Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

“You need one of us,” Reynard said, indicating himself and Faulkner, “to go on guard duty to keep evil locked away in a castle between the worlds?”

“Yes,” said Bartholomew.

Reynard’s sense of logic rebelled.

“And which worlds would those be?” Reynard’s tone slipped into sarcasm. There will be holes in this story I can—I must—use to disprove it all. Demons? Fey? More likely a brotherhood of thieves and murderers. Perhaps an imaginary game played to chase away the boredom of balls and hunting parties.

“All the worlds. I don’t even know what they all are. No one who goes into the Castle ever returns to tell us.”

“They said that about certain establishments in Calcutta, yet here I stand.”

“You fancy your chances, do you?” Bartholomew said with a derisive smile, resuming his seat.

Reynard turned away, facing the coal fire. Villains are flesh and blood. Fearsome, perhaps, but nothing new to me. “Tell me why I don’t throw you down the steps.”

“Our father’s lineage,” Faulkner said in a flat voice. “Our family name demands it.”

“Then let me deal with this little man and his castles.”

“Your bravery is commendable, Reynard, but it is not required,” Faulkner put in, rising from the chair. “I am the firstborn. The duty is mine. I will answer the call upon our family’s honor.”

So like Faulkner. “And what of Elizabeth and your children? If men truly go into this Castle and never return, have you no thought for them?”

“Of course. What would they think of me if I turned away and let you take my burden?” Faulkner stopped speaking, and Reynard could hear the heavy, determined intake of his brother’s breath. “You will look after them. You’re a man of honor. I know this house, this title, is everything you have wanted, deep in your heart. Now is your chance.”

He didn’t mention his wife, yet Elizabeth was present in both their minds as surely as if she stood in the room.

Elizabeth.

Damnation. Reynard doubted Bartholomew’s tale—what sane man wouldn’t question it?—but Faulkner clearly believed every word. Perhaps their father had told him more. Faulkner was the eldest son.

That heaped doubts on doubts. If there was the slightest chance any of it was real, Reynard couldn’t let his brother go. Faulkner had a loving family who needed him.

And Reynard knew far better how to handle a den of thieves.

He spun, his fist connecting with his brother’s jaw in a resounding crack. Pain exploded in his hand as Faulkner dropped to the floor. Nursing his knuckles, cursing, he watched the still form of his brother. Faulkner sprawled, the lace of his cuffs stark against the ruby- red pattern of the carpet.

Reynard’s lip curled into a snarl. “I am looking after your family, you idiot. What do you take me for?”

Faulkner remained unconscious, his chest rising and falling in a mockery of sleep.

“Nobly done. I hope you didn’t break his jaw in the process,” Bartholomew observed dryly. “But your heroism is useless. It has to be the firstborn.”

Reynard considered, tilting his head. Faulkner’s face looked normal enough, though it would probably bruise. No matter. Reynard would leave, and his brother would keep his honor.

“Too bad. You get me or nothing.”

The outburst of violence had restored his equilibrium, putting all those vague, fairy-story fears back in their childhood place. He would take care of this Castle nonsense and be on the first ship back to India.

Unexpected emotion welled in his eyes. Faulkner was upright, brave, humane, and would not last an hour in the face of true danger. Clenching his teeth, Reynard willed his softer sentiments away. “Tell me where I need to go to fulfill this lark.”

Bartholomew nodded slowly. “This is unprecedented, but very well. We leave at once. Have a servant pack your bags, whatever you would take on a long campaign. And bring as many weapons as you can carry. I will meet you by the gatehouse.”

Despite years of moving camp at a moment’s notice, the sudden order was unnerving. “Will I need provisions?”

Bartholomew looked oddly embarrassed. “No.”

Reynard’s eyes snapped open, his breathing slowing when he realized he was just reliving the distant past. It wasn’t real. He was in the same unfamiliar room. It was dark, with one lamp burning in the far corner, and he ached all over.

But Ashe was lying on the bed beside him, watching. Her bright green eyes were muted by the dim light.

“You’re awake,” she said softly, stroking his forehead. “We’re in Holly’s house. It’s more protected here.”

“Eden?”

“Eden’s safe. Mac has Miru-kai captive.”

He felt better. He put a hand over his chest, where the pain had hit in the Castle. The throbbing was gone. Some of that, he knew, was being in the same dimension as the urn, but the healing seemed deeper.

Ashe was reading his face, her eyes serious. “Grandma and Holly came up with a medicine. It should help for a while. Buy us a little time.”

“How much time?” She seemed to be wearing nothing but a long T- shirt that skimmed her knees and left her shapely calves bare.

The past was suddenly just that—over and done with. With Ashe there, it seemed possible to look forward.

He’d take whatever future he could get, as long as she was in it.

“What were you dreaming?” she asked. “It looked like a nightmare.”

He told her. She was the first person he’d ever told. It was the first time that he could let the words go. “Bartholomew informed me there were a limited number of families with the right kind of magic to be guardsmen—abilities that passed down father to son. Those were the warlock families who made up the Order.”

“Warlocks?” Ashe said in surprise. “I thought they’d died out long ago.”

“If they did, I’m not surprised. Every ten years one of the firstborn sons was chosen by lottery, and he had to go to the Castle. It was a magical pact the Order had set up to keep the monsters under guard. Replacements were needed over time. That year it was our family’s turn to pay.”

“And it was a complete surprise to you?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” Ashe frowned. “So what happened once you met that guy at the gatehouse? Who was he, anyway?”

“Bartholomew was the one who went from place to place with the bad news. He was an immortal himself, and had done that job since the pact was set up thousands of years before.”

Ashe blinked, a frown creasing her brow. “He was part of the spell that made the guardsmen, or a carrier of it?”

“Part, I think. At first I thought he was lying, or perhaps I just hoped he was. When I finally accepted that what he said was horribly true, it was too late for me.” Reynard looked away, looked up at the shadowed ceiling. “So I drew my sword and killed him. He wasn’t going to show up on any more doorsteps, destroying families and thrusting young men into hell.”

“That’s why there were no more guardsmen,” Ashe murmured.

“I broke the spell by destroying Bartholomew. At first I savored the thought, believing myself a secret hero, until I understood that it meant the guardsmen fought a losing battle. Until Mac, there were no more recruits to help us keep the Castle under control.”

“You saved your brother’s life,” she said, lacing her fingers through his. “And who knows how many others who would have come after you.”

“Killing a man is still a terrible thing. It doesn’t matter why or how many times one does it.”

Ashe lay down, putting her head on his shoulder. “I cast a spell when I was sixteen. It killed my parents and destroyed my magic, and it nearly destroyed Holly’s, too. That’s not what I’d meant to do, but it was where my arrogance led me.” Her voice had an edge of desolation, but it was soft, like cloth handled too often.