, into a table where a group of men were dicing. This time her collision caused drink to spill all over the man whose arm she bumped. Cursing, he rose from his chair, twisting a circular dagger on his index finger as he glared his hatred at her.

Merewyn tensed in expectation of the dagger slicing through her body. But just as he would have plunged it into her, he was spun about to confront another man. One who held her attacker’s hand and dagger so that they were harmless.

Her jaw went slack. Not from fear, but from speechless awe. The newcomer was tall and lean with the greenest eyes she’d ever seen in her life. As clear as a scrying crystal, they seemed to glow from a face that was so perfectly sculpted he should be Adoni. Indeed, he had the lethal manner of that race, but no Adoni would ever bother saving something like her.

His curly black hair brushed against his shoulders in a haphazard manner that said he wasn’t one to be overly concerned with his looks—as did the whiskers that darkened his tanned cheeks and accentuated the slight cleft in his chin.

Without a word, he used his studded vambrace to twist the dagger from her would-be attacker’s hand and knocked him back. The man staggered against the table, then rushed toward her savior. But before he could reach him, another man shoved him away.

“That’s Varian duFey you’re attacking, Hugh. Think long and hard.”

Merewyn snapped her jaw shut at the name that was legendary among the evil beings who called Camelot home. It was said he was demonspawn who lived on the blood of his enemies. That he’d sold his soul to the devil or Tuatha Dé Danann so that no man would ever be able to defeat him in battle. That he’d killed his own brother just so that he could learn Adoni magick and feed his own powers. But even worse, it was said that he knew magick so black that even Morgen feared him.

Those were only a few of the numerous stories that told of his insatiable cruelty.

And by the evil twist of his lips as he watched Hugh like a man eyeing a fly he intended to kill, she could believe every one.

“What’s the matter, Hugh?” Varian taunted in a deep resonant tone that went down her spine like warm velvet. “You only attack those who can’t fight back? What say you try to carve me a little?”

Hatred flared in Hugh’s eyes, but he knew better than to respond. Rumor claimed Varian duFey used the entrails of his victims as laces for his boots and armor. He was one of the few beings who could walk between Avalon and Camelot because neither Merlin nor Morgen dared to confront him.

Hugh spat on the ground before he sheathed his dagger at his waist and retook his seat.

Varian glanced around at the others, who were
frozen in tense stances. And as his gaze fell to each one, they looked away nervously before they returned to what they’d been doing. That alone spoke volumes about the man’s skill and powers.

She saw the satisfaction in Varian’s crystal green eyes before he bent to pick up the goblet she’d dropped on the floor.

To her complete shock, he handed it to her, and if she didn’t know better, she’d swear his face actually softened as his gaze met hers. Still, she noted the pity in his eyes as he saw how deformed she was. “You’d best be on your way, lass. A little more carefully this time.”

The single word that acknowledged her as a woman and not a hag went through her with a giddy rush. It’d been centuries since any man had looked at her with anything other than complete disgust in his gaze. Countless centuries since one had called her anything other than “hag,” “crone,” or some other insult.

Bowing to him, she quickly scurried away to complete her errand. But she couldn’t resist a quick glance back to where he was making his way toward the bartender. He’d already forgotten her, but she would never forget him or the kindness he’d shown her.

Varian took a stance at the end of the bar with his back against the wall. A force of habit that came from having so many people around him who’d rather slide a knife into his spine than speak to
him. He liked to keep his eye on the crowd at all times.

And speaking of, he found his gaze traveling over the angry patrons to find the gnarled crone he’d saved. She walked with a limping gait and was hunched over with a large hump on her back. Her black hair was matted and unkempt. But it was her face that bore the tragedy of her life. Scarred by the pox, she had a lazy eye and an overly large nose. Her lips were twisted and swollen, and given to so much moisture that she was constantly having to wipe them on the back of her hand. If not for the fact that she was here in Glastonbury and was so obsequious, he’d think her one of the twisted graylings who served Morgen.

Poor thing to be stuck here with people who were so concerned with their own bitterness that they had no pity to spare for anyone else.

“What are you doing here?”

Varian looked back at Dafyn, who eyed him with malice…and that cut him soul deep. Centuries ago, Dafyn, who was a large, stout man with round, whiskered jowls, had owned a small tavern in Glastonbury. And as he raked Varian with a sneer, Varian remembered the first day they’d met. Varian had been seven, and his mother had just abandoned him on his father’s doorstep. Neither parent had wanted him, so he’d decided to run away and strike out on his own.

He’d only made it as far as the tavern when, exhausted from his long hike from the castle to town,
he’d sat down just beside the door. Dafyn had seen him panting there and asked him what he was doing. As soon as Varian had explained, he’d offered him work. “Well, if you’re to be on your own, lad, you’ll be needing coin. I have floors that need be swept, and I could definitely use a taster to make sure my bread is the best in town before I serve it to clients. What say you work for me?”

Thinking that his life was about to improve greatly, Varian had gratefully accepted.

Of course his father had found him a few hours later. He’d boxed Varian’s ears for leaving and forced him back to Camelot against his will. But as Varian had grown to manhood, he’d often found himself back in the tavern, spending time with Dafyn.

Until the night the veil had come down and Dafyn had discovered himself trapped on this side while his family was still in the human world. The pain, grief, and bitterness of that had ruined a good man, and now Dafyn, like all the others here, would kill him if he had a chance.

Varian opened the small leather purse at his waist and pulled out twenty gold marks. “There was a man murdered outside the abbey last night.”

Dafyn curled his lip as he took the coin and pocketed it. “There’s always a murder here. So what?”

“This was one of the Lords of Avalon.”

“And again I say so what?”

Varian ground his teeth before he pulled out more gold pieces and placed them on the bar in front of Dafyn. “Nothing happens in or near the abbey that you don’t know about it. Tell me who killed him.”

Dafyn’s brown eyes actually lightened a bit as he scraped the pile of coins from the counter and put them in his pocket. “Bracken was leading them.”

That name actually gave Varian pause. Bracken was one of the more lethal MODs Morgen commanded—though the term “commanded” was used loosely since the MODs had eaten their last master, the god Balor. They more or less had a tenuous contract with Morgen of “we’ll serve you only so long as you keep the gods from killing us and don’t annoy us too much.” At the end of the day, there was no doubt that they could kill her easily enough, but the last thing the MODs wanted was to be turned out to face the wrath of the entire Tuatha Dé Danann. That particular group of Celtic gods were known for their viciousness.

And Bracken’s involvement didn’t bode well for Varian since he’d be the one questioning the demon who didn’t like to be questioned at all.

Suddenly, Dafyn’s gaze went over Varian’s shoulder and narrowed.

A fissure of power rippled up Varian’s spine, and even though magick was neutralized in the abbey—which was why Dafyn had moved his tavern within its walls—he knew the person
approaching him was extremely “gifted.” And it was a mark of power he recognized immediately as Dafyn made himself scarce.