Chapter One
“ H ave you seen this exhibit yet?” Charles asked as he led me through the atrium to where our British history exhibits were.
I shot the man a look that I hoped translated to: ‘I literally work here and have had a hand in designing and updating most of the exhibits here, of course I’ve seen the exhibit about the Bronze age, are you stupid?’
But instead I feigned ignorance and shook my head. “No, I usually work in other parts of the museum.”
It was a lie, of course, but Trini had asked me to play nice with my date and I really wanted her to buy my takeaway for the next month and going on this date had been the deal.
“I see, it is really very unique what you do,” the alpha continued, shooting me a toothy grin that made my skin crawl. “You’ll have to explain it to me as we walk.”
I’d known that he wasn’t for me the moment he’d shown up late to the cafe we were supposed to meet at and had proceeded to harass the waiter until he’d realized I’d gotten there first.
Then he’d given me the limpest handshake known to man and had hurried me out of the shop to his planned destination… which had been, surprise, surprise, my place of work.
I think he thought that it would be cheeky— or some other British colloquialism for the word funny—to take me to the place I worked at.
When he led me around the corner earlier I was sure that he was joking and had planned something—anything—else for us to do. But no. The man had bought us tickets and proceeded to walk me through the museum like he was one of the docents rather than my date.
Which was odd because I was pretty sure the man hadn’t sat in a history class since secondary school.
Or, at least, I was pretty sure how British schooling worked. I still struggled with understanding the school system here, even after a year of living in London a lot of it still didn’t make sense to me.
Trini liked to joke that even though I’d picked up my entire life in Washington that I still acted just as American as the day I stepped off of the plane and she was the only one who would dare make that joke with me.
Most of the people we worked with tended to give me a wide berth as I was probably one of the quietest members on staff.
My goal every day was to go to work, do my work, and go home to a plate of delicious Indian takeaway and back to marathoning all of the old seasons of Love Island. Which, in my opinion, made a whole hell of a lot more sense than the date I was subjecting myself to.
At least the betas on that show were able to couple and uncouple when things weren’t working out. I’d been looking for an escape route for the last hour and had yet to figure one out. I wished I had a firepit uncoupling session so that I could run screaming from the museum and at least enjoy the rest of my Saturday not in the place I worked next to an alpha that liked the sound of his own voice more than actually paying attention to the woman he was on a date with.
I wasn’t sure what exactly I’d been expecting for a date off of PackFinder, but it certainly wasn’t this.
Not that I’d ever been on a date on PackFinder before today.
No, before Trini had finally cajoled me into it, filling every hour we worked together with praises sung about the app one of her own alphas helped to develop, I’d had absolutely no interest in finding an alpha or pack of any sort.
My independent little princess, my mother used to say to me after one of our many arguments about me trying to find a pack. She always used my childhood nickname when she wanted to try and soothe my temper. I just don’t want you to be alone .
I’d been a late bloomer—my designation finally rearing its ugly head when I was twenty-one right when I’d been in the middle of university majoring theater set design with an impulsive minor in history. At the time, I’d had dreams of working on the sets of Broadway, so when my doctor asked what I wanted to do I immediately asked for suppressants.
My beta mother never understood why I wanted to tamp down on something about me that should have been celebrated, but all I wanted was to follow my dreams and being an omega would only have gotten in the way of that.
When she’d gotten sick a couple of years later I put my entire life on hold to take care of her, including quitting my job in New York to fly home to Washington to take care of her.
Even the consideration of finding a pack had been too overwhelming to consider as I watched her wither away, so I stayed on the suppressants against my doctor’s wishes until after the funeral when he refused to prescribe them anymore.
So, after that I paid the taxes on the house on the beach that my mother had owned for the next five years, fled the country entirely, and took a job that I never thought in a million years that I’d land. It surprised me to find that designing and setting up museum exhibits was not all that different from designing stage productions.
It was also way less stressful than Broadway and my new, much more overworked in London doctor hadn’t even blinked when I asked her about suppressants. Instead, she’d just reminded me that I would need to go into estrus at least once a year to keep myself healthy which I promptly ignored.
And now, somehow, here I was, doing what many omegas—hell what many women in their twenties—dealt with almost like it was a rite of passage: a shitty app date with a man who I was pretty sure would marry himself if he could.
I was going to throttle Trini the next time I saw her.
Go on a date , she said, it’ll be fun , she said.
Trini didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. She’d never been on an app date in her life, the lucky bitch. She was one of the fortunate omegas that didn’t even have to go through the omega center system because her pack was built from her childhood friends—and the designers and creators of the app that was currently the bane of my existence.
I was starting to get the feeling that I was more like a guinea pig for them because there was no way that Charles was the best they had to offer. Trini hadn’t even let me swipe, claiming that I was too picky.
We’ll just try it with one alpha to start with—how bad could it be? she’d asked as she gripped my cell phone with glee last week after she’d gotten me just drunk enough on my favorite white wine to agree to this harebrained scheme.
“Oh you had to have helped design this one,” Charles gushed, bringing me from my thoughts of how I was going to smack the crap out of my friend and back to the present.
I blinked dazedly up at the exhibit that I had spent the past three months avoiding like the plague.
Emblazoned over the wide doorway were the words ‘King Arthur, Myth, Legend, Man?’
It was a very cheeky title for a surprisingly somber exhibit.
“I didn’t,” I muttered barely loud enough for the alpha next to me to hear and started to turn around. “Let’s go look at the Romanticism movement instead, it was the last one I put toge… oh, he’s already going. Great .”
Charles, ignoring everything that had just come out of my mouth, was already walking in the direction of the King Arthur exhibit at a steady clip.
Every instinct in my body was telling me just to leave him to it—that I didn’t want to be on this date anyway and any man that wouldn’t listen to me now definitely wouldn’t listen to me later on if there were actually relationship issues.
But as I stared up at the softly glowing sign, I was filled with what felt almost like an itch to go inside, which was completely weird because this was the exhibit I’d been avoiding ever since they put it together three months ago.
When my boss, Albert, had asked me to be on the design team for a King Arthur exhibit I’d given him a firm no without giving him a reason why.
Everyone in the room had paused with surprise at the vehemence of my rejection because, typically, I rarely ever talked at all and usually did whatever was asked of me, even if it was the shittiest tasks that were offered.
Needless to say Albert never asked me again and I’d steered clear of this exhibit ever since, even taking a different route around the museum to get to my work spaces every day.
And now my brain was telling me to just walk inside?
‘My little princess, you were named after a brave queen who, instead of doing what everyone else around her was doing, went against the grain in the name of love,’ my mother’s voice echoed in my mind as my eyes traced the ancient runes that served as a backdrop for the sign above the doorway.
For as long as I could remember, my mother had been obsessed with the myth of King Arthur. That little house on the beach had been absolutely packed full of any memorabilia she could get her hands on and I was pretty sure that I’d watched and read every iteration of the story so much that I could almost quote them from memory.
She’d loved it so much that she’d named me, her only daughter, after the mythical queen that had nearly been burned at the stake because she’d dared to love more than one alpha.
The fantastical stories had fostered my love for the theater and I’d been proud to be Guinevere on the playbills for my high school plays.
Then she’d gotten sick and had clung to the stories like a lifeline and I’d helped her, decorating her hospital rooms with comfort items from home as the brain cancer got a grip on her and she started to forget who I really was.
When fiction and reality began to mesh for my mother towards the end there was no difference between me and the Guinevere from the story—half of the time I couldn’t tell who she was even talking to so I’d started to insist she call me by my nickname instead.
After she died I’d hardly been able to even glance at my name on my ID or passport without feeling the need to vomit.
But now, somehow, I felt totally fine looking at the exhibit that had been the only dark spot in an otherwise okay existence in London.
“Guinevere!” Charles called, making me wince as he slipped around a gawking family to come out of the exhibit again. “Are you coming?”
“It’s Gwen,” I reminded him curtly as my feet started to move in his direction.
While we were at the coffee shop I’d dropped my open wallet and when he’d bent down to help me gather my things he’d seen my ID with my full name.
“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly as he took my hand and practically dragged me inside of the doorway. “I just can’t help it. How often do you meet an actual person named Guinevere?”
“Like a half a percentile,” I provided, remembering the math major beta that I’d dated throughout college. He’d also been fascinated by the name… right up until I awakened as an omega then he’d ghosted me not wanting to deal with everything that comes with dating one of us omegas as he’d once put it with a shudder.
That had been my last try at dating and even that had been better than the British alpha still rambling on about interesting names.
“My mother named me after the king,” he informed me with a grin as we accepted the little brochure about the exhibit from the smiling docent.
The one who very publicly cheated on his wife?
I kept that thought to myself and pretended to read about ancient masonry found when parts of several lakes, thought to be where the seat of the mythical kingdom of Camelot, were dredged up.
There was a depiction of a map of the United Kingdom with pins placed in several parts, most centering around Wales.
A little boy scooted around me to press the little red button at the bottom of the plaque.
“While many scholars argue about whether King Arthur, his beautiful Queen Guinevere, and his round table even exist,” a chipper voice came through the speakers drawing the attention of several other people in the room, “many more prefer to argue about the location of Camelot, King Arthur’s seat of power, instead. In the city of Edinburgh, there is quite literally a place called Arthur’s seat—though most can agree that Arthur was a king of Welsh origins—leaving us with several potential sites in Wales and the surrounding areas. For instance, Snowdonia national park…”
I zoned out as the voice continued, parts of the map lighting up with its explanation about potential sites of Camelot. As they spoke, there was an inherent sense that they were wrong about what they were speaking of, like I just knew that they were incorrect instinctually.
Shaking it off the odd feeling as nothing more than having a fanatic of a mother who probably could have recited every bit of history in this room from memory, I turned to find Charles staring at me with his too-large brown eyes.
“So, did you have anything to do with designing this place?” he asked, gesturing to the exhibit.
“No,” I repeated myself, feeling a little irritated that he seemed to have ignored me before when I answered the same question only minutes ago. “I asked not to be a part of this one.”
Charles frowned, his nose wrinkling with confusion like he didn’t understand my words. “Why? Isn’t it quite perfect? A girl named Guinevere helping to design a King Arthur exhibit? If that isn’t kismet, I don’t know what is.”
I wanted to flat out tell him it was because my mother named me Guinevere and she’d died of brain cancer so it was a little hard to stomach being around the things that she loved so much… but that seemed more like a second date kind of topic.
And a second date with this guy was definitely not happening if I had anything to say about it.
As I stared at him, I decided that Trini owed me double the takeout she’d promised and if she ever bothered me about going out on another date within this calendar year again I was going to pull this guy’s profile up as a reminder.
I didn’t even know why she insisted I needed an alpha in the first place. It wasn’t like modern day society required it. Sure, the suppressants sometimes gave me migraines, and every once in a while opening the door to my empty flat with only my goldfish Sammy to greet me got a little depressing after a while…
But all of that was still better than Can’t-Take-A-Hint-Charles.
“I don’t believe in kismet,” I told him with a frown that the man mirrored.
He let out a noise that was half-chuckle and half-frustrated growl which I think surprised both of us.
“All right ladies and gentlemen!” the docent who’d given us the pamphlets called from a raised podium in the center of the room, the interactive floor under our feet starting to move and shift like golden grains of sand draining towards her as she gathered the people in the room with her chipper voice. “The two o’clock retelling of the King Arthur legend is just about to begin.”
I wanted to leave, but Charles was already turning to listen, the crease between his eyebrows disappearing so fast that I wasn’t sure I’d even seen it. I was starting to get the feeling that Charles was enjoying this date just about as much as I was.
“This collection is on loan to us from a private collector who wishes to remain anonymous, but they want me to tell you the story so that maybe you can love it as much as they do. The King Arthur legend is one of the most lasting stories we have in the United Kingdom,” the docent began, “It has spawned retellings, retranslations, and the love of history in countless individuals… but no one can truly agree whether it even existed at all. Some say that Arthur was based off of some ancient forgotten king, others say that he’s just a story people used to tell around the fire to make those long winter nights a little bit better while the Saxons invaded their homelands.”
Somewhere in the back of the gathered crowd a man, American by the sound of his accent, shouted: “And what do you think?”
The docent smiled and shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic and there is no greater romance than that of Queen Guinevere and her pack. I only have a short time here with you all and it would take ages to tell you the whole story, so I suppose I’ll start there.”
At the mention of my namesake, the hair on my arms stood on end, like I’d been gathering static electricity by shuffling my feet on the carpet and was about to get the shock of my life.
Guinevere , someone whispered and I whipped around to try and figure out who was behind me, but Charles and I were at the back of the group, so when I did all I found was empty air next to a glass case containing a rusted sword.
“In today’s day and age, our designations live far more harmonious lives—there are laws and departments protecting omegas from things like being kidnapped or taken away from their alpha—or alphas—by some outside entity, and if they want, omegas can choose any single alpha or pack for themselves. But in the British Isles during the 6th century, a pack was almost unheard of. Now, in other continents such as Africa or Asia, the presence of packs can be traced almost back to the Stone age, but here in our misty, rainy homeland the first mention of a pack comes right along with the legend of King Arthur.”
I was only half-listening as I stared at the sword with a frown. It was just an old piece of metal, the placard in front of the case declaring that it had been pulled out of Bassenthwaite lake and dated for around the 6th century which was when King Arthur was said to have fought a war on the shores before ultimately dying in battle.
It was longer than I thought a sword from this time period should be and the hilt was wider than any of the other replicas in the room, telling me that whoever had wielded it must have had big hands.
But none of that was why I continued to stare at the sword as the docent told her tale about a princess who was married off to a king.
No, oddly enough, the sword looked as if it was vibrating in the little plastic holder it was hung on inside of the case.
“Guinevere married Arthur and became his queen and omega, what she didn’t account for was how drawn she would feel to some of his closest knights including the handsome Sir Lancelot. Arthur, for his part, quickly realized that his omega may have more in her heart than love for him. Now, most kings would have executed their wives for having a straying eye—especially during this time period when omegas were supposed to only belong to one alpha—and many people didn’t understand the connection between Guinevere and Arthur’s men, some even calling for the queen to be deposed and burnt at the stake. But Arthur wasn’t any normal king…”
The sword began to glow and the glass around it wavered, almost like I would be able to reach through it if I wanted to.
I took a step closer to the case and no one turned to look, enamored by the story being woven by the docent.
“But of course, this story doesn’t have the happiest of endings, unfortunately, or else we may still have been living in Arthur’s Camelot to this day. As the Saxons continued their push into England and eventually the combined armies of the tribal kings gathered for one last stand—some say on the shores of Lake Bassenthwaite while others argue that any number of lakes in our glorious country could have been the battleground—but regardless Guinevere watched from a hilltop as the sheer force of the enemy overwhelmed her husband and her pack, leaving her all alone in the world. Some stories go that Guinevere began to cry and cry until the lake waters began to fill, expanding the lake and burying the bodies of her lovers under hundreds of meters of water, other say that the gods took pity on poor Guinevere and filled in the lake themselves so that she wouldn’t ever have to look upon it again. But after that, all mention of Guinevere disappeared from history.”
This was why I hated that my mother named me after her. Guinevere in most legends just stood by as her pack was killed because she couldn’t do anything else as a woman during that time period. It wasn’t as if she could pick up a sword and march into battle alongside her pack, nor could she rule Camelot in Arthur’s stead.
Guinevere , the same voice whispered much louder this time. You must come to us, please.
The voice sounded desperate, like I was their only hope. My mouth felt dry as I reached for the glass, and for some reason when my hand went right through it, my brain didn’t even panic.
My hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, barely fitting around the width of it as the docent began to talk about the various pieces that were on loan to the museum.
Then the floor disappeared from underneath my feet and I was being pulled, dragged into a dark vacuum of space. Then, I remembered nothing more.