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“You said your cooking was tragic.”
“I have managed a few dishes over the centuries. Toast and omelets, macaroni and cheese, or soup?”
If it’s taken him over a thousand years to master three easy meals, I don’t want to know how bad his cooking was before. “Toast and omelet would be fine. Cheese, no onions. Mushrooms?”
Marrok nods. “And tomatoes?”
I boot up, shocked to find a nearby Wi-Fi network, and begin to configure the computer. “Please. With coffee!”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m surfing while devouring a breakfast that isn’t half bad and coffee strong enough to kill an ox. Trying not to choke, I access my web-based email. The picture of the symbol has arrived, along with a dozen other messages of virtually no importance. Skipping them, I draft a message to a half-dozen professors, historians, and museum curators. We’ll see if any of them turns up something.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“What’s it like, being alive for so long?” I can hardly wrap my mind around it. He’s immortal. One of my favorite TV shows in college was about a gorgeous immortal, but he’s fanged.
“Wait! You’re not a vampire, are you?” I cover my throat with my hands.
“Indeed not! I spilled blood, not drank it.”
“Whew! Good to know. If you’re immortal, that means you’ve seen every major change to come civilization’s way. All the inventions…”
“Imagine my surprise to find out that the earth is, indeed, round,” he drawls.
I laugh. “What do you think of TV?”
“Loud and annoying.”
Really? I love it. “Cars?”
He recoils. “I despise them.”
Guess that means he doesn’t drive. I haven’t really mastered steering on the left side of the road, so that makes us even. “Ever been on an airplane?”
“Bloody hell, if God meant for us to fly, wench, he would have given us wings!”
His answer gives me the giggles again. “Come on, you must admit some things are better these days. Medicine? Running water? Electricity?”
“As someone who lived through three centuries of the plague, I can heartily say I wish medicine had advanced faster. Running water and electricity are vast improvements.”
“Social media?”
He recoils. “I would rather have another century of plague.”
In some ways, I don’t disagree. “Strip clubs?”
“Where women disrobe for strangers who throw money at them?” He scowls. “Never bothered.”
That makes sense. If he couldn’t orgasm, why get all wound up?
Silence invades the small room. I fidget with the computer, but Marrok’s unwavering stare distracts me. I can actually feel his desire for me. Does the connection I don’t understand force him to want me…or are his feelings organic? Does he know the difference?
Sighing, I open a browser and google Morgana Le Fay, as well as any symbols associated with her. I find drawings of a mystical witch wielding magical instruments and stuff about a Grail quest, but I see no mention of a symbol on a book. I scan the entries about the legendary woman—her vast power, her cruelty, her varying roles in the stories of Camelot, depending on who wrote them and when. And descriptions of a great beauty with white-blond hair and violet eyes. Looking at her renderings, I see a startling resemblance.
“Marrok, all my life, I’ve been told my eyes are unusual. Less than one percent of people have violet eyes, so why would I share them, along with the exact birthmark, of a woman born forever ago?”
He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I did not give you enough credit for connecting the dots. According to Bram’s aunt, your eyes and that birthmark are throwback genes. You are Morgana’s descendant. Several generations removed, of course.”
“How is that possible? My mother was as American as apple pie and refused to read, watch, or discuss anything with even the slightest bit of ‘woo-woo.’ I wasn’t allowed Harry Potter or Twilight books or to play with a Ouija board at sleepovers. She forbid me to see movies based on myth or legend.”
