Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

He had to get out of there. He had the gem to get him out the Castle door, but that was useless unless he could get to the Castle door.

He tasted the water. He could sense all the metal, and the new substance called plastic, that had surrounded the drink on its way from a man-made lake somewhere with tall pine trees and ice. The guardsman who had poured the water into the jug had been thinking about his woman. Those thoughts tasted sweet, like the honey made from wild meadows. Ah, whoever, he is, his heart swells with love. Humans felt everything so keenly.

Despite what Mac thought, Miru-kai didn’t wish harm on the guardsmen. They had their duties just as he had his. In some ways, their lot was every bit as miserable—no sun, no joy, few creature comforts. Prisons incarcerated the guards just as much as the inmates.

The prince set the cup of water back into the niche, saving it for later. He could not afford to get lost in the guardsman’s longing daydreams. He hoped they did not belong to the unfortunate Stewart.

From far away, Miru- kai heard a commotion. Mac’s voice, the deep masculine rumble of guardsmen’s voices. Something had been going on for hours, but whatever was happening now was rich with urgency. Best of all, it was nearby. At last, something interesting!

Then he heard women talking, their words urgent and upset. He recognized the voice of Eden’s mother. Had something happened to the child? A stab of anxiety brought him near the cell door.

That’s the Carver woman. And another. The timbre of their voices was so alike, he was willing to wager both Carver sisters were there, together. They were just down the corridor to the right.

Without thinking, Miru- kai grabbed one of the iron bars as he leaned forward for a better look. The blast of pain sent him reeling back, a red welt rising on his palm.

“Oberon’s balls!” He grabbed his wrist with his other hand, hissing through his teeth at the pain. He’d taken sword thrusts with manly fortitude, but cold iron hurt more.

But he forgot his discomfort as the owners of those voices walked past, because then he could see what the tall, blond Carver woman held.

“You found Reynard’s urn!” Miru-kai blurted out.

The woman wheeled, gave him a raking glance up and down. “I did.”

She reminded him of a wildcat, taut springs of energy just waiting to uncoil. To strike.

“You’re Prince Miru- kai. The one who let the demon out to steal this urn. The one who took my daughter.”

Her face, pale and tight with fatigue, was a kaleidoscope of burning emotion—fear, triumph, remorse, anger. Miru-kai had the uncomfortable feeling his schemes were the root cause of much of that heat.

“I am Miru- kai,” he replied, oddly glad of the iron bars between him and this Amazon. He sketched a polite bow.

She stared at him again, her bright green eyes holding his for a long moment. “I’ve never met you, and yet you’ve turned my life upside down.”

“That sometimes happens when the dark fey touch another’s life.”

“Why?” There was no ducking that question. Her tone said she’d break his head if he tried.

“We are the storm that breaks old patterns.”

“And leaves room for something new.” That was the dark-haired sister, Holly.

Miru-kai bowed. There were very few who understood the role fey played in the world. Most people thought they were simply evil. “I take it the demon is defeated.”

“Destroyed. And what was left of it returned to the Castle,” said Holly, her voice heavy. “But it took all that Reynard had to do it. We hope that bringing him the urn will put him back on his feet.”

“Ah.” Now he understood the look in Ashe’s eyes.

She could save the old fox, but only to lose him to his old life. He would be trapped forever, always a guard in an old, cold stone dungeon.

Miru-kai knew a thing or two about being trapped.

Mac strode up to them, looking massive in a tight black T-shirt. “They’ve put Reynard in the infirmary,” he said to the women.

So it is serious, then.

Miru-kai felt a pang of conscience that Simeon would have applauded. After all, it was at least partially Mirukai’s fault this whole sorry business had begun. I’ll grieve for you, old fox.

He thought about how Eden had run to Reynard with all the pure affection of a child. About how, sometimes, the weave of the pattern just seemed to go wrong. The guardsmen’s thread had been flawed from the start.

We are the storm that breaks old patterns.

“Demon,” he said to Mac.

“No time.” Mac began ushering the women past the cell door.

“Wait!”

Mac stopped, wheeling impatiently. “What?”

Miru-kai spoke fast, before Mac changed his mind. “Do you remember that I tried to heal my friend by taking something from the vault?”

“So?”

“Did you never stop to think what, or why?”

Ashe and Holly were looking at him with puzzlement. Mac just looked irritated.

Miru-kai smoothed his mustache, thinking again of how that brave child had touched his heart. “I’ll make you a bargain if you let me go. I have something to trade. I know many of the Order’s secrets.”

Mac’s frown deepened. “Don’t mess with me.”

It was Ashe who understood first. “Goddess!”

Miru-kai gave a feline smile, enjoying himself.

The guardsmen’s sacrifice—now, that was a cruel, unnatural pattern worth breaking.

“I know how to put body and soul back together.”

Saturday, April 11, 12:00 p.m.

101.5 FM

“. . . and so ends the remarkable tale of the guardsmen. Originally they numbered in the thousands. Now a few hundred of the old guard remain: Romans, knights, cavaliers, Celts, warriors from every conceivable time and place. Through some mysterious means, they are now all free to go and explore our world. It’s a brand- new and mysterious world to them. Listeners, can you find it in your hearts to make them welcome?

“The story has an interesting footnote. Shortly after the liberation of the old guards, a star appeared in the Castle above the black lake, the scene of last autumn’s horrific battle. Are these two miraculous events related? Or is it mere coincidence that ending a millennia-old injustice sped the healing of the Castle? What changed to make any of this possible?

“Food for thought, girls and ghouls.

“This is Errata Jones. Good night.”

Saturday, April 11, 6:00 p.m.

The Castle

Reynard’s quarters were military perfect. Of course, there wasn’t enough here to make a real mess. The guy had no stuff. There was a small living room and a bedroom, but neither screamed “live” or “sleep.” The front room had an armchair and two battered old trunks, plus a tiny bookshelf. The books were the only thing that struck Ashe as personal.

Of course, she wasn’t here to give decorating advice.

She leaned over the bed where Reynard was sleeping and peeled down the coverlet, knowing very well that he wore nothing beneath. The skin of his sculpted chest was marble-pale. Bare of tattoos.

“You see, they’re gone.”

She started. “You’re awake.”

“I keep waking up to find you taking care of me.”

“You have a problem with that?”

He reached up, brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Never. You’re as welcome as the sun after centuries of darkness. And I know what that means. It’s not just poetry.”

She leaned over him, finding the warmth of his lips. He was safe. He was free.

He’d been sliding in and out of consciousness for a few hours. Now his gray eyes were dark with fascination, his hair loose around his muscular shoulders. Dark stubble showed off his sharp cheekbones—the kind cameras loved and plastic surgeons ached to re-create.