Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

“How? Why is that true?”

“As the fey would say, I broke the pattern. There were no more guards after me.”

Ashe looked at him for a long time. “Did you mean for that to happen?”

“I shed blood to make sure I was the last,” he answered in a tone meant to end the conversation. “I made sure it wouldn’t happen again.”

He didn’t want to remember that horror. Not with her sitting there like a promise of everything new and clean.

She looked at him long and hard out of those spring-green eyes. “Okay.” She slid out of the bed.

He followed, catching her by the arms and kissing her. Finding the demon and the urn was the first step, but the journey to happiness suddenly felt urgent. He had to hurry before it drained through his fingers like water.

“My name is Julian,” he said, realizing it was a complete non sequitur. “The guardsmen don’t use Christian names because they hold too many memories. It’s easier if we break all our ties to those we love.”

The statement hung in the soft bedroom air like the confession it was.

A shattered look crossed Ashe’s face, and then her expression grew clean and hard as a sword’s edge. “Well, Julian, we’ve got an urn to find. Let’s go see a dog about a demon.”

They took Ashe’s Ducati Superbike 1198S. The bright red motorcycle was her favorite possession. She’d traded up to a bigger bike with dual seats when she discovered Holly loved riding as much as she did. Once Holly could bear to leave Robin for an hour or so, they had begun hitting the open road. Other sisters got mani-pedis. The Carvers went cruising. As sister bonding went, it worked for them.

It worked for Reynard, too.

The technical details of the machine were lost on him, but by the rapt expression on his face, one ride had revealed his inner speed junkie. He got off the bike a little unsteadily, his lips parted with breathless wonder. “I had an Andalusian mare, but even she was not that fast.”

Ashe pulled off her helmet. She’d taken the long route to Lore’s shop, finding a stretch of highway to show off a little. What the heck—it was a beautiful spring morning, and the detour was only a few minutes. She looked fondly at the bike. “I love this baby. But, hey, a horse is probably better company.”

“She nipped.” Reynard straightened, now fully recovered from the ride. “I still miss her, though. She had a strong personality.”

Talking about horses seemed perfectly natural. They were in an old parking lot behind brick buildings that had been warehouses long ago. Age and pollution had blackened the name of the feed company that was painted on the fourth story of the old building directly ahead. The rutted alley that led to that spot could well have been designed for carts instead of cars. Only the telephone poles and a battered Dumpster disturbed the old-time feel of the place.

They started across the lot, the air heavy with the smell of sun-warmed earth and car exhaust. “This area is called Spookytown by the locals,” Ashe said. “Johnson Street runs in front of these buildings. It’s one of the busiest streets in the downtown. Most of the nonhumans in Fairview live right around here.”

Reynard looked from side to side as if expecting an ambush.

“It’s actually pretty peaceful,” she added, recognizing her own first reaction to the place. “The crime rate is lower than average. The nonhumans want equal rights. They’re doing their best to be model citizens.”

Ashe led him to an old door in the side of the building. It had peeling white paint and small, dirty panes of glass at the top. She tried to look through the locked door without success, so knocked instead. She could hear faint music, as if someone had the radio on inside. Was that Def Leppard? She knocked again, louder this time.

The music died. After a few seconds, she heard a bolt draw back and the door opened. It was Lore, the young alpha of the hellhound pack. Like all the hounds, he was tall and lanky, with big bones and shaggy dark hair. He wore coveralls splattered in grease and paint and an expression that gave away nothing.

“I expected you, Ashe Carver,” he said. “I did not expect the captain of the guardsmen to come to my door.” He spoke a little haltingly, although he didn’t have a defined accent. It was the speech of someone translating their thoughts as they went.

“Is that a problem?” Ashe said, putting some steel into the words.

“The hounds are free from the Castle. That was guaranteed to us.”

Reynard held up his hands in the universal not- armed gesture. “I am here only for information. You and your people are safe from me.”

“Do you give your word, guardsman?” Lore asked. The question had the weight of ritual.

“I do.” Reynard made no move until the hound nodded.

“If it is you who swears, then I will accept your truth. You are one of the few guards who always keep your word. Come inside.”

They followed him into the cavernous warehouse. It seemed to be hollowed out inside, with only a mezzanine above for offices. Large windows let in air and light, but it was dark enough that Reynard slipped off the glasses. Metal shelving surrounded the open area. A moving van was parked beneath a rolling steel door that opened onto busy Johnson Street. A dozen hounds were moving what looked like freshly upholstered furniture into the van.

“What kind of business is this?” Reynard asked.

“Humans are wasteful,” Lore replied. “We take what they throw away and make it new again.”

“Furniture refinishing?” Ashe queried. “You’ve gone into decorating?”

Lore gave her a look that might have been amused. Hellhounds were notorious for their poker faces—for them, showing emotion was a private gesture. Lore was more expressive than most. An effort to blend in with the humans, she supposed.

“Among other things.” He shrugged. “Engines. Appliances. Whatever we can fix.”

Reynard said nothing more, but looked around with intense curiosity.

There was a kind of coffee nook in the back with a few folding chairs gathered in a loose circle. As they approached, the four hounds sitting there glanced up. As one, they rose and went to help the movers, leaving them alone.

Lore stopped beside the coffeepot. “May I offer you something to drink?”

“Yes,” said Reynard unexpectedly. “I would be honored.”

“Captain Reynard fears he will insult me,” Lore said in response to Ashe’s puzzled look. “Our elders do not take it well if hospitality is refused.”

“Then, sure, I’ll have some coffee,” Ashe replied. “Whatever makes the elders happy.”

“That is what I say, all too often.” Lore found three clean mugs and poured from what looked like a fresh pot. “Please help yourself to cream and sugar.”

It was real cream. The coffee tasted like hazelnut. The recycling business must have been doing well.

Lore sat in one of the folding chairs. “How may I assist you?”

Reynard sniffed the coffee experimentally. He looked pleasantly surprised. “We are searching for a thief.”

Lore’s dark brows came together. “And so you came directly to me. Am I to be flattered or insulted?”

Ashe blew past that one. “This thief is probably dealing in high-end valuables or curiosities. That includes goods from the Castle.”

Lore sat up straight, his eyes dark with carefully banked anger. “I once traded supplies with the Castle warlords to free my hounds from slavery. You think that means I know every thief and smuggler who sets foot in the Castle?”

“There aren’t many rumors the hounds don’t hear,” said Reynard quietly. “That’s why we are here. You are the best source of information we could hope for.”