Unchained tdf-3

by Sharon Ashwood

  He bent down and kissed her forehead. She cringed, even though his lips were warmer than she expected, the kiss tender. He brushed her eyelids, the corner of her mouth, and then took her in a full-on embrace.

  “Get off me,” she muttered. She couldn’t pull away. Her strength had fallen to dust, staked in its turn. “I don’t belong to you.”

  “Not yet,” he said, the words sinking down to her bones.

  And yet, there was nothing lewd in his kiss. It was careful, the merest suggestion of fang and tongue. A promise. Forgiveness. Almost a benediction.

  As if he knew just how she would have wanted a first kiss from her king.

  He released her, holding her face in his hands. The topaz eyes trapped hers. “If you accept my dark gift, I’d be happy to keep you by my side. Or I could offer you ultimate peace.” His gaze traveled to her parents’ graves. “Or I could simply let you go. Any of these outcomes are acceptable, as long as you give me what I want.”

  Ah, here comes the punch line. Cynicism sliced through whatever mojo held her still. She shook him off, and he let her go. He had already made the point that she could wander only as far as he allowed.

  “Your minion said you wanted an heir.” She said it bluntly, maybe to shock herself awake. It didn’t work. “Save your efforts; I’m on the pill. Oh, wait—vampires can’t have babies. Looks like there are some logistics to work out.”

  He looked away, laughing almost shyly. “Perhaps, but the birth of your sister’s child opened a realm of possibility none of the Undead had ever dreamed of. The Carver witches are indeed remarkable.”

  Ashe folded her arms. “Fuck you. Holly is taken.”

  Belenos gave a slight shake of his head. The gold ornaments clattered softly. “Of course. Caravelli is a formidable warrior and a favorite of Queen Omara, for all that he is a headstrong subject. Even I hesitate before taking his woman, which is why I have come to you. You have no one.”

  I have someone. I’m sleeping beside him right now. But how long would that last? Never mind that. Five minutes with Reynard is worth eternity with this loser. “You’re out of luck. My powers were destroyed years ago. I can’t do what she did.”

  His eyes flared a moment. Was that news to him? If so, he shifted gears like a pro. “And yet you are still of the Carver bloodline. Genetics count, and what magic you lack, I can provide. I planned for contingencies.”

  Ashe scoffed. “How? Sure, you’re a vampire king and all, but you’re not a witch. In fact, you’re dead.”

  “There are ways.” Belenos gave a derisive smile, a dangerous look on that warrior face.

  Ashe didn’t understand, but she summoned enough will to fall back another step. “Can’t you just adopt?”

  “Most vampires were born into a feudal world. They understand dynasty, clan, and rule through the right of blood. I can give them a prince. I can give them new hope and a future.”

  “Just by having a kid of your own?”

  “I can give them a living heir. A prince who is theirs but who can still walk in the sun. A blood ruler who will ultimately sacrifice himself to take his place as my equal and their lord. Such a triumph has never been dreamed of. The vampire species will recognize our right to rule all.”

  “All?”

  Belenos smiled, and for the first time she saw the long, strong eyeteeth of a male vampire. She felt a tightening in her gut, fascination and terror. This guy would Turn his own kid.

  “You know yourself the cruelties of the humans,” he said. “They execute us for the slightest cause; they deny us the vote; in many places they still dictate where we can live. We are stronger, faster, better. Why should we not be at least equal? Why not more than equal?”

  “You get all this from having a kid?”

  Ashe didn’t understand. Maybe she couldn’t. She was modern and mortal. All she knew was that he scared her down to her bones.

  He cupped her cheek again. “My son will grow to be as great a warrior as me. No one will stand in our way.”

  “Well, someone wants to! There was an assassin. . . .”

  “Yes. There are those that oppose my plan. The demon, for one, double-crossed me and kept the urn. He thinks he is clever enough to escape my wrath.”

  Thunderstruck, Ashe stared. “You hired the thief? Why?”

  “The urn holds life. I can use that to live, for a time. Long enough to sire a child.”

  For a moment, Ashe relived thrusting the stake into the assassin’s soft heart, only this time it was Belenos she exterminated. “You sick bastard!”

  “I would have called it inventive, but there you are.”

  “That’s someone else’s life. That’s Reynard’s life!”

  He opened his hands in a shrug. “Was he putting it to good use?”

  Ashe lunged forward, forgetting everything in a need to rip and tear his flesh.

  Belenos caught her by both wrists, holding her in a grip like granite. “Let me protect you. Let me seduce you. I want you to come to me of your free will, just as your sister came to love Caravelli.”

  “I hate you!”

  “Hate is love’s cousin. You’re mourning Reynard. So be it. He will be gone soon enough.”

  Hot rage dried the tears in Ashe’s eyes. “You can’t force me to want you.”

  He laughed, a deep, confidential sound that resonated deep in her flesh. “I can strip you of your pride, imprison you, even torture you to do my will, but what sort of legacy is that for my child? You would be no better than a venom slave. My son’s mother must be a warrior, like you. I won’t harm you, Ashe.”

  He kept holding her, his grip bruising as she struggled. “I don’t expect you to desire me simply because I ask. Persuasion is a complex art. Conquest is the interesting part of the game. And it’s a game I play very, very well.”

  “I’m shaking in my slippers.”

  “So you should be. Death always wins.”

  “Screw you.”

  Chapter 16

  Sunday, April 5, 8:00 a.m.

  Ashe’s apartment

  Reynard woke to the sound of the phone ringing. He couldn’t figure out what it was until Ashe moaned and grabbed the handset from the bedside table.

  He sat up, feeling long- forgotten muscles. The room looked like a herd of trolls had stampeded through. Bedclothes everywhere. Clothes nowhere. Sun was filtering through the curtains, giving a muffled brightness to the room that his eyes finally seemed to take in stride. His stomach was raging for food. He was alive.

  “Hello?” she said to the phone.

  Ashe’s scent lingered on his skin, awakening his need for her all over again.

  He looked down at Ashe, who had one arm over her face, blocking out the light while she talked. Pride and wonder rushed through him. He had bedded the Amazon queen, and lived to tell the tale. More than that, he had found her softer instincts, the generous and gentle woman she guarded inside. The one who would give up hunting and take a humble job to see that her child had a home. He could see that part of her now in the shape of her mouth, the grace of her hands.

  The better man inside him had fallen on his knees to that hidden goddess, but the rough-and-tumble adventure of finding her had been everything he’d dreamed. Ashe was not the kind of woman who would ever be dull or predictable. She was the princess and the dragon both.

  Just looking at her made his heart speed.

  “Yeah, okay.” Ashe grabbed a paper and pencil off the table, pulling them onto the mattress so that she could write. “Go ahead.”

  He watched the sleek muscles in her back move as she scribbled notes. The night had changed everything for Reynard. He had been grateful for one night of life and love, but now that wasn’t nearly enough.

  He had bedded an army of women in his day, from courtesans to countesses, but he had felt like this only once before.

  Elizabeth. Back then, he’d been no more than one and twenty, but the possessive hunger had been the same. This need to keep Ashe beside him was
n’t going to fade. His first love had stayed with him for centuries. This one would burn even hotter, because he wasn’t going to let her slip away.

  Somehow.

  There had to be an option besides imprisonment or death, because that wasn’t a choice at all. Not when returning to the Castle meant eternal nothingness. No food, no drink, no love—nothing but slaughter. That is why Killion and the rest went mad. They saw their future and could not bear the sorrow.

  Long ago, he made a sacrifice for all the right reasons, but hadn’t he paid long enough? There had to be a way of slipping the chains that bound him. Loving and dying or loving and leaving Ashe behind—neither was an acceptable outcome.

  The urn’s absence was a hollow in his gut. Before long, he guessed, his strength would start to ebb. Fear niggled at the edges of his mind, but he forced it to stay there.

  “Sure,” said Ashe. “I know that place.”

  Her gaze traveled to him, her eyes wide-open now. “Thanks. Bye.”

  She hung up the phone and fell back to the pillow, pulling the blanket up around her. “That was Lore. He gave me the address where he’ll be this morning. I guess he left a message on my cell phone late last night but called back when he didn’t hear from me.” She sounded sheepish.

  “When can we see him?”

  “Anytime.” She put a hand over her eyes. “I just had the worst dream.”

  He lay back down beside her, resting on his elbow. He put a hand to her cheek, turning her to face him. “What was the dream?”

  “The King of the East paid me a visit.” Her eyes said there was more than just a social call involved.

  “Then it wasn’t a dream.”

  “No. Belenos hired the demon to steal your urn, but his thief double-crossed him.”

  “Belenos.” Reynard gave a bitter smile that hid his mounting anger. “A vainglorious Undead monarch. It’s fitting that he was duped. Still, it’s nice to know my life essence is in high demand by the very best people.”

  “He wants to use it as part of his plot to sire a child.”

  A vampire would use his soul to hurt Ashe? Fury blazed through him, twitching in his muscles. It was a struggle to think, to put the facts together. “I would have guessed as much. The transfer of life essence is very old black magic.”

  She sat up, looking down at him. “But why you in particular?”

  Reynard thought long and hard about answering that one. “Perhaps because I was the last of the guardsmen. I was the newest and, in some ways, the strongest.”

  “How? Why is that true?”

  “As the fey would say, I broke the pattern. There were no more guards after me.”

  Ashe looked at him for a long time. “Did you mean for that to happen?”

  “I shed blood to make sure I was the last,” he answered in a tone meant to end the conversation. “I made sure it wouldn’t happen again.”

  He didn’t want to remember that horror. Not with her sitting there like a promise of everything new and clean.

  She looked at him long and hard out of those spring-green eyes. “Okay.” She slid out of the bed.

  He followed, catching her by the arms and kissing her. Finding the demon and the urn was the first step, but the journey to happiness suddenly felt urgent. He had to hurry before it drained through his fingers like water.

  “My name is Julian,” he said, realizing it was a complete non sequitur. “The guardsmen don’t use Christian names because they hold too many memories. It’s easier if we break all our ties to those we love.”

  The statement hung in the soft bedroom air like the confession it was.

  A shattered look crossed Ashe’s face, and then her expression grew clean and hard as a sword’s edge. “Well, Julian, we’ve got an urn to find. Let’s go see a dog about a demon.”

  They took Ashe’s Ducati Superbike 1198S. The bright red motorcycle was her favorite possession. She’d traded up to a bigger bike with dual seats when she discovered Holly loved riding as much as she did. Once Holly could bear to leave Robin for an hour or so, they had begun hitting the open road. Other sisters got mani-pedis. The Carvers went cruising. As sister bonding went, it worked for them.

  It worked for Reynard, too.

  The technical details of the machine were lost on him, but by the rapt expression on his face, one ride had revealed his inner speed junkie. He got off the bike a little unsteadily, his lips parted with breathless wonder. “I had an Andalusian mare, but even she was not that fast.”

  Ashe pulled off her helmet. She’d taken the long route to Lore’s shop, finding a stretch of highway to show off a little. What the heck—it was a beautiful spring morning, and the detour was only a few minutes. She looked fondly at the bike. “I love this baby. But, hey, a horse is probably better company.”

  “She nipped.” Reynard straightened, now fully recovered from the ride. “I still miss her, though. She had a strong personality.”

  Talking about horses seemed perfectly natural. They were in an old parking lot behind brick buildings that had been warehouses long ago. Age and pollution had blackened the name of the feed company that was painted on the fourth story of the old building directly ahead. The rutted alley that led to that spot could well have been designed for carts instead of cars. Only the telephone poles and a battered Dumpster disturbed the old-time feel of the place.

  They started across the lot, the air heavy with the smell of sun-warmed earth and car exhaust. “This area is called Spookytown by the locals,” Ashe said. “Johnson Street runs in front of these buildings. It’s one of the busiest streets in the downtown. Most of the nonhumans in Fairview live right around here.”

  Reynard looked from side to side as if expecting an ambush.

  “It’s actually pretty peaceful,” she added, recognizing her own first reaction to the place. “The crime rate is lower than average. The nonhumans want equal rights. They’re doing their best to be model citizens.”

  Ashe led him to an old door in the side of the building. It had peeling white paint and small, dirty panes of glass at the top. She tried to look through the locked door without success, so knocked instead. She could hear faint music, as if someone had the radio on inside. Was that Def Leppard? She knocked again, louder this time.

  The music died. After a few seconds, she heard a bolt draw back and the door opened. It was Lore, the young alpha of the hellhound pack. Like all the hounds, he was tall and lanky, with big bones and shaggy dark hair. He wore coveralls splattered in grease and paint and an expression that gave away nothing.

  “I expected you, Ashe Carver,” he said. “I did not expect the captain of the guardsmen to come to my door.” He spoke a little haltingly, although he didn’t have a defined accent. It was the speech of someone translating their thoughts as they went.

  “Is that a problem?” Ashe said, putting some steel into the words.

  “The hounds are free from the Castle. That was guaranteed to us.”

  Reynard held up his hands in the universal not- armed gesture. “I am here only for information. You and your people are safe from me.”

  “Do you give your word, guardsman?” Lore asked. The question had the weight of ritual.

  “I do.” Reynard made no move until the hound nodded.

  “If it is you who swears, then I will accept your truth. You are one of the few guards who always keep your word. Come inside.”

  They followed him into the cavernous warehouse. It seemed to be hollowed out inside, with only a mezzanine above for offices. Large windows let in air and light, but it was dark enough that Reynard slipped off the glasses. Metal shelving surrounded the open area. A moving van was parked beneath a rolling steel door that opened onto busy Johnson Street. A dozen hounds were moving what looked like freshly upholstered furniture into the van.

  “What kind of business is this?” Reynard asked.

  “Humans are wasteful,” Lore replied. “We take what they throw away and make it new again.”

  “F
urniture refinishing?” Ashe queried. “You’ve gone into decorating?”

  Lore gave her a look that might have been amused. Hellhounds were notorious for their poker faces—for them, showing emotion was a private gesture. Lore was more expressive than most. An effort to blend in with the humans, she supposed.

  “Among other things.” He shrugged. “Engines. Appliances. Whatever we can fix.”

  Reynard said nothing more, but looked around with intense curiosity.

  There was a kind of coffee nook in the back with a few folding chairs gathered in a loose circle. As they approached, the four hounds sitting there glanced up. As one, they rose and went to help the movers, leaving them alone.

  Lore stopped beside the coffeepot. “May I offer you something to drink?”

  “Yes,” said Reynard unexpectedly. “I would be honored.”

  “Captain Reynard fears he will insult me,” Lore said in response to Ashe’s puzzled look. “Our elders do not take it well if hospitality is refused.”

  “Then, sure, I’ll have some coffee,” Ashe replied. “Whatever makes the elders happy.”

  “That is what I say, all too often.” Lore found three clean mugs and poured from what looked like a fresh pot. “Please help yourself to cream and sugar.”

  It was real cream. The coffee tasted like hazelnut. The recycling business must have been doing well.

  Lore sat in one of the folding chairs. “How may I assist you?”

  Reynard sniffed the coffee experimentally. He looked pleasantly surprised. “We are searching for a thief.”

  Lore’s dark brows came together. “And so you came directly to me. Am I to be flattered or insulted?”

  Ashe blew past that one. “This thief is probably dealing in high-end valuables or curiosities. That includes goods from the Castle.”

  Lore sat up straight, his eyes dark with carefully banked anger. “I once traded supplies with the Castle warlords to free my hounds from slavery. You think that means I know every thief and smuggler who sets foot in the Castle?”