Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

A man could go mad counting so many losses. Perhaps that was what drove guardsmen like Killion to murderous sprees.

Her eyes found his, their emerald brightness smothered by the darkness. “One thing I’ve gotta say. After last fall, y’know, when you were so hurt, I kept wondering if you were all right. I’m sorry I didn’t call. Or write. Or whatever.”

“I didn’t know you remembered,” he said.

Her brows drew together. “Of course I did! It was just that I—”

He held up a hand to stop her, regretting his words. “I was trapped in the Castle. You had to bring your daughter home. There is nothing to apologize for.”

She shrugged. “I just want you to know that I didn’t forget about you.”

“Thank you,” he said. He felt like he should say more, but he wasn’t sure what she would have welcomed.

“Okay,” said Ashe, rubbing her eyes. “Tomorrow morning at the gym. Do you need a ride anywhere?”

“No, thank you.” Reynard folded his arms before he could reach out to her. “Good night.”

She rummaged inside the back of the vehicle and handed him the string- handled bag with his uniform and spare clothes. As he took it, she hesitated. “We’re going to make some serious headway on this urn thing tomorrow. I promise. We’ll go see Lore, if he’s around. Then I’ve got a ghost to take care of for my sister.”

“I’m sure I’ll enjoy that.”

Her mouth worked a moment. “I didn’t say you were coming along.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t.” He met her gaze, standing his ground.

She huffed and turned away. “Bloody English bastard.”

Reynard smiled to himself. He had won the skirmish. It was a start.

Ashe and her girl drove off into the night, taillights glowing like eerie eyes. He stood in the dark for a long time, watching the night. The lights went off in Grandma Carver’s windows. A cat trotted by, intent on patrolling its territory.

It was pleasant to stand there in the outside world, enjoying the illusion of freedom. Perhaps that was why he wanted to help Ashe and Eden so desperately. It was a choice he made freely and had nothing to do with the duty that was his prison even more than the stone walls.

He had wrestled with that duty even before he knew it existed.

A few years after he found the black book with the sun, he’d been playing pirates with his brother. At the moment, he was a runaway slave and hiding underneath the curve of the stairway right outside the drawing room door. His parents were entertaining a few close friends inside the beautifully appointed room—Reynard and his brother were rarely permitted inside it—so Reynard was quiet as the proverbial mouse. That was why, despite the excitement of his game, he had heard them talking.

“The Order’s lottery has always demanded the heirs.” That was his father’s voice. “Why can’t they take the younger sons? The warlock families are weak enough without scything down the flower of our manhood.”

Another voice answered. It was a dry, dusty, cruel voice that made Reynard squirm even farther into the protective shadows of the stairs. “Without sacrifice, where is the service to duty?”

That one sentence, delivered in the voice of a nightmare, had stayed with him, haunting his child’s imagination. At the time, he had wondered what sort of games the adults played. He didn’t know he and his brother were already pieces on the board.

Pieces about to find their checkmate.

It was only years later—many, many years—that he understood his father was just as much of a victim. Heirs were taken to keep the families weak, so that none could challenge the Order’s ruling elite. His father had spoken out of a generations-old frustration.

Eventually, he had managed to forgive the fact his father had hoped Reynard would play the sacrificial lamb—even if his father’s wish had come true.

The memory darkened his mood too much for him to enjoy the night any longer. Reynard reached out with his mind and pulled the power from the atmosphere around him. Wind and rain surrendered their energy, letting him gather it inside his body. It spun inside him, churning, building until he lifted his hand, spreading his fingers. Then he released it as easily as he would a sigh.

The charred scent of magic filled the night. A bright dot hung just beyond the tips of his fingers. It whirred madly, spinning outward until it seemed to burn a hole in the air. The dot grew to a ragged orange disk. Reynard stretched it with his mind, pulling and tearing at the fabric between this world and the Castle. As the magic built, it crawled along his skin with prickling claws, filling his nose and mouth, coursing down his limbs like water sprayed in icy needles.

The portal was a fiery bright mouth, the Castle the darkness of its man-sized gullet. Reynard squinted against the brightness, and stepped through.

“Nice threads,” said Mac. “You look normal.”

“I’m in disguise,” Reynard replied. “But never mind that. I’ve come to give a report. A vampire attacked Ashe in the public library today.”

“Say what?”

Reynard had just sat down in the quarters Mac shared with Constance, his vampire lady love. The pair had a passionate and yet down-to-earth sort of happiness that radiated throughout their domain. The rooms were bright, modern, spacious, and very undungeonlike. Just like the outside world, the place was filled with color. A basket of knitting sat beside Reynard’s chair. Glossy decorating magazines fanned out across a glass-topped coffee table. Constance was the consummate homemaker.

Mac picked up the remote and clicked off the flat-screen TV. The fire demon was sprawled in a huge leather recliner, and had been watching the hockey game. Perhaps it was a good thing Reynard interrupted, because he smelled something burning. Mac had an unhappy tendency to scorch his surroundings when his favorite team was losing.

“It seems the King of the East is a player in our melodrama. The vampire was his emissary. Alessandro Caravelli and the other locals are finding out what they can.”

“Bugger vampire politics. So much for sneaking fifteen minutes of R and R.” Mac ran his hands through his hair, clearly exhausted despite his demonic strength. “Interesting. I’ll follow up with Caravelli and find out what he learns.”

Reynard gripped the arms of the chair to stop his hands from shaking with anger. He wanted to beat Frederick Lloyd to a pulp all over again. “Word has spread that at least one Carver woman has borne a vampire’s child. Now some want to sink more than teeth into their flesh.”

“Nasty.”

For the second time that night, Reynard recounted everything that had happened so far. When he finished, Mac made a disgusted face. “With Miru-kai and the vampires and a possible demon escape, the only species not kicking up a fuss right now are the werebeasts.”

“I wouldn’t say that too loudly.” Reynard sighed, paused, and realized he was too weary to go on. “On another subject, how does Stewart fare?”

“I called his mother. He’ll be in the hospital for a few days, but they expect he’ll recover.”

“I’m going to wring Miru-kai’s neck when I find him. He’s deep in the middle of this, somewhere.”

They sat in glum silence for a moment. Reynard could hear Constance singing to herself in another room. Her presence reminded him of the time he’d taken her son prisoner. After spending even a short time with Ashe and her child, he understood a little more Constance’s pain at losing the lad. It was a wonder she’d ever forgiven Reynard for what he’d done, even if it had come out right in the end.

He shook his head to clear away the memory, and thought instead of everything he’d seen that day.