Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

“And collected a finder’s fee?”

“Of course.”

“I’m guessing you let the demon through the forest gate?”

Miru-kai nodded. “Yes. There. I confess. Let me out. I found my client a certain kind of demon who is expert at acquiring valuable objects. He is your thief.”

Instead, Mac’s brows drew together. “A collector demon?”

“Yes.”

“You knew he was a collector demon, and would never, ever give up whatever he took.” He made it a statement, not a question.

“His species is extremely rare. I deserved a bonus for being able to locate such a prodigy. Even if I was hired for my quick wits and extensive knowledge of the Castle and its inhabitants and, yes, my extensive information network, this . . . this was a coup.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Mac impatiently. “And then?”

“It is not my fault that my client wasn’t specific about the character of the thief. He simply wanted one who could procure what he wanted. I did what I was asked. The fey always keep their bargains.” Miru- kai gave a toothy smile. “Though we tend to give what our client deserves. He was a trifle pushy. Vampires, you know.”

Mac was unamused. “Your client was Belenos, King of the East?”

“How well-informed you are.”

“I’d heard he was hanging around Fairview. I’m not the only one working on this case. Where is Belenos?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“How did you get paid?”

“In goods. As for the demon,” Miru-kai went on, breezing past the question, “it is my understanding that the first thing he did upon double-crossing his employer and running away with the urn was to find a successful lawyer and bind him into service. So much for the good old days, when an army of rotting corpses was the best line of defense. These modern days lack a certain sense of theater.”

Mac pondered that. “You let the demon thief out of the forest. How did he get out of the Castle?”

“Two weeks ago, Lord Belenos secured one of the nine keys to the Castle at a very, very, very private auction. While it’s not as powerful as your master key, with a lot of extra sorcery he managed to get the demon past the portal barriers. That was no mean feat of magic. And the key has allowed Belenos to come and go from here ever since.”

Mac’s face froze; then his voice emerged thunderous. “What?”

Miru-kai licked his lips, savoring the moment. “That’s probably why your allies on the outside can’t find him. King Belenos has been sleeping here, right under your guardsmen’s noses.”

Ashe woke to find herself sitting on a headstone. Startled, she jumped down, her mule-slippered feet landing on the cold, crumbly loam of the grave. Claw-sharp pine needles poked at her heels.

Where the hell am I? The graveyard looked familiar, with the ocean sighing against the rocks to the south. Where’s Reynard?

But she was alone. Overhead, the moon dodged a lacework of clouds. Not enough light to really see, but it looked like Saint Andrew’s Cemetery. Big trees, old graves, the smell of cold sea air. She hadn’t been there for a while, but she’d walked through it often enough as a kid.

I’m dreaming again. That thought made her relax a notch. She’d neglected to set Grandma’s charms in place. Well, she’d been a little distracted.

She stepped off the grave, leaving a slipper behind. Cold, damp loam touched her bare sole, giving her instant goose bumps. She stuck her slipper back on her foot, then emptied the other of crumbly dirt. One crappy detail was that the night was freezing cold and she was wearing nothing but an oversize Ghostbusters T-shirt. Better than the nothing she was wearing curled up beside Reynard, but why couldn’t she have dreamed herself in a nice, warm coat?

But part of her knew it wasn’t quite a dream. A frisson of dread crawled over her flesh like a horror cliché lurching from the grave.

Ashe whirled around, trying to see in every direction at once. It was too dark, the moon in and out of the clouds just enough to see shapes a few feet away. The clumps of cedar trees were no more than patches of rustling blackness. She could just make out the name on the tombstone where she’d been sitting: Marian Carver.

Mom. Ashe’s hand went to her mouth, a weak gesture she hated.

She’d been sitting on her mother’s grave. The mother she’d killed with her stupidity. Her sense of balance seemed to melt, leaving her weak-legged and sweating despite the cold. If this was some sort of trip through the basement of her subconscious, it was doing a good job of freaking her out. Maybe it was punishment because she had actually been happy for a moment.

She pushed her hair out of her face and took a long breath, forcing herself to stand straight. Get a grip. Figure this out.

Now she knew exactly where she was. Memory filled in the details the wavering light glossed over. They were close to the cliff edge that looked over the water, in a triangle where two walkways crossed. There was a pair of white headstones flanked by yew and rowan trees. Her dad was in the next grave over, her grandfather about fifty feet to the west.

Why am I here, of all places? The answer had better come soon. She was starting to shiver and she was way past pissed off.

A cold hand fell on her shoulder. Ashe spun, leading with her elbow to deliver a blow, but stumbled against—nothing. No one was there.

Oh, crap. She really wasn’t up to ghosts. They’re always whining about something. Like, get dead already. Ashe let her temper heat, doing her best to counter a growing sense of vulnerability.

“Ms. Carver,” said a voice behind her. Or were those low, velvety words all in her head?

Obviously, whoever or whatever this was couldn’t be smacked down like a common mugger. Ashe turned, this time moving at a normal speed. And there was nothing common about the figure standing there. Inwardly, Ashe gulped. Holy Hecate!

He was far too close, forcing her to look up. The speaker was at least six-five and built with a fighter’s physique—hard, broad, and lean—but the poor light gave away nothing of his features. Ashe opened her mouth to speak, but could find no words. It was like coming nose-to-nose with a timber wolf. There was nothing adequate to say, even if it was—almost—just a dream.

Electricity skimmed her skin in a subtle, deadly tease. One of the few scraps of magic left to her was at work, identifying and reporting what she’d already guessed. Vampire.

A very, very powerful bloodsucker to boot. She had no weapons. Beating him off with a slipper wasn’t going to work. Her mouth went dry with apprehension. If she were awake, she’d be fighting by now, or at least running. Instead, she felt stupefied.

“You brought me here,” she managed to say.

“Of course I did.” Vampires could enter a person’s dreams, but it wasn’t a beginner’s trick. Only the most powerful could pull it off.

He raised a hand, and a gauzy white light bloomed from his cupped palm as if he were cradling an infant star. Ashe’s breath caught in her chest, tangled in terrified wonder. Many vampires used sorcery, but she’d never seen a move that smooth.

Her eyes went from his hand to his face. Most vamps had eyes with a gold or silver cast. His glinted topaz, if topaz could melt and burn with the intensity of an alchemist’s forge. His face was more masculine than pretty, the strong, straight features softened only by the fact that he had been Turned young.

The vampire’s hair was russet, the red of a fox’s pelt. It fell thick and straight to his waist, woven through with bits of gold and beads. He wore other gold, too—heavy cuffs and a twisted torque that sat on his collarbone, both decorated with red stones that glinted in the weird light. Only his clothes—just a dark shirt and slacks—were everyday.