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  Guinevere Unconquered

  Lost Camelot Series

  Book Two

  By M.L. Bullock

  Text copyright © 2018 Monica L. Bullock

  All rights reserved

  Then, in the boyhood of the year,

  Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere

  Rode thro’ the coverts of the deer,

  With blissful treble ringing clear.

  She seem’d a part of joyous Spring;

  A gown of grass-green silk she wore,

  Buckled with golden clasps before;

  A light-green tuft of plumes she bore

  Closed in a golden ring.

  Now on some twisted ivy-net,

  Now by some tinkling rivulet,

  In mosses mixt with violet

  Her cream-white mule his pastern set;

  And fleeter now she skimm’d the plains

  Than she whose elfin prancer springs

  By night to eery warblings,

  When all the glimmering moorland rings

  With jingling bridle-reins.

  As she fled fast thro’ sun and shade,

  The happy winds upon her play’d,

  Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

  She look’d so lovely, as she sway’d

  The rein with dainty finger-tips,

  A man had given all other bliss,

  And all his worldly worth for this,

  To waste his whole heart in one kiss

  Upon her perfect lips.

  Excerpt from Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere

  Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1842

  For all those who believe in Camelot.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One—Guinevere

  Chapter Two—Guinevere

  Chapter Three—Arthur/Luke

  Chapter Four—Arthur

  Chapter Five—Guinevere

  Chapter Six—Arthur

  Chapter Seven—Guinevere

  Chapter Eight—Arthur

  Chapter Nine—Guinevere

  Chapter Ten—Guinevere

  Chapter Eleven—Arthur

  Chapter Twelve—Guinevere

  Chapter Thirteen—Arthur

  Chapter Fourteen—Arthur

  Chapter Fifteen—Arthur

  Chapter Sixteen—Guinevere

  Chapter Seventeen—Guinevere

  Chapter Eighteen—Guinevere

  Chapter One—Guinevere

  Criminals were easy to find—in fact, they were practically crawling out of the woodwork of this village. Take this one, for example, a big greasy man with ugly tattoos and a shaved head. He was not the one I had come looking for at the White Stag Tavern, but he would make a suitable replacement. The Oaf, for that seemed an appropriate name for him, gripped my wrist and grinned at me, showing white, perfectly aligned teeth. I supposed that was meant to be threatening, but his teeth were certainly not as sharp as mine.

  “You needn’t look any further, Ginger. I’m all the man you need.” Nobody seemed to notice the Oaf’s behavior, or if they did, they were too intimidated by his size and attitude to do anything about it. I didn’t flinch as he squeezed harder; I couldn’t let the challenge go. It was not in my nature to be passive, to let things happen to me. Not anymore.

  I laughed in his stupid face. “Who says I’m looking for a man?” He dropped my hand in disgust. Oh yes, this one had a true hatred for women, especially for women who didn’t care for a man’s company. Little did he know that sex was the last thing on my mind. It was blood I craved with every fiber of my being. Reading his mind, I could see violence, his past crimes unrolling like a horror movie. Yes, he didn’t just imagine cruelty; he was an offender in the truest sense of the word. His crimes were intended to demean and punish his female victims. He had not yet killed, but he had the potential and would likely do so eventually.

  And I was starving.

  He turned back to his beer while I scanned the room attempting to identify my original target; Omar Sadiq was his name, and he had killed many in his young life. The blood of his victims hovered around him like a screaming cloud. How strange to think that mortals did not understand the mysteries of blood power. But then, what had I known beyond the empty rituals of my childhood?

  Sadiq...I called with my mind.

  Nothing. Any mortal who heard a strange voice in his mind would certainly react. He was not here, or I would certainly have found him. I had to feed! I tapped the Oaf—Leif was his true name—on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Perhaps you can help me after all.”

  With a disgusted glance over his shoulder, he growled, “Get lost!” A round of laughter echoed through the dark tavern. My mind swam with angry black bees. I was so hungry I could have killed everyone in here. In the early days of my curse, I could do such a thing without thinking about it, but things were different now. I was different. Humans took murder much more seriously these days, and I had others to think about.

  Arthur! I am so lonely!

  Then I felt Sadiq walk, no, run behind me and then out of the tavern. How was that possible? How could he, a mere mortal, hide from me? And how did he know I was searching for him? I moved so quickly after him that the people in the tavern must have believed I’d simply vanished. Sadiq had barely rounded the corner before I grabbed him by the neck and dragged him into the woods behind the tavern. He screamed but only briefly, for I was on him like a feral cat on a crippled mouse. I ignored his thoughts, thoughts of home and his mother and his god.

  I drank until he was nearly dead, settled back on my haunches and let the warmth of his blood strengthen me. I didn’t have long to linger, for I heard a man’s voice, no, make that several men’s voices—and one was the Oaf!

  “Yeah, she couldn’t have gone far. Not in those heels. Check over there! Hey, Ginger!”

  What a buffoon! But I had no time for more killing. And despite my nature, I took only what I needed, no more. I’ll be back for you, Leif.

  With that thought and a smile, I flew through the forest, ignoring the wayward branches that slapped my face and arms until I reached the highway. I was so satiated I did not feel a thing. There were no cars coming, so I walked across the narrow road and into the abandoned village of Kite. A homeless family had been staying there recently, but I did not care as long as they kept away from my kistvaen. They were harmless enough, though they did have a tendency to steal.

  I’d taken up residence in the fallout shelter in the abandoned school. It locked from the inside and had everything I needed to survive: darkness and privacy. Moving the kistvaen had been tricky, but I’d found someone to help me: a criminal named Lucas, whom I quickly killed afterward.

  Slinging off my jacket and shoes, I closed the door behind me and with a wave of my hand moved the stone lid off my resting place. I settled down inside, my heart still beating hard from my recent kill. By taking blood so close to my rest period, I would certainly dream. I hoped for dreams. At least in my dreams, I could take the chance of seeing Arthur again without fear of his disapproval, his disgust. He must wonder what happened to me. Best to leave him alone.

  I waved my hand again. The stone lid moved, the surrounding darkness comforting me.

  I entered the dream realm easily and quickly. I did not need to struggle or demand entry as I sometimes had to. And no memories of the past crowded in, demanding for me to remember them.

  I slipped into this dream like one would fall into a silk dress.

  Yes, I dreamed, and it was a dark dream.

  I dreamed I sat on a throne of black stone—black stone washed in blood. This was Camelot; I was residing in the court, but it was not the Camelot I remembered. Before me were rows and rows of mortals, their wrists bleeding, their heads bowed. They whispered my name longingly, offering themselves to me. I knew my eyes were glistening; my hands gripped the arms of the chair as I steeled my resolve. I would not indulge.

  I was not alone. I heard a woman’s voice in my ear saying, “Drink your fill, Queen Guinevere. Listen! The sword calls you. It longs for you to claim it, as is your right—you are married to it. You love it above all others. Don’t you?” The mortals vanished. Ah! They were never here! This was a trick of some kind.

  A spark shone in the darkness, then a low glimmer and then a bright light. In the center of that bright light was Excalibur, beautiful and powerful.

  “Morgan?”

  No answer came, but she was near—not Morgan, someone else. I was not fearful. I was strong, stronger than ever before, strong enough to wield the sword. Excalibur wanted me to hold it, love it. I knew that. With Excalibur in my hand, I could once again rule Camelot. I would feel human again. But how? I was a vampire, and Camelot no longer existed! Nothing could change either of those facts.

  “No, Undead Queen, Camelot exists still, and it is yours to claim. She would not tell you this, the one who tricked you.” The woman’s voice had a strange accent. It reminded me of the tongue of the Northmen of old. “The sword has the power to change you. I will show you how. I know its secret.”

  I gasped at her answer. “Now take the sword!” she exhorted me.

  My quivering hands reached for it, but I paused.

  Arthur! I will not betray you! I will not take what is yours!

  And then I heard the woman growl, and the dream rolled away like a carpet tugged out from beneath my feet.

  Excalibur was gone, and I fell into the blackness that awaited me.

  Chapter Two—Guinevere

  My first thought upon waking was not Art
hur but Excalibur. This should not be. I pondered my dream and the voice I heard. Whoever my temptress was, she must be the source of my intense urge to hold the sword of power once again. Moving the stone lid back with fading strength, I rose from my kistvaen. I needed to dress and prepare myself to appear more human, for convenience’s sake. I now kept a trunk full of modern clothing and a few other supplies I would need to blend in, such as an empty Italian leather purse and a growing collection of sunglasses.

  I had to get to the bottom of this new and troubling dream. Some time ago, a replica of Excalibur had appeared at the Saint James Museum, a replica so strikingly true to the original that only a person who knew the sword could have created it. Everything from the runes on the blade to the finely made hilt had to have been forged from memory, not pulled from mere imagination. Its creator knew the sword intimately, and I needed to know who that was.

  Brushing my dark red hair into shining waves, I thought about the museum’s curator, Dr. John Faraday. He had a pleasant mind, and although I had never talked to him before, I planned on doing so tonight. I must have answers! I settled on black clothing: a long black jacket, black pants and black high heels. I didn’t need a mirror to tell me that the color suited me. I hoped to blend in if I could. I knew my eyes glittered too much and my skin was too pale, but the Saint James Museum luckily wasn’t a bright facility.

  Arthur! my heart said, but I quickly forced him out of my mind. Why did I long for him so much of late?

  I walked through Kite first and left the money I’d taken from Sadiq lying on a dirt pathway where I knew the homeless family would find it. It would not absolve me of my crimes, the robbery and murder of a man, and I did not know why I cared about this family. I did not wish to care about anyone. Not even my own husband.

  I went in the opposite direction of the White Stag, back to the road that would take me to the museum. A bus stopped, and I climbed aboard as I slid my dark sunglasses down over my shiny eyes. I dropped a few coins in the fare box, sat in an empty front seat and waited impatiently as the bus crept away from the curb. Life was slow in the mortal realm, but I needed this bus trip to prepare myself for my interaction with Faraday. A child cried somewhere behind me; the boy had an ear infection but was too young to explain his pain to his mother, who was preoccupied with her phone. A young girl listened to screaming rock in her headphones. She thought of nothing, really. A man dreaded his upcoming office party. He hoped he could avoid telling his wife about it, as she tended to drink too much and publicly embarrass him. But then this one...

  Inhuman!

  I wrenched around in the seat and counted heads. There was the child, his mother, the teen and the man...ah, and there was one more. A woman with dark hair and a hat.

  Morgan?

  Could it be my mortal enemy? Had she survived the explosion at the mine? I rose from my seat and made my way to the back as the bus stopped. Both doors opened, and the woman slipped out and quickly walked away. This could be no coincidence. I clutched the side of the seat and debated whether to follow her. I probably should. I could easily fly the distance to Old Thistledown Road and the Saint James Museum.

  “Lady, you have to sit down,” the bus driver scolded me as he closed the doors. I did as he asked, and the bus lurched away again. All was quiet now, and we continued along until we arrived at Old Thistledown. I departed the bus and headed down the empty sidewalk to the museum. There was usually little traffic, but tonight there were a dozen vehicles parked in front of the museum. People were talking to one another, muttering, complaining, shaking their heads. Obviously, something was going on inside. Perhaps a new exhibit? I walked inside and didn’t immediately head upstairs as I usually did when I came to this place. How many hours had I spent in the presence of Lancelot’s statue? But there would be no visits tonight.

  The auditorium doors were open. It was not an exhibit but a lecture. I walked inside and took a seat in the back. There were many open seats here tonight. Faraday was standing behind his wooden podium, and behind him a screen displayed the title of his speech: “Multi-Dimensionalism: An Unstudied Reality?” The subject matter spooked a few of the attendees, who were whispering about Faraday’s statements. I could read the feeble human minds of those who did not whisper, and they were afraid too. So stubborn, so sure they knew everything there was to know. I leaned back in my seat in the small, shadowy auditorium and focused my attention on the lecturer, John Faraday.

  “I think we would all agree that conventional teaching tells us time is divided into past, present and future. But how do we know that, and why do we accept it without challenge? If we use that model, it would appear that the past is immutably fixed and, conversely, that the future is undefined and the only true reality is the present, the one we exist in all the time. It is a line of thinking that comforts us. Under this construct, with the passing of time, the present moves to the past and the future becomes the new present.”

  “You’re talking about the Theory of Relativity, aren’t you?” an older woman asked as she leaned forward in her seat.

  “Yes, in a way.” Faraday smiled, and I could tell her question invigorated him. He did love to teach, though this crowd had largely dismissed him before he got started. I tried not to read their minds further. The woman who questioned him wanted to believe him, or at least hear him out.

  “What I am saying, Dr. Lightfoot, is that the possibility of multi-dimensionalism is a valid one, just as the Theory of Presentism is. It is no less valid.”

  “Presentism? People who believe in presentism would say that only the present exists and that there is no future. That seems counterintuitive. Are you advocating that we accept this fringe theory?” someone else asked. I couldn’t read the man very well, as his mind was full of unsolved equations and an endless list of tasks he needed to achieve. Yes, he was certainly task-oriented, but he was also not in the best of health.

  “No, I am not an advocate of presentism specifically. I merely used that as an example because...”

  “So, your belief in multi-dimensionalism is based on what?”

  “It’s not a belief per se...”

  “Have you been to other dimensions, Dr. Faraday?” I asked. Faraday removed his glasses and peered up at me. I hadn’t meant to ask a question, but it seemed appropriate. Apparently, I asked the question that everyone wanted an answer to. A few people laughed at me, but their dismissive attitudes rolled over me like water. I knew things they would never understand.

  “Well, no. Of course not.” He blushed and wiped his glasses with shaking hands. He was lying, or at least not being completely honest, and that surprised me. “But the possibility of my existence in another dimension is no less fascinating. And it should be fascinating to us all. Think of the possibilities! What if one day we were able to step back or forward in time, to break the barriers and travel to past, present and future—or sidestep into another dimension?”

  “Time doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid,” Dr. Lightfoot said. “If it did, we would certainly know about it by now, wouldn’t we?”

  “Would we?” Faraday smiled even more broadly and said, “What if our consciousness can’t make the leap? What if our existence in other dimensions—or rather, every one of our dimensional realities—comes with a different consciousness? So all that we know, all that we understand, remains with that existence?”

  I found his comments fascinating, but I was in the minority. What if it was true? Could there be another Guinevere somewhere? I shuddered for no apparent reason. Soon some of the remaining attendees got up and walked out of the auditorium. Faraday stuttered on until only he, Dr. Lightfoot and I remained. Lightfoot sauntered over to him slowly, using her cane to steady her stride. She shook his hand and spoke a few words of encouragement to him, smiled politely at me and left.

  Faraday unplugged his laptop and began picking up his books as I listened in on his thoughts. It was rude, but I couldn’t help myself. I found the man sincere and honest, and that was refreshing. He felt embarrassed and discouraged but nonetheless convinced that he was on to something. “I think our meeting is over, miss.”

  I made my way down the auditorium to him, remembering to walk slowly and not fly. “Apparently coming out as a multi-dimensionalist is quite sensational, Dr. Faraday,” I said as I watched him, “perhaps far more sensational than you could have predicted.”