Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

Standing poised, his lean swordsman’s body a study in leashed potential, Reynard raised his hands. A cold glow began to gather around them like spectral gloves. Ashe caught her breath. She had never seen this kind of magic before.

The light spread from hand to hand, growing in crystalline geometry. Cold as Jack Frost, precise as a spider’s web, the chill radiance rose as far as the ceiling, holding the demon’s darkness in a snow-white cage.

She stood spellbound a moment, but then pulled herself away to search the fallen piles of debris for the urn. She moved as quickly as she could, but the magic in the air was so thick every motion dragged, like walking underwater.

Holly’s fight with the demon had been brief but destructive. China had fallen and smashed. Books had been trampled, toys broken. Worry clenched her lungs, making breaths come hard. He said the urn was just pottery. It can’t be safe in this mess. She followed the piles to the other side of the store, forcing herself to focus. If she let her attention wander, got sucked into the spectacle of the portal and the crowds, she’d never make it through the mass of things the demon had gathered.

But she could tell the demon was fighting, struggling to stay in the world. A shock wave shuddered the floor. People screamed. Boxes toppled. Ashe grabbed the wall to steady herself.

And there she saw it, where the boxes had fallen. A stoppered pottery jar, decorated with gold, and beautiful in the simple curves of its shape. She began to run toward it, the heavy magic in the air making everything happen in slow motion.

Reynard felt the demon straining against the pull of the portal, like a huge dog fighting its leash. Reynard had learned from their earlier skirmish, and adjusted his technique. A regular portal wouldn’t drag the demon through, but with the added strength of the guardsmen on the other side, and with Holly Carver beside him, Reynard had made the portal into a vacuum. They could not fight the demon hand-to-hand, but the combination of their magic could suck the creature right back to where it belonged.

If this went well, no one else would be hurt, and no more property would be destroyed. That did not mean it would be easy.

Reynard made himself the focus of the spell. Power crashed through him, a raging torrent fed by sorcery and witchcraft. His body was mere flesh and bone, not enough to contain it all, but his warlock blood directed the magic like a wick in oil. It was brutal but effective.

Burning pain flared like an awl piercing the length of his nerves. He hurt worse when the demon struggled, every thrash, every twist against the portal’s pull a searing jolt. The moment the demon faltered with exhaustion, the punishment stopped. Reynard felt hollowed out, a dry sponge with mere membranes to shape the nothingness inside.

And then the demon began fighting again.

In a remote part of his mind, he was conscious of sweat gluing his clothes to his skin. He dropped to one knee, bracing himself. I am a guardsman. I am a weapon.

The demon’s voice slid into his mind. Let me go. Take your soul, but let me go free.

Reynard didn’t answer, refusing to let his mind waver for an instant.

All I want are a few things to amuse me. Is that so terrible? A few pots and pans? A few books? This world has so much. Surely it can spare a bit?

The demon strained forward, beak snapping, wings thrashing, trying to cover its treasure with the stain of its shadow. Reynard roared at the agony, letting out the pain before it broke his mind. The demon reared, flapping its great wings.

Freedom! You want it, too! I can taste the bitter gall of yearning in your thoughts!

That was Reynard’s weak spot, his Achilles’ heel. No matter what he achieved, no matter how many lives he saved, he was forever chained to the misery of the Castle. No matter how this battle ended, there would be no joyous future, no hero’s triumph.

So there was no reason to spare himself. Duty, dignity, and death.

Resentment and frustration had boiled inside Reynard for centuries, but he could use that. Furious, he thrust all the power he could hold at the creature.

Holly and the others dug deep, answering the demand of Reynard’s attack. He hammered at the demon, rage lending strength.

The onslaught pushed, shoved, drove the dark shadow into the portal. He felt the magic of the other guardsmen sink claws into the demon’s body. But the creature would not surrender its hoard. It made one last lunge forward, desperate to claim its treasure—chained by its lust for objects as surely as Reynard was chained to his curse.

The magic broke, like an elastic band strained beyond endurance. Power recoiled, slamming into the demon, smashing it to smithereens. The explosion ripped through the empty store, hurling the piles of lamps, toys, movies, and everything else into the walls.

Reynard, the guardsmen, and everyone else flew like discarded dolls. The last thing Reynard remembered was that the blinding pain had finally stopped as he was sucked into the Castle along with the demon.

Ashe dove for the urn, letting the huge force hurl her toward the fragile vessel and the life inside.

Ashe jumped to her feet and began pounding on the wall where the portal had been—where Reynard had been—a moment before.

“Reynard! Mac!” She slammed on the plain white surface of the store wall with the flat of her hand. “Let me in!”

She stopped a moment, cradling the urn in her arms. Her head hurt. Her stomach hurt. Every part of her ached with worry.

After working that much magic, Reynard would be weakened. He wouldn’t survive long in the Castle. She had to get in there and deliver his urn.

“Let me in!” She began banging again, because she wouldn’t, couldn’t stop trying to save him.

Holly got to her feet, shaking debris out of her hair. Some of the ceiling tiles were damaged and raining down a fine, white dust. “Sandro?” she called.

Alessandro had already picked himself up but had been swamped by the reporters. With no demons around, a vampire was the next-best news bite.

Holly grabbed Ashe’s arm. “The portal’s closed. We’ll have to go downtown to the Castle door.”

Ashe kicked the wall savagely. “Dammit!”

There were emergency vehicles everywhere, police cordons, news reporters. They’d never get out.

Then she had a sudden inspiration.

Belenos’s key!

There was one well-thumbed magazine in the cell. Miru-kai had found it abandoned in the corner when he arrived the first time Mac had put him in this tedious place. Now he pulled it out from under the mattress and settled down for a third trip through the pages. Like the television shows he had seen, it described the human world as founded on a lust for material goods, reverence for the athletically gifted, and a rabid hunger for gossip. In other words, not much had changed in the many years he’d been in the Castle.

He shut the magazine with a disgusted flutter of pages. He was bored. It had been bad enough being locked up for knowing too much about the theft of the urn—that at least made sense. Now he was locked up for having stolen Ashe Carver’s daughter. Which wasn’t true. He’d wanted to, but he had actually begun to change his mind when Reynard had charged in to save the day.

How could he be blamed for something he hadn’t done? Why not wait a bit, until he actually was truly guilty? In Miru-kai’s case, that would have been only a day or two, anyway.

Humans were odd, frustrating creatures. Mac might not be human anymore, but he still thought like one. Miru-kai heaved a martyred sigh.

There was a niche in the wall with a pitcher of water and a cup. An unnecessary civility—as with the other long-term residents, he did not require food or drink—but it was a nice touch nonetheless. He poured himself a cup of the cool water purely for something to do.