Goddess (Starcrossed)

thought you’d gone home,” Lucas said after a pause.
    “Haven’t been there in days,” Helen said, staring at him greedily. “I figure, why bother when everyone is here?”
    “And more on the way,” he said, suddenly frowning.
    Helen nodded. “The meeting of the Houses. Did you call—”
    “Orion? Yeah,” Lucas said, finishing her sentence. “He’s waiting for us in the library.”
    “What time is it?” Helen asked, and peered blinkingly at the slanted light coming in a nearby window.
    “Past two.” He chuckled at the shocked look on Helen’s face. “Meet us downstairs?” he said as he passed by her and made his way to the staircase. “We need to make plans.”
    “I just need a minute,” Helen said, gesturing to her rumpled clothes and ratty hair.
    “Take your time,” Lucas said. As he walked by on his way down the hall, he bent close to her, running his hand up her arm. His large hand swallowed every curve of her slender muscles, cupping them one by one in the palm of his hand and leaving a trail of goose bumps behind. His skin was so hot on hers, she shivered when his warmth was removed, which it was, far too quickly.
    Helen peeked in on her father first. Jerry still slept deeply, but even standing over him she could hear his heart beating strong and steady. He looked like he was in another world, a peaceful one that he was reluctant to leave. Helen didn’t know if it worked like this or not, but she hoped that if Jerry were merely sleeping, that Morpheus was watching over him.
    Helen ran to the bathroom, conniving to beat Ariadne and Andy to the shower before they got out of bed. She darted in before they’d even started scratching and shut the door behind her with a satisfied smile.
    Helen turned on the tap and started pulling off her clothes, the memory of Lucas’s hand on her arm still burning bright. She showered quickly. While she toweled off, another chance encounter in another dark hallway, centuries ago, billowed up in Helen’s mind like the steam rising off the white tile.
     
    Lancelot had been away from Camelot for many months.
    The Barbarians—big, blond invaders from a land of ice—had kept the Knights of the Round Table busy. Guinevere’s father had fought the Barbarians his entire life, as her father’s father had fought before him. Now, with the marriage between Guinevere and Arthur finalized, the dragon and wolf worshippers from the world of snow were Arthur’s problem and, therefore, the problem of every knight sworn to him in Briton. If Guinevere’s island home was to survive, the Barbarian invasion must be stopped, or every Briton-born would be slaughtered before the year was done.
    Arthur was not prepared for the Berserkers. His men were orderly soldiers, trained in the Roman fashion of warfare. They were not used to the drug-induced trances that the Barbarians employed to send their rabid hordes screaming down on men, woman, and children. The horrors they saw during these barbaric hit-and-run raids were taking a toll on all of Arthur’s men. The knights were outnumbered, and an all-out war was brewing.
    Arthur was still on campaign in the north, trying to find a solution. Lancelot had returned to Camelot two days ago, but Guinevere had not seen him yet. He was avoiding being alone with her, and she suspected it was not just because Arthur was her husband, as they both knew far too well. There was something deeper there, hindering him. Something terrible had happened to him. Guinevere could see it in Lancelot’s eyes—they burned like two freshly blown-out candles. The color was still fierce, but all the heat was gone.
    Guinevere knew she had to talk to Lancelot, set his feet right again, or he would spin away from both his duty and family. It was up to her to fix him, even if it broke her heart to be near him, to see the wounded look on his face as he imagined Arthur in her bed.
    “Lancelot,” Guinevere called, touching his elbow in the dark hallway. She coaxed him gently to turn around and face her. “Please. Talk to me.”
    “Gwen,” he breathed softly, pulling her closer to him. There was a lost look in his eyes, like a little boy. He tugged on her hand, and she followed without a word or thought of protest.
    Lancelot led her away from the main walkway and down a turret alcove that overlooked the dark moors surrounding Camelot. Moonlight streamed into the cross-like shape of the arrow slit, giving enough light so she could see the heavy look of