Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

“It is hard to walk in the outside world,” he said, half to himself. “It is confusing, because much is unfamiliar, and yet I remember parts of my old life that I’d forgotten.” Things that would have been easier never to recall.

Mac toyed with the remote. “I wish I was able to come with you, but I’ve got, y’know, fairy problems. I’m thinking pesticide, but that could take a few days.”

Reynard laughed.

Mac shrugged. “Do you think you can manage this urn business with Ashe’s help? If you need me, I’ll find a way to put everything on hold and go outside with you.”

“I will be fine. I rode in an automobile today. And an elevator.”

Mac grinned. “Look at you go, you daredevil.” “The modern world has much to recommend it.” Reynard stood. “The cars are fascinating.”

“So am I going to see you zooming around here in a sports coupe?”

“I would like to ride a good horse again.”

“I’ve got some unicorns down in the basement, if you’d like to take them out for a spin.”

“They only like virgins. I’m rather too late to that party.”

Reynard walked back to his own quarters filled with a mix of weariness and impatience. Tomorrow would bring more challenges. It would bring another chance to linger in the free air of the outside world, to be near Ashe, and to find parts of himself he thought long dead. Yet, what was the point of coming back to life, only to sink once again into the sunless existence of the Castle?

He was weary of the question. There was no good answer. The Castle was both oppressive and safe. Doomed, damned, doomed, damned. His curse just kept on ticking.

He opened the door to his Spartan quarters. There was a sitting room and a bedchamber, nothing more. He had little need of possessions. One trunk held weapons, the other clothes. A small shelf of books rounded out the furnishings.

After the chaotic plenty of Ashe’s world, he saw his rooms with fresh eyes. They looked like a monk’s cell. No bright, sunny colors here. He pulled off his new T-shirt as he walked into his bedroom. His narrow bed looked as welcoming as an anvil. The paper bag with his clothes sat on the plain counterpane. Carefully, he took out his worn uniform and folded it neatly. Not all of it was original. Much of his red coat had been replaced, piece by piece, but the buttons and braid were the same. The buttonholes, arranged in pairs down the front, were carefully mended. No loose threads. Nothing frayed. With so little to call his own, the uniform had become more to him than a suit of clothes. It was everything he should have aspired to, everything he should have achieved in his life when he still walked in the world.

Beneath the uniform were the rest of the clothes Ashe had bought him. Comfortable, easy, fresh, new. If they represented anything, it was the unknown. Or maybe they were just socks and shirts—clothes blank and empty of meaning, like they were supposed to be. Normal people didn’t overthink socks.

He poured water into his washbasin and bent over, looking in the spotted, faded mirror that hung above it. Swirling blue tattoos covered his chest, inked there by the magic that identified him as a guardsman. They were different from Mac’s, more primitive. Where Mac’s tattoos marked him with the authority of the Castle, Reynard bore the brand of the Order.

The oath—curse—had taken his life and written servitude into his flesh. He could feel the hollow ache of the urn’s absence. Once he had entered the Castle, the feeling had resolved into a pain under his ribs. It was growing, reminding him that he was, for all intents and purposes, little better than a dead man. Mac had suggested that he sleep in a hotel outside the Castle, where he would be closer to the urn.

A sudden stab of pain shot through him, making him flinch and grip the sides of the washstand. He was going to have to accept Mac’s offer of a hotel room after all.

He was running out of time.

And yet . . . he had seen the sun today.

Given hope to a little girl.

And he’d kissed Ashe Carver.

For the first time since—well, since he’d traded his life for his brother’s so long ago—Reynard felt hope.

Friday, April 3, 11:30 p.m.

101.5 FM

“Good evening, children of the night. You’re listening to CSUP, 101.5 FM at the beautiful University of Fairview campus, and I’m Errata Jones, your hostess for the evening. For our last item tonight, here’s the latest tidbit I’ve found about the guardsmen, thanks to Perry Baker, my favorite werewolf researcher and Internet sleuth.

“Where, oh, where did the old guardsmen come from? They were put there by the same jolly folks who built the Castle—those nine sorcerers who decided the world needed a prison for the supernatural folks. Well, it only made sense to install live- in security, I guess, especially if you were trying to cleanse the planet of anything that might be more magical than you.

“The subcommittee in charge of security was selected from the same families as the sorcerers. Nothing like keeping world domination in the family.

“An interesting sidebar: They were all warlocks.

“Another interesting sidebar: In later years, those same families made up a supersecret society called the Order.

“Third sidebar: Warlocks, and the Order, are supposed to have disappeared from the face of the earth.

“However, if I’m reading my history right, they’re actually still running the Castle. I mean, aren’t the old guards all from warlock families? Whatcha make of that, listeners?

“Well, it’s nearly the witching hour, and I’m Errata Jones, signing off as your hostess for the evening. I’ll be back at nine tomorrow with special guest and entertainment insider Mina Arcana, and she’ll be talking about the latest Howlywood headlines. I can’t wait, and I know you can’t, either. Addicted to the fake-blood scandal? Who isn’t? I mean, a vamp that can’t put the nosh on? What’s up with that?

“But before I leave you, a tasty treat to wish you sweet dreams. Here’s a tune from Nine and Twenty Blackbirds with the title cut from their hit collection, Darkest Rose. Kiss, kiss, and good night.”

Saturday, April 4, 9:15 a.m.

Morgan’s Gym

Ashe finished a run on the treadmill, grabbed her towel and water bottle, and climbed the stairs to the top floor of the gym. It was a large, barnlike room with an area for fencing. A long rack was hung with masks and jackets. Another rack held practice foils and épées. The equipment was basic. Competition-level fencers went to the university’s salle, where there was an ex-Olympian coach and electronic scoring. Ashe wanted less style and more aggression, and Morgan’s delivered with brutal, bruising efficiency.

No one else was in the fencing area. The early-morning gym crowd hung out in the cardio room downstairs. Ashe took a blade off the rack and began running through her drills. The épée had a bell-shaped guard and a blunted tip designed to snag on the opponent’s clothes long enough to register a hit. Not deadly, but a blow still hurt.

Because she was alone, Ashe didn’t bother with a mask or jacket.

Sun streamed through the tall windows, flashing on the mirrors, on her blade, warming the color of the old fir floor. She let her mind go still, concentrating on her form as she glided through the elaborate, dangerous ballet.

She’d finally slept last night, thanks to Grandma’s charms. She’d still worried about her job, or lack thereof. About Eden, and the horrible mistake Ashe had made by forgetting just how often kids eavesdropped when you thought they were off doing something else. About Reynard and about the hundred and one monsters out to complicate her life. It was bad when you didn’t know what to worry about first. Too many choices.