Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

Oh, lord, this guy believes his own press. “Believe me, if I decide you’re overdue, I’m checking you out once and for all.” She handed him back his license. “Your choice. Take a temporary card or come back with current ID”

“You don’t look like the type who plays by the rules.”

“I do when it suits me.”

“You don’t bend them just to be nice?”

“I’m not a nice person.”

“Unfortunate.”

“Sue me.”

Slowly, he put his wallet back into his coat pocket. Too slowly. He was stalling. “You smell like a witch.”

“All the better to hex you, bloodsucker,” she muttered under her breath.

“You must be Ashe Carver.”

“How do you know that?”

He gave a smoking look from beneath the long eyelashes. “I’m looking for you.”

Alarm hit like an electric shock, but she leaned across the desk, speaking just above a whisper. “What’s the matter? Did I stake your BFF?”

Lloyd gave a Cupid’s smirk. An evil, twisted Cupid. He dropped his voice, too, leaning in so their faces were mere inches apart. “Rumor has it a Carver witch just bore a vampire’s child. Defied nature itself. Some call it an abomination; others call it . . . interesting.”

Ashe froze, feeling his cool breath on her face. Abomination? That was what the vampire in the gardens had called her. She snatched a quick glance at Gina. She was staring openmouthed at the vampire, the book scanner in one hand. Mrs. Fanhope and a scruffy, university-aged girl were standing to one side, their expressions somewhere between scandalized and riveted. Great. They think we’re hitting it off. The Carver name makes the tabloids once again.

“That wasn’t me,” Ashe murmured. “I’m not into dead guys.”

Lloyd’s eyebrow twitched. “I wasn’t asking what you liked.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“My king wants a child of his own. Your family has the right kind of power to give him an heir. Our sources tell us you are unattached. Not that the king cares, but who likes a Jonathan Harker type getting all stakey on your ass?”

Oh, ick. Ashe jumped back from the counter, letting Lloyd see the wooden ruler clutched in her hand. “Did you also hear I’m hell on bad dates?” she said in a clear, loud voice. Public embarrassment was sometimes as good a weapon as anything else.

“Wow,” said Gina, looking like all she lacked was popcorn and a soft drink. All three, even Mrs. F., were wide-eyed with fascination.

He gave another slick smile, eyeing the ruler with disdain. Obviously, publicity didn’t faze him. “You have a reputation as a dangerous woman. That’s why my lord sent an emissary in advance.”

“Smart man.”

“I’m here to open negotiations. Will you listen to his proposal?”

“Get out of here, Lloyd. You’re not here for the books, and it’s closing time.”

“I think we should all stay and chat, don’t you?” he suggested smoothly, then flashed a full, sharp-toothed smile at the others. The university student squeaked, hugging her backpack like a teddy bear. Fear seeped into Gina’s pretty face.

Ashe glanced at the glass door to the mall. Plenty of pedestrian traffic out there.

Plenty of potential victims.

Nothing but a ruler between a vampire and her gene pool. Give me a break.

Ashe stalked around the end of the counter but left a good chunk of carpet between her and Lloyd. “Look,” she said in a constrained voice. Goddess, this is awkward. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t help your lord.”

Lloyd draped himself against the counter like an expensive fur coat. “Why ever not?”

“I don’t have the power to make a baby with a vampire. That’s extremely rare, and I barely have any magic at all. So go tell his fangship to stick it someplace else. I’m no help to him.”

The bystanders watched with open mouths. Ashe had a high embarrassment threshold, but she could feel the blood mounting to her cheeks.

Lloyd curled a lip. On his pretty face, the sneer made him look like an underwear model mugging for the camera. “And you think I’m going to go home to my king empty-handed?”

“The drugstore sells souvenirs. Get him a key chain.”

He gave a low, self-satisfied chuckle. “Try again.”

After leaving Ashe, Reynard portaled back to the Castle to update Mac, but became swept up in the interviews Mac was conducting. So far, none of the residents he had questioned about the forest gate or the burglary had produced useful information, except for one fact: A goblin’s cousin-in-law had been hired the night before to free the phouka. The other goblins, annoyed to find a traitor in their midst—though Mac had no luck establishing who the goblin was allegedly betraying—had torn off his head. So much for questioning that material witness. No one had a clue who had done the hiring.

Mac had put his fist through the interview room table, then accidentally set what remained of the furniture on fire.

As interesting as it all was, Reynard was wasting time watching Mac work. Yet, he allowed himself to linger. Part of him wanted to test how soon he would feel the effects of being in the Castle while his urn was in the outside world. His answer: three hours. From what he could tell, that meant he was still in relatively good shape.

By midafternoon, he made his escape back to the mall to fulfill the first part of his mission: an effective disguise. He understood the necessity, but hated abandoning his uniform. After so long, it was an integral part of him.

Reynard had no trouble finding the store or Ashe’s friend Leslie. She was more than efficient in supplying a range of clothing. He recognized a lot of it from what the younger guards wore: lace-up boots and blue jeans. Not a gentleman’s wardrobe, but sturdy, convenient, and comfortable. It would serve its purpose.

He would never have accepted the gift of clothing from anyone else. As it was, he would pay back its worth. But accepting the clothing from Ashe pleased him more than he liked to admit. It was intimate next to his skin.

Not the sort of thought he was supposed to be having. Duty, dignity, and death. That was the guardsman’s creed. If he was going to die hundreds of years and miles from home, he wanted an honorable end, sword in hand.

He must remember those three Ds the next time he looked at Ashe Carver’s lithe, sun-browned figure. He all but snorted out loud. Even if he wasn’t shriveling up and dying quite yet, a few hours out of the Castle were eroding his self-control. That didn’t mean he could escape his duty. His life, such as it was, belonged to his curse.

But, as he stood in Workrite with the fluttering sales-girls, the Castle seemed far away. They were reminding him what it felt like to be seen as a bedworthy man, and that made him dream of the blond-haired huntress.

The stretchy shirts the girls brought him seemed too tight—but every one of them insisted that was the proper fit. He wasn’t an idiot. It showed off his chest and shoulders. Who was he to argue? After so long, he was enjoying the attention. It seemed almost a shame to cover that tight shirt with the short leather jacket Leslie brought.

One more thing. He unbraided his hair from the tight queue that had been fashionable in his day. He let it fall loose in shoulder-length waves. No, that would get in the way in a fight. He tied it into a simple ponytail, like some of the modern men he’d seen. There. I am thoroughly camouflaged. Last, he put the sunglasses back on.

After leaving Workrite, he walked around the mall. It was an odd building, so dark that it might have been built under the earth. It seemed to wander forever and had no windows, much like the Castle.

The first time he had portaled in, he had arrived only moments before Ashe. Now he took the time to survey the location of the exits, hallways, and blind corners to consider if he—or they—were attacked. Habits died hard.