Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

But at least she’d done it after getting a solid seven hours of vampire- free Zs. Of course, those came after another telephone marathon calling those bump- in-the-night types who might be willing or able to give her useful information. Sadly, no one had seen a thief, demon or otherwise, with an urn tucked under his arm. She began mixing moves, making a few up, pretending she was in an actual skirmish. Thrust, step, turn, parry. When you fought for real, you had to know how to improvise. She’d learned that from Roberto.

Her husband had been the first to teach her to fence—just another aspect of his danger-junkie lifestyle. Maybe that was why they’d hit it off initially; when they met, she’d been in a fatalistic mood. He’d picked her up in a bar in Switzerland, made her love life again, and married her four months later.

She reached the back wall of the gym, spun around, and began working in the other direction. Thrust, parry.

Roberto had made her forget her past, her parents, and her guilt. She would always love him for that gift.

Lunge, redouble, retreat.

Should she have pushed her husband to take fewer risks? If she had succeeded, he would still be alive. But would he be Roberto? When was protecting someone chaining them down?

Still, if Grandma was right and she was a warrior born to protect, her track record sucked. Few seemed to survive the Ashe Carver hazard zone, aka random magic, rampaging bulls, and vampires with sniper rifles.

Now it was happening again. If Ashe couldn’t find a way to help Reynard, he would die.

Dread flooded her, weighting her limbs until they dragged to a halt. She didn’t want to lose him. They might only ever share that one kiss, but it had been . . . She didn’t have the right words for it.

Except first kiss. That was the whole problem. Reynard had made her feel alive. For the first time since Roberto’s death, she wanted to get back into the business of finding a mate. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She was still turning the emotion over and over, hunting for signs that she was betraying her husband’s memory. Sure, she’d had sex since he died, but this was different. She wanted a particular man.

One logic said she could never have.

Ashe panted, feeling the sweat trickle down her back. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Reynard had promised to meet her. Where was he?

The sun pouring through the windows made the room beastly hot—apparently the air-conditioning was toast. She was wearing only a sports bra and jogging shorts, but she was still roasting. She strode to the fire escape and pushed it open to let in some fresh air.

And nearly bashed Reynard with the door.

He lounged on the stairs like a great cat, basking in the sun. He twisted his head to look up at her, inscrutable behind his sunglasses. “A half- clothed woman with a sword. I believe I had a dream like that once.”

Was this smart-ass the same guy who’d been an absolute gem with her daughter? Ashe poked him with the toe of her Reeboks. “Get up. What are you doing out here?”

He lazily pulled himself to his feet. His hair was slicked back and tied tightly at the nape of his neck. It showed off the lean angles of his face. “The sun felt good. I was indulging myself, just for a minute.”

He pushed the sunglasses up his nose with one finger. She didn’t need to see his eyes to tell that it was a very adult look he was giving her. She’d modeled naked for a life-drawing class and felt less exposed than she did right then.

Slowly, his gaze shifted to the long, jagged scar a werewolf had torn across her stomach, and then to her épée. “What’s this? Sword practice?”

“Just getting in some lunges.” Glad to change the subject, she turned and walked back to the rack with the swords. “It helps when I run into a vampire from the old days.”

“The old days?” Reynard intoned, amused. He looked around the room with obvious curiosity. “You mean my lifetime?”

“That’s right,” Ashe said crisply. “Now we just shoot each other. Quick and to the point.”

His smile was sun-drunk, all heat and languor. “Some things shouldn’t be rushed.”

Ashe rolled her eyes.

He picked up an épée and swished it through the air, testing its weight. “Light. More like a dueling sword.”

“Nothing like what you’re used to,” she said dryly. “Or were you the swords-at-dawn type?”

He pulled off the glasses, squinting. “I would not refuse a legitimate challenge.”

“Would you today?”

He looked startled for a moment, but recovered quickly enough. A very bad-boy look came over his face. “Do you think you could best me?”

“No, I don’t have your years of practice.”

He smiled, but it was condescending. “Then you’re not inviting me to cross blades with you?”

Ashe leaned on one hip. She didn’t mind being the lesser swordsman, but the assumption that she was a complete amateur bothered her. “You think you can beat me without breaking a sweat.”

“Yes.”

“You’re wrong.”

“You said yourself I have years of practice.”

“Which is worth something.”

“Absolutely.”

His tone bordered on pure arrogance. It made her want to needle him.

“I have years of experience as a slayer, and yet you think I need your help.”

He sighed. “We discussed this last night.”

Ashe took a step back, shrugging. Her skin began to heat, the first sign of anger. “I prefer to work alone. I don’t like looking after a partner. I feel guilty when they get themselves killed and, bud, you’re pushing your luck with this whole urn business.”

“How so?”

“You shouldn’t even be thinking about wasting your time on my problems.”

“Maybe putting someone else first is the point. Maybe it’s the only real choice I have.”

That brought her up short. “Then you’ve got a bad sense of self-preservation.”

He flicked his blade at hers, hitting it hard enough that it jumped in her hand. “Put me to the test.”

“Why bother, if I’m such a pushover?”

He slid the sunglasses back on. “I’ve had men with your temperament serve under me. They need to test their officers before they are willing to follow.”

“That’s a leap. You don’t know a damned thing about me. And I’m not a great follower.”

He bared his teeth in a hungry smile. “Oh, I do believe we understand each other rather well.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to beat that out of me.”

“This is pure guy crap.” Ashe raised her sword.

“Yes,” he said with a satisfied air, “it is. But it is also your . . . nature. You won’t grant me respect until I’ve earned it.”

He had read her well. “Damned straight. And I play for keeps.”

She realized with a sick jolt that she was facing off with someone who was no doubt an expert swordsman. Worse, she was wearing nothing but spandex underwear. No masks and padded jackets. The swordsmen in Reynard’s day had played for blood. Her heart started to pound, but only part of that was fear.

This was interesting. Their reach would be about the same. Reynard was well muscled and clearly heavier, but he was fast. All the guardsmen had inhuman strength and speed. The odds suck. Good thing he plays by the whole gentlemanly conduct code, and I don’t.

Which was why she would win.

Ashe struck his sword with hers and leaped backward. The clash filled the sun-drenched room. He swept one foot back almost lazily, flexing his knees, raising his sword en garde.

“It is customary to salute first,” he said, easily parrying her next lunge.

“This isn’t the grand ball. Besides, we’re already on a first-name basis. Or we would be, if I knew yours. Do you even have one?”