Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

Abandoning stealth, he pelted through the torchlight. The cluster of figures who had struggled in the darkness beyond was gone. Something lay on the ground. Reynard paused just long enough to glance at the object. A circular silver pin decorated with a sprig of heather. Stewart! He had dropped it as a clue.

Or else it was a whole new trap, meant to lure Reynard deeper into the Castle.

Bloody hell. There had to be more than one attacker, because Stewart was a good fighter. Reynard slowed his pace just enough to scan the ground as he went, searching for some indication of what he was up against. The bare stone told him nothing.

The next junction in the corridors was shaped like a T. Left or right? Reynard listened intently, letting his vision go soft, letting sounds come to him rather than seeking them out. Perhaps it was magic, perhaps not, but it was something he’d been able to do since he was a boy. He heard things that should have been impossible to detect.

Like the jingle of a goblin’s scaled armor along the left-hand passage. Reynard shifted his bloody sword to his left hand and put the Smith & Wesson in his right. If he was fighting a goblin, bullets were a better choice.

He sprinted down the corridor, willing himself to catch up. Stewart’s bride was waiting for him to come home, and Captain Reynard did not leave his men behind.

The passageway curved, the monotony of stone blocks and darkness creating a blind corner. He slowed to long, walking strides, gun ready.

They were waiting for him, a changeling and a goblin. Stewart lay like a huddle of laundry at their feet. His neck was savaged.

Suddenly Reynard’s mind was crystal clear, his anger snuffed out. Battle brought out his icy control, and he needed every strength he had right then.

Stewart needed it.

Reynard fired the gun. The changeling flew backward, but Reynard already knew he had missed the head. Damnation!

The goblin fell back a step at the sound of the shot, but drew a bronze knife the length of a man’s forearm. The blade was serrated in long, wicked notches, meant to catch and tear as it sliced. Worse, the goblin handled it with confidence. Anticipation came into its piggy eyes. Its lower lip—stomach-churningly human—sagged a little as the upper mouth lifted, showing off the sweep of its gold-studded tusks.

Was that a goblin smile? Leer? Evil grin? The devil only knows.

It all took less than a second; then the goblin was on him. The thing was at least seven feet tall and smelled like rotten ham.

It crashed forward like a falling boulder armed with a knife. Reynard ducked, but not far enough. A tusk slammed the side of his head, making his ears ring and sending him stumbling to the side. They careened into the wall, their combined weight driving the air from his lungs in a whoosh.

Reynard sagged enough in the creature’s grip to bend his knees, then used the full force of his body to drive the heel of his hand into the goblin’s snout. Its head snapped back. He’d caught it by surprise.

Reynard shoved his gun into the soft flesh beneath the goblin’s jaw and fired three times. As the top of the goblin’s head sprayed the wall, a single, convulsive jerk smashed its bulk against Reynard. It felt like a seven-foot bag of stone. Reynard twisted, using the goblin’s own weight to send it crashing to the floor.

Flecks of blood and bone were everywhere, over the walls and floor, over Stewart’s still form, glistening in the torchlight.

The changeling was gone.

The Smith & Wesson was empty, and he didn’t take the time to reload. Swords were better with vampires.

Reynard spun away from his position, searching the shadow for the glow of pale yellow eyes. Nothing. Nothing . He dropped the gun and took a firmer grip on the sword.

Instinctively, Reynard looked up just in time to see the changeling drop from the ceiling like a massive, pale spider. Reynard sprang aside, but not quite fast enough. Claws hooked in his sleeve, pulling him forward. He landed hard, the shock of stone on his knees stealing his breath.

Reynard threw himself into a roll, knowing motion was his best defense against the changeling’s massive strength. A swipe of long claws missed his face by a whisper.

Then he was back on his feet. The changeling circled, its gait oddly crablike. Hunched, bald, barrel-chested, it looked frail and slow. It was anything but. Now it had picked up the goblin’s knife.

Blood stained its maw. Stewart’s blood.

“Who sent you?” Reynard demanded, more to buy time than anything else.

The thing hissed and pounced; Reynard ducked, bringing up the sword to block and turning into the motion. Not the most elegant move, but it put cold steel between his flesh and those needlelike fangs.

As he planned, the changeling landed against the sword’s honed edge. For the second time that night, Reynard felt flesh give under the blade. Claws tore at Reynard, raking through his hair, down his sleeve. The changeling staggered back, wrenching free of the sword’s bite. No scream of pain this time, just a wheezing gurgle.

Reynard straightened, raised the sword again. The changeling tripped on Stewart’s body, then fell backward.

Reynard took its head with a two-handed blow, feeling the crunch of the spine vibrate through the blade.

Lungs heaving, he stood a moment, half- drunk from the sheer savagery of the fight. Then he dropped the sword and pushed the changeling’s body aside.

Mac was suddenly there, kneeling beside him. “Is that Stewart?”

Reynard felt for a pulse, his own heart racing in his ears. Hot blood made his fingers slippery, frustrating his search. “I can’t tell if he’s alive.”

Then he found it, weak but steady. Reynard felt a tremor down his limbs as the tension he’d been holding released a notch.

“You saved him,” Mac said.

“Barely,” Reynard replied.

Mac shot him a look. “Taking on a goblin and a changeling at the same time? That was damned near suicidal, even for you.”

Reynard shrugged, allowing himself a moment of cold satisfaction. “I knew you’d catch up eventually. Now let’s get this boy to a doctor.”

The chambers of Miru-kai, prince of the dark fey, were farther into the Castle than the guardsmen’s quarters. The prince ran, invisible and fairy-fleet, through the darkness and torchlight. He had his prize from the guardsmen’s vault. All that remained was to avoid the fire demon and the old fox. Along the way, he met up with his guard and ordered them to delay any pursuit.

They obeyed at once, not just because Miru-kai was their prince, but because he led them well. He never gave them instructions without a reason. The respect between them was mutual.

That taken care of, he ran all the harder, because he was running to a problem, not away from one. Fear of something far worse than capture nipped at his heels.

Miru-kai slowed to a princely pace only when he was through the tented encampment that guarded his territory. Behind the rows of silk structures, faded and tattered by time and war, was the cluster of stone chambers he called home. There lived the court of the dark fey.

Outside his great hall, tusked goblins stood sentry. He waved them aside. The room was furnished with cushions and stools, a nomad’s quarters. Easily packed, quickly moved. Such was the life of a Castle warlord, where borders wavered on the edge of a sword.

Surprised, the courtiers in the hall jumped up from their cushions, making a hurried bow as Miru- kai passed. He gave a distracted greeting, barely slowing his stride.

His destination was farther on, in a bedchamber next to his own. A servant woman sat outside the door. When she saw the prince, she rose, curtsying low.

“How does he fare?” asked Miru-kai.