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My phone bit the dust, and I wasn’t the least bit unhappy about it. I wanted to feel connected with the past, not the present. The sword and what it represented were now a dream remembered, and I was glad to be rid of this phone with its constant demands. I could feel Excalibur’s anxiousness—it glowed slightly still, as if it were about to enter the fray, some battle for which I was not prepared in the slightest. I couldn’t be sure that this time Excalibur would do the heavy lifting. The blade’s magic appeared to be focused on Guinevere. Its hum led me down one street and then another. I found myself in the small village of Kite, according to the broken sign. I saw no one around and wondered about that until I spotted the abandoned textile mill at the edge of town.
Ah, so that’s what happened here. The mill closed down.
The sight saddened me. I thought about Camelot and those hard days when it didn’t rain for months and the ground became so hard we believed we might all starve to death. But the people of Camelot, no, the entire nation came together; we worked hand in hand caring for one another, digging wells, redirecting any remaining streams and rivers until the crisis passed. I thought about Guinevere’s face the day the rains returned. Her tears mingled with the rain as we danced together in the muddy courtyard. We had Alwen the following winter. That had been true joy!
I put the van in park, wondering where to go next. There were no signs of life and no one to ask for directions, only the fleeting shadow of a scurrying feral cat, but Excalibur brightened. Yes, this was the right place. Guinevere had to be here. Wrapping the sword with the cloth, I carried it with me as I began to explore one empty street after another. Excalibur practically shook in my hands. I dropped the cloth and clutched the hilt, thankful I remembered how to hold such a powerful weapon. The front door of the Kite Preparatory School was ajar. Dried leaves were scattered in the foyer, and it was clear there had been no activity in here for a very long while. Could this be right? I walked from room to room and found nothing but broken windows, overturned furniture and the forgotten accouterments of an old school. It was almost fully dark now.
A dangerous time to surprise a vampire.
Guinevere would be hungry when she awakened. I would never forget the sight of my wife launching herself at McAllister’s neck. She took the giant man down quickly and easily. But she’d proven that she would not harm me—she had rescued me from an explosion that would most certainly have taken my life. I had to remind myself of this fact as I searched halls and rooms for her.
“Guinevere,” I whispered. My voice came back to me, and the echo surprised me.
I saw a door at the end of the hallway and hurried toward it as quietly as possible. I opened it and walked down the metal stairs, which groaned and shifted with each step. I paused and shook my head at my own noisiness. Yeah, the Bear of Britain. That was an appropriate name for me; I sure sounded like one. There was a small, dank storage area but not much else to see. Except Excalibur continued to brighten. I walked toward the back of the basement and then spotted the gray metal door. Yes, an old fallout shelter.
“Guinevere, it’s me, Arthur!” I tugged at the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Clearly, the door was locked from the inside. I would have to wait for her to come out. Excalibur began to shake so hard that I could no longer hold it. I laid it down in front of the door and watched it clatter on the ground as if an angry ghost had control of it.
I stepped back in surprise as the blade began to lift from the dirty floor. It moved in circles, faster and faster. What was happening? Faster it spun until the door clicked open and the sword eased back down to the ground. The blade no longer glowed or shook. Cautiously, I picked up Excalibur and pulled open the door, which creaked ominously on its metal hinges. Between the rattling of the sword, my heavy footsteps and the squeaking metal, I did not stand a chance of surprising her.
“Guinevere, it is Arthur.” It was pitch black inside; not a hint of light shone through. I opened the metal door all the way until at least some part of the room was illuminated. I could see her coffin—no, that wasn’t a coffin but some type of stone container, and it was open. The stone lid had been pushed to the side. Obviously, she had to be in here.
Oh, please, Guinevere. I come as your friend.
But then my fear was replaced with sadness. How had she faced life alone all these years, living on the blood of others? Sleeping her days away in this stone bed. How? The Guinevere I knew cried when her kitten died and when a friend suffered; when those who were hurting sought solace from her, she cried along with them. How could she have survived on the killing of others?
“Guinevere?” I approached the tomb. The sword offered no further light and no indication of where I should go or what I should do. Clutching the blade in my sweaty palms, I crept closer and peeked over the side of the stone bed.
Guinevere was gone. I searched the room, but she was not here.
My wife had vanished.
