Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

A crashing bore, really.

From a chamber or two away he heard Mac singing—if it could be described as such—at the top of his lungs, “Kill the wa-a-a-a-abbit!”

Despite himself, Reynard smiled. Mac had been a human officer of the law, become a fire demon, and now described himself as head of Castle operations. There was much to admire—courage, loyalty, and a shrewd mind. There was also much about him that puzzled Reynard.

“Kill the waaabbit!”

Puzzled him a lot.

Reynard turned the corner. Mac was in a small room to the left, writing on the duty roster he had pinned to the wall. Mac was large—a head taller than Reynard and bulky with muscle. He was wearing the same modern clothes many of the outsiders wore—jeans and a T-shirt that left his tattooed forearms bare. But Mac was no outsider. He was as close to a friend as Reynard had known for at least a hundred years.

“Did you kill the wabbit—er—rabbit?” Reynard asked. “I thought you merely wanted to recapture it.”

Mac gave him scandalized eyes—an odd look, since they held a glint of demonic fire. “Of course I didn’t kill it. We took it back to its habitat. Some idiot had left the gates open.”

“Then why are you singing about putting the creature to death?”

“I’m quoting Elmer Fudd.”

“One of your modern poets?”

A look crossed Mac’s face. “Not really.”

“Do I surmise that this is one of those cultural gaps no amount of explanation will close?”

“You got it.”

Reynard could hear the hubbub of the guards’ quarters a short distance away. Since Mac had arrived, the anti-appetite magic had been reduced in the quarters of the common men. Something close to a normal, noisy, messy life had returned—at least for the new recruits. For the old guard, as he’d said to Ashe, things never changed. They were subject to the Castle’s laws, but there was other, additional magic that ruled them—spells that denied them any benefits from Mac’s kindlier regime.

Reynard could smell the oily stink of roasting meat and hear the muted babble of one of those television devices. He edged a few inches away from the sound. They had a way of hypnotizing a man. He’d find himself wasting hours unless he was cautious, lost in images of things he could never have or do.

“How was the trip?” Mac asked.

“It was successful.”

“That much I got from the sofa-sized rabbit hurtling through the portal.”

Mac made a notation on a clipboard that hung on the wall, using a mechanical pencil leashed to the board with string. As if that would stop a thief. The Castle residents were notorious for stealing pens, flashlights, and anything else that was new. Such small wonders were as candy to children. Try as he might to ignore modern fripperies, even Reynard knew about cell phones and net-books. And—he was ashamed to admit—he had been known to carry off the occasional roll of duct tape. That stuff could be used for everything.

Mac glanced up from writing. “What I’m asking is whether you enjoyed your trip.”

“It is better if I do not enjoy myself. It makes returning all the harder.”

“Ever hear of the concept of vacation?”

“It’s different for us.” Reynard had seen soldiers go mad once they reached the open air, throwing civilization aside like barbarians sacking a town. “Killion left on a mission and murdered five farmers before we took his head. At the end, he was babbling about too much open space.”

“I think he was at the extreme end of the sanity bell curve.”

“Killion was not an isolated case.”

“You think your head would explode if you took a few weeks for yourself? Everyone deserves time off. I mean, it’s up to you, but you’re not one of the men I worry about.”

“Thank you, but no.”

Reynard thrust the idea aside before it could infect him. He liked to say he had two and a half centuries of overdue leave, but Mac didn’t understand. As capable as he was, there were things he didn’t know about the Castle.

The old guards had their secrets. There was a reason they never left.

One of the new guards walked by, pierced and tattooed, with a chain- mail shirt, leather kilt, stainless-steel coffee mug, and Doc Martens. He waved a hand at Reynard. “Hey, there, Cap’n.”

“Stewart.” Reynard nodded, overlooking the easy familiarity of the boy. Like the other new recruits, Stewart was a mere puppy, full of jokes and fun. Mac hired men as good with people as they were with weapons.

Stewart stopped, grinning sheepishly. “I’m going to need to book some time off in August.”

Mac looked up. “Yeah, what for?”

The boy’s eyebrows lifted, pierced rings and all. “Honeymoon. Becky said yes.”

“Well, all right!” Mac said, thumping Stewart on the back. “Did you make her sign an insurance waiver? Y’know, hold harmless against risk and all that?”

“Why, do you think marriage to me is as bad as an extreme sport?”

“You tell me.” Mac waggled his eyebrows.

“Ha, ha. Maybe I should sign one. She said she’d break my neck if she doesn’t get two weeks in the Rockies.”

“Congratulations! All the best wishes to you and the fair lady.” Reynard shook his hand. “So, you’ll expect your wedding day off work as well?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“We’ll consider it,” Reynard said, deadpan. “It might cause some problems with the schedule.”

Stewart grinned, showing the even, white teeth that all the new men and women seemed to have. “I know you’ll do your best, Cap’n. And I want you at the wedding, if you can come.”

“Thank you.” Reynard was unexpectedly touched by the invitation. He didn’t bother to say it was impossible to accept. That could wait.

Stewart ambled away, lifting the mug to his lips as he walked. Reynard studied the young man as he disappeared down the hall. New recruits were desperately needed, but it was all one could do not to resent them for the life they had. Stewart had a woman he went home to every night. He was also mortal and utterly fragile without the devil’s bargain that made the old guards ageless, indestructible, and trapped.

Trapped. The best he could ever hope for was a dull contentment and devotion to his duty. Stop dwelling on it. Get over it.

He was picking up these modernisms at a shameful pace. Soon he would even talk like one of these boys.

That might be fun.

He imagined himself hurrying home to a woman after a hard day’s work. What would Ashe Carver be like stripped of all her weaponry? There was something of the pirate queen in her fierceness. Would she be soft and womanly between the sheets? Or just as much an Amazon as she had been tonight? He let that question melt on his tongue, savoring all the possible answers and loving the fact she was so different from any woman he’d ever met.

Evidently, even a brief exposure to the outside world had affected him. Or maybe some of that was just the woman herself. Either way, his imagination was going places he’d all but forgotten.

Mac finally finished writing. “There. I’ve taken you off the next watch.”

Reynard wrenched his mind back to his cold, stone reality. “Why?”

“Someone let that rabbit beastie out of its habitat. I want to go look at the gate again. Come with me.”

“Are you looking for something specific?” Reynard unhooked the clasp of the leather cartridge box slung across his left shoulder, taking out ball and cartridge and reloading the musket in a drill he’d performed thousands of times. Cartridge. Prime. Load. Ram. If they were walking into the depths of the Castle, he was going to be ready.

“Specific?” Mac mused. “Maybe. Or maybe just a general vibe. I want to know who opened that gate, and why. You know the residents of this place far better than I do. You might see a clue that I would miss.”