Magic Undying (Dragon's Gift: The Seeker #1)(45)

“Nope.” He backed the car out of the drive.

“You know where the Museum of Magical History is located?” I asked.

“Yeah. Big building near the old library, right?”

“Exactly.” But it was weird he’d know so well. “How often are you in Magic’s Bend? I never see you around.” And I’d have noticed a guy like him

“Not often, honestly. A housekeeper does my shopping in town, and I know where the museum is but only because I looked it up on my phone. I keep to myself mostly. And my colleagues are demons, so… I’m not around other supernaturals much.”

“Do you like that?”

“It’s all right. Not all demons are evil.”

I glanced at him, remembering how he’d saved me. “No. Maybe not.”



We arrived at the museum thirty minutes later, and I led the way to Dr. Garriso’s office in the back. I’d never actually been here before, but I’d gotten to know Dr. Garriso over the last few months. He’d helped Cass with a few problems, and I was hopeful he’d help me, too.

“Come in, come in.” He opened the back door to the museum. Dr. Garriso was a small man, about seventy, and always sported the tweed coats that made him look like he should be hanging out in the drawing room of some country house in England.

We followed him down the sterile, cold hallway to his office, which immediately transported me to another world. An English country house, in fact. The narrow space was done up like the library in one of those fancy old houses. Bookshelves lined every wall and were stuffed full of leather-bound books that were far older than anyone in the room. It smelled of paper and leather, which was just about the best scent I could imagine.

Colorful Tiffany lamps cast a warm glow on the leather chairs and small wooden tables crowded into the space.

Dr. Garriso’s office was a wonderland.

“Have a seat.” Dr. Garriso gestured to the far end of the room where two plush chairs sat under the window. A smaller wooden chair was pulled up beside the two. “I’ve just put the kettle on.”

I followed Roarke to the chairs. He took the small one, leaving the nicer ones for me and Dr. Garriso, who followed us with a tea tray. He set it on the little table between the chairs, then handed out the cups.

I grinned at Roarke, who delicately cradled the china in his massive hands. He looked like a bull in a china shop, determined not to break anything.

“How can I be of assistance?” Dr. Garriso asked.

I set the tea aside, hoping Dr. Garriso didn’t notice that I hadn’t drunk any. It really wasn’t my thing. I’d try to force down a couple sips in a minute to not be rude.

I dug into my pocket where I’d written Gwenhwyfar’s name on a piece of paper, then handed it to him. “We found a sarcophagus with that name carved on it.”

He squinted down, his spectacles reflecting the low glow of the lamps. He made a tutting sound, then said, “This name looks very familiar. One moment.”

He stood and hurried to the far wall, then climbed a narrow ladder and pulled down a few small books. As he walked back, he’d already started reading them.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “As I thought. Gwenhwyfar is the old Welsh spelling of Guinevere.” His bright gaze lifted and met my own. “You’ve found the grave of Queen Guinevere.”

“As in, King Arthur and Merlin?” I asked. And oh, that was no coincidence at all. First we find the demon at Merlin’s Cave, now at Guinevere’s grave?

I met Roarke’s gaze. He knew exactly what I was thinking.

“Exactly,” Dr. Garriso said.

“I guess the names do sound almost the same,” I said.

“Yes. Many cultures in Britain have myths and stories about Guinevere, Arthur, and Merlin. They are popular figures.”

“Were they real?”

Dr. Garriso shrugged. “In some form, yes, I think. However, there are so many stories and myths that no one knows the truth of them.”

“So, is Arthur buried there as well? Or Lancelot?”

“I do not know,” Dr. Garriso said. “No one knows. There are several places they are purported to be buried. There are so many stories about those figures that it’s as if they lived a dozen lives.”

“Do you know anything about a magical charm that Guinevere might have owned?” I asked. “A pendant she wore around her neck that may have been a concealment charm?”

Dr. Garriso’s eyes brightened, and a grin stretched across his face. I’d never seen him look so excited. “Oh! Did you find one at her grave?”

“Yes. There was one draped around her skeleton’s neck.” Guilt streaked through me, though I hadn’t been the one to push off the lid of her sarcophagus. It’d been the demon. But still, I hated the damage caused to her grave.

“Well, I’ll be.” Dr. Garriso’s eyes took on a distant cast, as if he were reliving a memory. Or a story.

“What do you know?” Roarke asked.

His gaze met ours, pleased as punch. “There are many stories about Queen Guinevere. According to who you ask, be it the Britons or the Picts or the nineteenth century Romanticists, in almost all cases, she is a pawn. She has agency, yes, but not as much as she deserved. As anyone deserves. More often than not, she was used as a plot device to further the stories of the male characters, like Arthur or Mordred or Lancelot. In many cases, she meets a dire end. I never liked those stories. She was in an impossible situation most of the time, given too little credit and too little agency.”