“The Shadowborn have risen in number and in strength. I slew a greater demon who wore the face of a Squire of the Line of Sir Bors. I pledge myself to you for this war and the war beyond, and ask that you do so in kind so that the Table may fight as one, and so I may call on your Scions in life.”

“May the Table always fight as one.” The deep, rumbling voice comes from my right and belongs to a face whose features are not shrouded. The pulse of the dragon on my chest stutters when my heart does.

Lancelot.

The most famous knight of Arthur’s Round Table sits beside me. He is a broad-shouldered man in a pale blue tunic bearing a great golden stag with a crown of antlers that gazes outward in challenge. He has Nick’s coloring, and they favor each other. As I look at Lancelot, the connection I feel to Nick strikes me, familiar and true. I have never seen Nick wear a beard, but I study his ancestor’s to imagine what Nick’s might look like. I wonder if this is a vision of his future, Nick beyond the boy I know. There are half a dozen reasons that I can’t look away from Lancelot, and I don’t fight a single one.

Instead, I lean closer, searching the features within the helmet, looking for Nick, even here. Blue eyes so dark they could be navy peer back at me from either side of a silver noseguard. Lancelot does not retreat, but his head tilts in question. “My liege?”

I shiver. Even his voice affects me like Nick’s does.

“Arthur?” he asks.

And I reply, “Lancelot.”

Call and response. That’s how it is between me and Nick. How it has always been. A bell rung in my chest that answers his. If this vision of the Table is waiting, then this moment with Lancelot is return.

I can’t help it. I reach out to the gloved hand on the table between us. The moment our fingers brush, an electric pulse runs from my chest, down my arm, and sparks to his. Lancelot hisses, draws back—and his face begins to flicker. I gasp, watching the metal helmet glow, go transparent and thin, then go solid again. Back and forth, until it starts to fade.

Then, slowly, the metal bleeds away, taking Lancelot with it, until all that remains is tousled blond hair, a strong brow, and storm-blue eyes.

A face I’d recognize anywhere.

The face I have imagined every day since he’s been gone.

A choked sob escapes me. Here in the waiting place of my forever Oath, my wish has taken shape. And even though I know it is not real, I call for him.

“Nick?” I ask.

And he replies, “Bree.”

PART TWO POWER

13

I SENSE THE warm hand wrapped around my wrist, but still do not believe.