Unchained tdf-3

by Sharon Ashwood

  Reynard swore. “I’ll get the job done. I always do.”

  As the spike of panic faded, he realized suddenly where they were. This was the place where Ashe had stood guard with her rifle, waiting for help while Reynard bled his life out on the stone floor. It looked like any other place where two corridors crossed. Nothing remarkable, except in his mind. What he remembered most was the pain of Bran’s ax wound to his gut, but through that he recalled Ashe’s cool touch. She’d given him water to drink. She’d held his head. It had been so long since anyone had shown him compassion, and when he needed it most, she was there.

  Any more detail than that was the needless embroidery of his imagination. What counted was that, for once, someone had looked after him. Not the kind of woman he’d loved before, all soft sweetness, but the right woman for that moment: brave, strong, and fierce.

  “Do you think Ashe Carver would be willing to help me?” Reynard asked with casual curiosity.

  Mac opened his mouth to answer, but a bellow thundered in the stone vault of the corridor. As one, they sprang forward, racing toward the sound.

  “That was human,” Reynard shouted. “One of the men!”

  They were heading to a place where one corridor crossed another. A few paces ahead, Mac slowed, skidding as they reached the intersection. It was impossible to see around the corner, and the dark, blanketing shadows only increased the danger of being caught in a trap. Mac drew his nine-millimeter SIG Sauer automatic. Reynard slid to a stop and dropped to one knee, sighting with his musket and using the corner of the wall for cover.

  For a moment, there was utter silence. Reynard could taste the dry dust of the stone, smell the faint scent of thyme still clinging to his clothes from his adventure with Ashe. His pulse was hard and steady.

  Then he heard the scuffle of feet, an uneven rhythm that ended in another yelp of pain down the righthand—eastern—arm of the corridor. Reynard eased around the corner, trying to see without exposing his position. He exchanged a nod with Mac and rounded the corner, flowing silently into the shadows.

  A tangle of shapes wrestled beyond the smear of torchlight a few feet ahead. The flickering illumination only made the corridor beyond twice as dark. It wasn’t light, but a mockery of it.

  Behind him, Mac yelled and fired the SIG Sauer, the report a physical slap. Reynard slammed his back to the wall and turned enough to see two figures rushing Mac from the western arm of the crossroads. Another assailant burst from the north side, cornering Mac.

  Trap!

  In one motion, Reynard sighted and fired. The Brown Bess banged, coughed smoke, slammed into his shoulder. The third attacker dropped.

  As it fell, Reynard could see the maw of needle teeth where the mouth and nose should have been. A changeling . One of the hideous, twisted mutations of the vampire species. They had all the vampires’ appetite with no humanity left to temper it. Few things would kill a changeling, but blowing the skull to bone shards generally worked.

  Mac kicked one of his attackers in the head. It was a green thing, a kind of frog-man with claws and teeth. A creature that grotesque had to be some kind of dark fey. Miru-kai is behind this.

  Mac’s other assailant was a tusked goblin flailing a two-handed sword. Reynard dropped the musket, pulled out his sidearm and his sword. He’d trained himself to use either hand to fight with sword or pistol, but still preferred the blade on his right.

  As he rushed to help Mac, the demon tossed a stream of flame into the goblin’s face. The creature fell back, raising its hands to protect its eyes. Mac kicked the sword out of its grasp.

  The frog-thing scrabbled for it, but Reynard lunged, sliding his blade between the creature’s ribs and out its back. It screamed piteously, mouth opening wide to reveal fangs like a cobra’s, so long they must have folded up inside its mouth. Reynard pulled back on the blade, feeling bone and the pull of flesh against steel.

  The screaming didn’t stop. The creature was a mercenary, a soldier, but it still felt pain and death. He shot it in the head, over and over, until the screaming stopped.

  “Hey!” Mac dodged as the huge goblin swung with its tusks. The face was grotesque, man crossed with pig and decorated with a dozen piercings. Squares of metal were sewn to its tunic, overlapping like scales. Mac hoisted the sword, letting flame leap along the blade.

  Reynard backed up, giving him room to swing.

  “I’ve got this,” yelled Mac, who looked like he was starting to enjoy himself.

  Now that the odds were even for his friend, Reynard turned and bolted the other way, back toward the source of the first cries. He had delayed only a moment to help Mac, but every lost second tore at him with frantic claws.

  Abandoning stealth, he pelted through the torchlight. The cluster of figures who had struggled in the darkness beyond was gone. Something lay on the ground. Reynard paused just long enough to glance at the object. A circular silver pin decorated with a sprig of heather. Stewart! He had dropped it as a clue.

  Or else it was a whole new trap, meant to lure Reynard deeper into the Castle.

  Bloody hell. There had to be more than one attacker, because Stewart was a good fighter. Reynard slowed his pace just enough to scan the ground as he went, searching for some indication of what he was up against. The bare stone told him nothing.

  The next junction in the corridors was shaped like a T. Left or right? Reynard listened intently, letting his vision go soft, letting sounds come to him rather than seeking them out. Perhaps it was magic, perhaps not, but it was something he’d been able to do since he was a boy. He heard things that should have been impossible to detect.

  Like the jingle of a goblin’s scaled armor along the left-hand passage. Reynard shifted his bloody sword to his left hand and put the Smith & Wesson in his right. If he was fighting a goblin, bullets were a better choice.

  He sprinted down the corridor, willing himself to catch up. Stewart’s bride was waiting for him to come home, and Captain Reynard did not leave his men behind.

  The passageway curved, the monotony of stone blocks and darkness creating a blind corner. He slowed to long, walking strides, gun ready.

  They were waiting for him, a changeling and a goblin. Stewart lay like a huddle of laundry at their feet. His neck was savaged.

  Suddenly Reynard’s mind was crystal clear, his anger snuffed out. Battle brought out his icy control, and he needed every strength he had right then.

  Stewart needed it.

  Reynard fired the gun. The changeling flew backward, but Reynard already knew he had missed the head. Damnation!

  The goblin fell back a step at the sound of the shot, but drew a bronze knife the length of a man’s forearm. The blade was serrated in long, wicked notches, meant to catch and tear as it sliced. Worse, the goblin handled it with confidence. Anticipation came into its piggy eyes. Its lower lip—stomach-churningly human—sagged a little as the upper mouth lifted, showing off the sweep of its gold-studded tusks.

  Was that a goblin smile? Leer? Evil grin? The devil only knows.

  It all took less than a second; then the goblin was on him. The thing was at least seven feet tall and smelled like rotten ham.

  It crashed forward like a falling boulder armed with a knife. Reynard ducked, but not far enough. A tusk slammed the side of his head, making his ears ring and sending him stumbling to the side. They careened into the wall, their combined weight driving the air from his lungs in a whoosh.

  Reynard sagged enough in the creature’s grip to bend his knees, then used the full force of his body to drive the heel of his hand into the goblin’s snout. Its head snapped back. He’d caught it by surprise.

  Reynard shoved his gun into the soft flesh beneath the goblin’s jaw and fired three times. As the top of the goblin’s head sprayed the wall, a single, convulsive jerk smashed its bulk against Reynard. It felt like a seven-foot bag of stone. Reynard twisted, using the goblin’s own weight to send it crashing to the floor.

  Flecks of blood and bo
ne were everywhere, over the walls and floor, over Stewart’s still form, glistening in the torchlight.

  The changeling was gone.

  The Smith & Wesson was empty, and he didn’t take the time to reload. Swords were better with vampires.

  Reynard spun away from his position, searching the shadow for the glow of pale yellow eyes. Nothing. Nothing . He dropped the gun and took a firmer grip on the sword.

  Instinctively, Reynard looked up just in time to see the changeling drop from the ceiling like a massive, pale spider. Reynard sprang aside, but not quite fast enough. Claws hooked in his sleeve, pulling him forward. He landed hard, the shock of stone on his knees stealing his breath.

  Reynard threw himself into a roll, knowing motion was his best defense against the changeling’s massive strength. A swipe of long claws missed his face by a whisper.

  Then he was back on his feet. The changeling circled, its gait oddly crablike. Hunched, bald, barrel-chested, it looked frail and slow. It was anything but. Now it had picked up the goblin’s knife.

  Blood stained its maw. Stewart’s blood.

  “Who sent you?” Reynard demanded, more to buy time than anything else.

  The thing hissed and pounced; Reynard ducked, bringing up the sword to block and turning into the motion. Not the most elegant move, but it put cold steel between his flesh and those needlelike fangs.

  As he planned, the changeling landed against the sword’s honed edge. For the second time that night, Reynard felt flesh give under the blade. Claws tore at Reynard, raking through his hair, down his sleeve. The changeling staggered back, wrenching free of the sword’s bite. No scream of pain this time, just a wheezing gurgle.

  Reynard straightened, raised the sword again. The changeling tripped on Stewart’s body, then fell backward.

  Reynard took its head with a two-handed blow, feeling the crunch of the spine vibrate through the blade.

  Lungs heaving, he stood a moment, half- drunk from the sheer savagery of the fight. Then he dropped the sword and pushed the changeling’s body aside.

  Mac was suddenly there, kneeling beside him. “Is that Stewart?”

  Reynard felt for a pulse, his own heart racing in his ears. Hot blood made his fingers slippery, frustrating his search. “I can’t tell if he’s alive.”

  Then he found it, weak but steady. Reynard felt a tremor down his limbs as the tension he’d been holding released a notch.

  “You saved him,” Mac said.

  “Barely,” Reynard replied.

  Mac shot him a look. “Taking on a goblin and a changeling at the same time? That was damned near suicidal, even for you.”

  Reynard shrugged, allowing himself a moment of cold satisfaction. “I knew you’d catch up eventually. Now let’s get this boy to a doctor.”

  The chambers of Miru-kai, prince of the dark fey, were farther into the Castle than the guardsmen’s quarters. The prince ran, invisible and fairy-fleet, through the darkness and torchlight. He had his prize from the guardsmen’s vault. All that remained was to avoid the fire demon and the old fox. Along the way, he met up with his guard and ordered them to delay any pursuit.

  They obeyed at once, not just because Miru-kai was their prince, but because he led them well. He never gave them instructions without a reason. The respect between them was mutual.

  That taken care of, he ran all the harder, because he was running to a problem, not away from one. Fear of something far worse than capture nipped at his heels.

  Miru-kai slowed to a princely pace only when he was through the tented encampment that guarded his territory. Behind the rows of silk structures, faded and tattered by time and war, was the cluster of stone chambers he called home. There lived the court of the dark fey.

  Outside his great hall, tusked goblins stood sentry. He waved them aside. The room was furnished with cushions and stools, a nomad’s quarters. Easily packed, quickly moved. Such was the life of a Castle warlord, where borders wavered on the edge of a sword.

  Surprised, the courtiers in the hall jumped up from their cushions, making a hurried bow as Miru- kai passed. He gave a distracted greeting, barely slowing his stride.

  His destination was farther on, in a bedchamber next to his own. A servant woman sat outside the door. When she saw the prince, she rose, curtsying low.

  “How does he fare?” asked Miru-kai.

  “There is no change, my lord prince.”

  Miru-kai nodded and passed her, entering the cool, dark room. He picked up a candlestick and blew lightly on the candle. Flame blossomed from the wick. He stood a moment, using his hand to shield the light from the figure sleeping in the bed. It was an old, old man.

  A mix of sorrow and fear twined around Miru- kai’s heart. Each breath the sleeper took seemed too loud, too wet. Age was drowning him with each tick of the clock.

  Yes, the Castle had changed in the last year. Much of it was for the better. Spring was in the wind, like a brilliant green madness. Sap ran in forests long dead. But for those who were not truly immortal, the irresistible current of time had taken over. With nightmare fascination, Miru-kai watched mortal friends wither and die, day after day after day. The return of life to the Castle had a blood price.

  Part of him was willing to pay it. He understood change. It was necessary to be truly alive, even for the dark fey. But this—this was one change he could not accept.

  “Simeon,” he whispered, at once wanting to wake the old man and yet wanting him to sleep on. There was no pain in sleep. This man, this mortal warrior who had laughed and drunk ale and been the hearty, backslapping father Miru- kai had craved, this hero did not deserve a mortal’s insignificant, sour-smelling death.

  The man’s eyelids, wrinkled as winter leaves, flickered open. “Kai?”

  The prince set the candle on a bedside table and knelt to look at the old man. “Simeon, how are you?”

  “I am content.”

  “There is no need to jest now, old friend.”

  “I don’t. The sentinels brought news of rain.”

  Miru-kai frowned. “Rain?”

  Simeon’s hand emerged from the covers, tremulously seeking that of his prince. “There was rain to the east. The Castle is truly coming back to life. The sentinels caught the rain in their helmets and drank it. They said it was the sweetest taste that had ever crossed their tongues.”

  “Of course, I hesitate to think where those tongues have been.”

  Simeon squeezed his hand, a feeble gesture, and let go. “Kai, be serious for once. This is a good thing. Something to celebrate.”

  “Of course, and we’ll celebrate in fine style. Just as soon as you’re well again.”

  Simeon closed his eyes. He didn’t need to speak the words Miru-kai had heard so often: I’m going, my boy. Fare thee well.

  Miru-kai was the mightiest of the warlords in the Castle, but what did that mean? The dark fey had few friends—such was their solitary nature—and the few he had were mortal boon companions, pirates and thieves like himself. Like Simeon, who had taught him the ways of the sword, of parley and battle.

  Miru-kai had seen the television. The world he and Simeon had known was gone, replaced by an utterly alien landscape. Too much was happening that he didn’t understand. He needed Simeon with him. His old friend could make sense of so many puzzling things—those problems that sorcery or trickery couldn’t solve. Matters only a mortal heart could unravel.

  So the prince would change what he could not accept.

  The fey believed in a weave of cause and effect, of natural laws and divine commands they called “the pattern.” It dictated what could be governed by choice and what was destiny.

  They also believed that weave could be altered, either through good deeds or bad. When Mac sacrificed his humanity to save the Castle, he had changed the pattern. Where, once upon a time, the cycle of life and death had been snipped away from the Castle’s design, now it was sewn back in.

  The same sacrifice had ended Simeon’s thread, but
Miru-kai was willing to play weaver. He was a master of magic, both light and dark.

  Miru-kai drew an urn out of the folds of his robe and prepared his mind for sorcery.

  By the time Ashe left the Gardens, picked up her daughter from her sister’s place, and got home, it was midnight. Eden had fallen asleep in the car. Ashe had put her to bed feeling guilty for keeping her up so late. Just another reason to stay away from hunting jobs—especially ones that blew the lid off the weirdness scale.

  When she got to bed herself, she fully expected to lie awake worrying about rabbits and assassins, but every muscle welcomed the springy oblivion of her mattress. Exhaustion won out in minutes.

  Ashe dreamed she was sleeping in her own bed, the room, the dark bedcover, her entire apartment exactly as it really was. That made the sensation of someone else slipping between the sheets all the more strange. At first, an illogical part of her thought it was Roberto, coming in late as he sometimes did.

  But her husband was long dead. The realization wrenched her gut with anger and grief as raw as if that loss were new. After close to five years, that wound reopened now and again, bleeding afresh.

  It seemed to take forever for her dream-fogged mind to turn away from that thought to wonder who, then, was beside her.

  She felt a cool hand slide down her arm, leaving a wash of pinprick electricity in its wake.

  Vampire. Oh, Goddess.

  She needed to turn her head, to see the face that belonged to the hand, but terror had fused her neck into one stiff column. That cold hand was freezing her in place as it slid over her hip to caress her belly. She willed herself to leap up, smash her elbow into the jaw of her attacker. Run.

  Fear for her daughter began to pound through her with every heartbeat. If this was happening to her, what was happening to Eden?

  “I didn’t know we were both watching you. You should be more careful.” The whisper was so soft, she barely heard it.

  Ashe felt the slide of lips against the back of her shoulder, nuzzling higher and higher to reach the soft down of hair at the nape of her neck. Then the hot, intimate pinprick of fangs. Ashe exploded out of bed, sheets flying, grabbed the handgun on her nightstand, and whirled.