"It is-" She was going to say beautiful, but that wasn't right. Her father's sword had been long and graceful-a weapon designed for beauty as well as function. This was different. "Powerful."
"No gems, no gold or glittery parts." Arthur sounded pleased.
"It doesn't need them." The impulse to touch it was strong, but she kept her hands behind her back.
"The sword wasn't the only weapon that Arthur carried," Arthur said, his voice fervid with passion. "Just the most famous. There was the Sword in the Stone, which recognized Arthur as rightful king. That is probably also the sword known as Clarent, which was used to bestow authority-such as kingship or rank. Some of the early Welsh tales mention the dagger, Carnwennen, with which he slew the Very Black Witch."
A buzzer sounded. Sunny let out a squeak, checked her watch, and ran out of the room ranting about timers and burnt offerings.
"Your mate is lovely," said Charles.
"She is," Arthur said. "She brings me joy." He touched the handle of his sword. "Excalibur is over fifteen hundred years old, and she will be with me another fifteen hundred years. My Sunny..." He swallowed. "My Sunny is dying slowly every day."
It was late when they left. To Anna's relief, the evening had passed mostly without incident. She'd been worried that Charles's earlier mood would continue, but he'd been perfectly civil over dinner.
He hadn't said much, but when Arthur ran out of King Arthur stories, he managed to get the British wolf talking about the difficulties the CCTVs-the cameras that Great Britain was installing all over the place to keep an eye on her citizens-were causing the werewolves.
"Well," she said, as they approached the battered Toyota, "that was almost civil-"
The man who'd been sitting behind the shrubbery rose a little stiffly. She recognized his scent a moment later and swallowed the sound she'd been about to make.
"Michel," said Charles.
She'd met him in the restaurant last night, but without the others around, she read him better. Alpha, but not very dominant. In her old pack, the Chicago Pack, he might have ranked halfway up, but no more than that. His face was battered and his blackened eyes said that someone had broken his nose. He was healing, but for some that happened more slowly than others. He hadn't straightened all the way up and had an arm over his stomach.
"Charles," he said in a low voice. "The Beast took my cell phone, and I wasn't sure how else to contact you."
"What do you need?"
The Frenchman shook his head. "Came to deliver a warning to you. Your mate, he wants her. You understand? He kills women and the innocent-and he has fastened on her as a victim. He thirsts for her. You must keep her out of his way if you can."
"Thank you for your warning," said Charles. "Come, we'll give you a ride wherever you need to go."
But the French wolf took a step back. "No. If I return smelling like you, he will kill me."
"But not if you smell like me," said Arthur.
Anna hadn't heard him, but neither of the other wolves were surprised.
"I found you hurt by the side of the road," continued Arthur, glancing at the street that ran past the end of the driveway. He made a soft sound between his teeth. "For shame, Jean, not taking better care of your wolves." He looked at Charles. "By the time I finish with him, Jean will be so enraged with me he will forget about hurting Michel."
"He hates you, too," Michel warned him, even though his acceptance of the plan was evident in his face.
"He always has. I am not afraid of him," said Arthur. And no one told him that they knew it was a lie. Even Anna could tell he was afraid.
He looked at Charles. "You go to your hotel. I'll feed him something that bleeds to help him heal. Then I'll get him back to his den unharmed."
With a sharp nod, Charles rounded the car to get in the passenger side. Anna opened her door, then said, "King Arthur was said to be a brave man, too."
He feared, but took care of the weaker, less dominant wolf-even though Michel was an Alpha in his own right.
"A good man, our Arthur," said Charles softly, as she backed onto the street. "Even if he's quite mad north-northwest. At least the wind is usually southerly."
Shakespeare. "He usually knows a hawk from a hand-saw?" she threw in, so he'd know she recognized his allusion. "You don't believe he is Arthur?"
He smiled a little. "Most of the old wolves are mad about something. For our British monarch-it is King Arthur. A relatively benign madness. I much prefer it to Chastel's."
"Arthur's not as old as you," she was certain of it.
"No. But he is old enough."
SHE wasn't pouting. Anna sucked in her bottom lip, crossed her legs, and wiggled her toes. She'd agreed to wait someplace safe during the next round of meetings. Charles didn't want to risk sending her out on her own again-and she didn't want to risk anyone else's life. Tom would be fine, but he was still stiff and sore this morning-and Moira had still been sleeping, utterly exhausted, when Anna checked on them.
She'd tried again to sit beside Charles and relax, but there were so many strangers who were staring at her...
She'd flagged down Angus, who took her upstairs to his own offices, a floor up from the auditorium. He'd ushered her into his private sanctuary, then shut the door, having instructed her to lock it. Dead-bolted, the steel door probably wouldn't keep out a determined werewolf, but it would give her time to use her cell phone and call for help.
Angus's office was far from Purgatory. There was a TV and a couch in addition to his desk and his ridiculously luxurious office chair. There were magazines, and she had brought a book to read.