Unchained

Chapter 19

Sunday, April 5, 10:30 p.m.

101.5 FM

“We’re joined here today for an exclusive telephone interview with Belenos, King of the Eastern Vampires. Your Majesty, I cannot begin to express how honored we are that you condescended to join us.”

“Thank you for having me, Errata. Let me begin by saying how much I appreciate the opportunity to speak to your listeners in the lovely Pacific Northwest.”

“It’s entirely our pleasure, Your Majesty. What would you like to speak about?”

“Interspecies relationships. The human media has long maintained that mixing human and nonhuman societies will inevitably lead to disaster.”

“Not all human media.”

“But most. I’m here to say it isn’t true. Peaceful relations can be maintained.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

“Humans outnumber us, so we assume they are stronger. I don’t think that’s true.”

“Why does it matter who is stronger?”

“Errata, my dear, half the time you wear the skin of a mountain lion. Surely you understand the law of fang and claw. Sovereignty belongs to the hunter, not the prey.”

“Excuse me, Your Majesty, but we need to cut to a commercial break.”

Reynard knew he was unconscious, because he’d had the dream so often before. It was New Year’s Day, 1758, at about ten in the morning. He rose from his bed in the big family home in Surrey, discovering that he had slept in his clothes. Drips of wine spotted the front of his shirt and breeches. Well-done, Reynard.

Through the fog, he recalled being rude to his older brother, Faulkner, again. He couldn’t fix on the details. But then, his brother had been drunk, too. His memory would be no better. Hopefully. Reynard wished he could remember what the devil he’d said. Uneasy, he pulled the bell rope to summon a servant.

Outside, he could hear his nieces and nephews shrieking with excitement. He winced at the pitch of the noise, then cringed again when he pushed back the curtain to admit bright sunshine. A soft, feathery coating of new snow lay on every branch and stone, intensifying the dazzling light. He squinted at the scene. The children, bundled in wraps and mittens, were in heaven.

Noisy little buggers, Reynard thought, but fondly. He had played under the same snow-dusted trees in his time.

Then Elizabeth emerged from the house, wrapped in furs, her hands tucked into a muff. She laughed with the children, walking toward them with cautious, tiny steps. The paving stones must have frozen over with ice.

Lizzie. A poet could say how beautiful she was, how soft her fawn-brown hair, how smooth her skin, but Reynard was no poet. The sight of her killed the words inside him, striking him dumb, and empty, and full of lost echoes. She had that power over his spirit. She had kept him from loving anyone else.

Elizabeth, his brother’s wife. She had been his, but then Faulkner, with the title and fortune of the firstborn son, had come along. Elizabeth claimed her parents had made them marry, but he had always wondered. She’d fancied a coat of arms.

After that, Julian Reynard, dashing cavalry captain, was merely a comet that came blazing through from time to time, wakening dreams and stirring discord. If he loved his brother, if he loved Lizzie, he had to let her go.

Reynard started awake. Where the hell am I? He’d never been in this room before. He looked around, his tongue coated with the ashy taste that came from overusing magic. He was bone-tired, his limbs like sodden bread. He moved his gaze over the furniture. It looked new? Old? How could he tell? Everything looked modern to him. He closed his eyes, too tired to keep them open. He was thirsty, but sleep claimed him again before he could think any more about it.

He was dreaming, back in his old home, same day and date. He rinsed his face and smoothed back his long hair, tying it with a black ribbon. He pulled on his new uniform, thinking he would go out and about. A bit of gold lace impressed the ladies.

Reynard descended the stairs, still buttoning his coat. The bright, snow-reflected sun flooded the high-ceilinged hall, casting shards of light through the bevels in the window glass. Rainbows bounced off the crystal droplets dangling from the candelabra, ricocheted off the cut glass of a vase. The unforgiving light hurt his wine-soaked brain.

He stopped before the open door to the morning room, his gaze quickly spotting the coffee service sitting on a table by the window. The sun flooded in here, too, turning the steam from the coffeepot into a gossamer haze.

Faulkner, as fair-haired as Reynard was dark, and another man were sitting on either side of the fire in identical armchairs. Faulkner’s guest, an older man with a black coat and a full-bottomed wig, looked just the same as when he had visited their father years ago, but Reynard couldn’t remember the fellow’s name. Bellamy? Barstow? Beelzebub?

Bartholomew. That was it.

Faulkner was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands gripped together in an attitude of brooding worry. He flinched as Reynard strode across the Turkish carpet. Faulkner was either very tense or he had an equally vile hangover.

There were no servants in the room. Without a word, Reynard poured himself coffee and took a large bite out of a buttered biscuit. He wolfed down the food, standing with his back to the other men until he had something in his stomach. Rude, yes, but his temper would be far less risky if he was fed. He swallowed the last bite and picked up another biscuit, looking out at the prospect of the park and garden. The windows in the room were twice as tall as a man, draped with loops of sky-blue velvet. Beautiful, but they let in the cold as if there were nothing between the room and the snow outside. Dusting off his fingers, Reynard refilled his cup and moved toward the warmth of the fire.

All the while he had been eating, he had been eavesdropping on his brother’s conversation. His hearing had always been exceptional. Often he heard things he should not.

“So what is this nonsense?” He stopped, facing his brother. “You say your name came up in a lottery? What lottery? And what is this Order you speak of?” The name rang a bell, but he could not think why.

Faulkner lifted his head. “It’s not nonsense. I wish it were.”

“Then why did you never mention this Castle, if it’s so bloody important?”

Slowly, his brother sat back in the chair. “The odds of this happening were remote. The fewer people who know about the Castle, the better.”

“If something can turn your face as white as the snow outside, I have a right to know about it.” His point made, Reynard walked back to the table and neatly returned his cup to the tray. His life might be in all manner of disarray, but the army had instilled some need for order into his soul.

Bartholomew spoke for the first time since Reynard had entered the morning room. “Perhaps if the details are explained now, we can disregard what should or should not have been said in the past.”

The dry, dusty voice jolted him. The cruelty in it brought back memories of hiding under the stairs as a child. Another time he heard things that had confused him. Inwardly shaken, Reynard returned to his position, glaring down at his brother and folding his arms.

“Very well,” said Faulkner.

The older man shifted in the chair, leaning forward to look into Reynard’s face. “In the event that you do not remember me, my name is Bartholomew. I—as well as your father—have belonged to something called the Order for centuries. We look after—we guard—a particular castle.”

Faulkner buried his face in his hands. At the sight of his brother’s distress, a queasy sensation began invading Reynard’s gut. It was no longer the aftereffects of a night of drink. He recognized the cold seas of fear. “This is no ceremonial duty, I take it.”

“No,” said Faulkner, his voice quiet. “It is as dangerous as anything you faced in India. And it is absolutely, utterly real.”

Reynard’s mind groped for some point of reference. Despite Faulkner’s reaction, nothing about this conversation seemed believable. “Where is this castle?”

Bartholomew rose, restlessly pacing with his hands clasped behind his back. “That is the hardest question to answer.”

“How so?” Reynard protested, but Faulkner cut him off with a wave of the hand.

“Think back to the tales of the Dark Ages,” Faulkner said softly. “The stories of fey and demons, monsters and ghouls. Did you never wonder where such creatures went, why they walk the earth no more?”

“Not really,” Reynard said with a bark of laughter. “Those are nursery stories.”

“On the contrary,” said Bartholomew, his eyes meeting Reynard’s. “The sorcerers of old imprisoned all the evils in an infinite dungeon between the worlds.”

Realization nudged Reynard, not a bolt of brilliant insight, but the subtle bump of a stranger in a crowded room. He stared for a long moment, remembering scraps of conversation from childhood. Adults hushing as the children grew close, but not quickly enough that some shreds of their fantastic, gruesome news did not fall upon young ears. A book with a golden sun. Talk of warlocks. Talk of the Order.

So this is what all those mutterings were about. He tried to deny the thought, but it clung like cobwebs. Old, bad dreams revived in the dark places of his memory. In spite of the coolness of the room, he felt sweat trickle down his ribs.

“And the service you speak of?”

The old man shrugged. “A castle needs guards. The families of the Order send their sons.”

“You need one of us,” Reynard said, indicating himself and Faulkner, “to go on guard duty to keep evil locked away in a castle between the worlds?”

“Yes,” said Bartholomew.

Reynard’s sense of logic rebelled.

“And which worlds would those be?” Reynard’s tone slipped into sarcasm. There will be holes in this story I can—I must—use to disprove it all. Demons? Fey? More likely a brotherhood of thieves and murderers. Perhaps an imaginary game played to chase away the boredom of balls and hunting parties.

“All the worlds. I don’t even know what they all are. No one who goes into the Castle ever returns to tell us.”

“They said that about certain establishments in Calcutta, yet here I stand.”

“You fancy your chances, do you?” Bartholomew said with a derisive smile, resuming his seat.

Reynard turned away, facing the coal fire. Villains are flesh and blood. Fearsome, perhaps, but nothing new to me. “Tell me why I don’t throw you down the steps.”

“Our father’s lineage,” Faulkner said in a flat voice. “Our family name demands it.”

“Then let me deal with this little man and his castles.”

“Your bravery is commendable, Reynard, but it is not required,” Faulkner put in, rising from the chair. “I am the firstborn. The duty is mine. I will answer the call upon our family’s honor.”

So like Faulkner. “And what of Elizabeth and your children? If men truly go into this Castle and never return, have you no thought for them?”

“Of course. What would they think of me if I turned away and let you take my burden?” Faulkner stopped speaking, and Reynard could hear the heavy, determined intake of his brother’s breath. “You will look after them. You’re a man of honor. I know this house, this title, is everything you have wanted, deep in your heart. Now is your chance.”

He didn’t mention his wife, yet Elizabeth was present in both their minds as surely as if she stood in the room.

Elizabeth.

Damnation. Reynard doubted Bartholomew’s tale—what sane man wouldn’t question it?—but Faulkner clearly believed every word. Perhaps their father had told him more. Faulkner was the eldest son.

That heaped doubts on doubts. If there was the slightest chance any of it was real, Reynard couldn’t let his brother go. Faulkner had a loving family who needed him.

And Reynard knew far better how to handle a den of thieves.

He spun, his fist connecting with his brother’s jaw in a resounding crack. Pain exploded in his hand as Faulkner dropped to the floor. Nursing his knuckles, cursing, he watched the still form of his brother. Faulkner sprawled, the lace of his cuffs stark against the ruby- red pattern of the carpet.

Reynard’s lip curled into a snarl. “I am looking after your family, you idiot. What do you take me for?”

Faulkner remained unconscious, his chest rising and falling in a mockery of sleep.

“Nobly done. I hope you didn’t break his jaw in the process,” Bartholomew observed dryly. “But your heroism is useless. It has to be the firstborn.”

Reynard considered, tilting his head. Faulkner’s face looked normal enough, though it would probably bruise. No matter. Reynard would leave, and his brother would keep his honor.

“Too bad. You get me or nothing.”

The outburst of violence had restored his equilibrium, putting all those vague, fairy-story fears back in their childhood place. He would take care of this Castle nonsense and be on the first ship back to India.

Unexpected emotion welled in his eyes. Faulkner was upright, brave, humane, and would not last an hour in the face of true danger. Clenching his teeth, Reynard willed his softer sentiments away. “Tell me where I need to go to fulfill this lark.”

Bartholomew nodded slowly. “This is unprecedented, but very well. We leave at once. Have a servant pack your bags, whatever you would take on a long campaign. And bring as many weapons as you can carry. I will meet you by the gatehouse.”

Despite years of moving camp at a moment’s notice, the sudden order was unnerving. “Will I need provisions?”

Bartholomew looked oddly embarrassed. “No.”

Reynard’s eyes snapped open, his breathing slowing when he realized he was just reliving the distant past. It wasn’t real. He was in the same unfamiliar room. It was dark, with one lamp burning in the far corner, and he ached all over.

But Ashe was lying on the bed beside him, watching. Her bright green eyes were muted by the dim light.

“You’re awake,” she said softly, stroking his forehead. “We’re in Holly’s house. It’s more protected here.”

“Eden?”

“Eden’s safe. Mac has Miru-kai captive.”

He felt better. He put a hand over his chest, where the pain had hit in the Castle. The throbbing was gone. Some of that, he knew, was being in the same dimension as the urn, but the healing seemed deeper.

Ashe was reading his face, her eyes serious. “Grandma and Holly came up with a medicine. It should help for a while. Buy us a little time.”

“How much time?” She seemed to be wearing nothing but a long T- shirt that skimmed her knees and left her shapely calves bare.

The past was suddenly just that—over and done with. With Ashe there, it seemed possible to look forward.

He’d take whatever future he could get, as long as she was in it.

“What were you dreaming?” she asked. “It looked like a nightmare.”

He told her. She was the first person he’d ever told. It was the first time that he could let the words go. “Bartholomew informed me there were a limited number of families with the right kind of magic to be guardsmen—abilities that passed down father to son. Those were the warlock families who made up the Order.”

“Warlocks?” Ashe said in surprise. “I thought they’d died out long ago.”

“If they did, I’m not surprised. Every ten years one of the firstborn sons was chosen by lottery, and he had to go to the Castle. It was a magical pact the Order had set up to keep the monsters under guard. Replacements were needed over time. That year it was our family’s turn to pay.”

“And it was a complete surprise to you?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” Ashe frowned. “So what happened once you met that guy at the gatehouse? Who was he, anyway?”

“Bartholomew was the one who went from place to place with the bad news. He was an immortal himself, and had done that job since the pact was set up thousands of years before.”

Ashe blinked, a frown creasing her brow. “He was part of the spell that made the guardsmen, or a carrier of it?”

“Part, I think. At first I thought he was lying, or perhaps I just hoped he was. When I finally accepted that what he said was horribly true, it was too late for me.” Reynard looked away, looked up at the shadowed ceiling. “So I drew my sword and killed him. He wasn’t going to show up on any more doorsteps, destroying families and thrusting young men into hell.”

“That’s why there were no more guardsmen,” Ashe murmured.

“I broke the spell by destroying Bartholomew. At first I savored the thought, believing myself a secret hero, until I understood that it meant the guardsmen fought a losing battle. Until Mac, there were no more recruits to help us keep the Castle under control.”

“You saved your brother’s life,” she said, lacing her fingers through his. “And who knows how many others who would have come after you.”

“Killing a man is still a terrible thing. It doesn’t matter why or how many times one does it.”

Ashe lay down, putting her head on his shoulder. “I cast a spell when I was sixteen. It killed my parents and destroyed my magic, and it nearly destroyed Holly’s, too. That’s not what I’d meant to do, but it was where my arrogance led me.” Her voice had an edge of desolation, but it was soft, like cloth handled too often.

He curled his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “We’re quite the pair.”

She was quiet a moment before she murmured, “It’s easier to think about it when I’m not alone.”

The words tugged at his heart. He knew just what she meant. They lay like that for several minutes, Reynard drowsing in the combined warmth of the bed and her body.

Finally, she rolled over, resting on his chest and cushioning her chin on her hands. “I’ve never met a warlock before. As I said, I don’t think there are any warlock families left.”

Maybe that means the Order is dead and gone. “We are just like witches, but the magic goes through the father’s side rather than the mother’s.”

“But you didn’t know you were a warlock? I mean, witches come into their magic when they’re about Eden’s age. There’s no mistaking what’s going on.”

Reynard pondered that. “It must be different for us. Now that I think back, there were signs—I’ve always had unusually good hearing, for instance—but nothing that couldn’t be explained away. Warlock magic has to be awakened. I only ever learned what was necessary to perform my duties as a guardsman.”

“Like making that rifle shoot straight?” Ashe gave him a teasing look through her lashes.

“Just so.”

He felt the words drift away into the soft twilight of the room. He wasn’t thinking about Bartholomew anymore. He was remembering the last time he lay wounded in Ashe’s arms as the battle for the Castle raged around them. She had looked after him then, too, at once gentle and fierce. Such comfort never came to the guardsmen, and yet here he was, basking in it a second time.

He might be cursed, but he was also blessed.

Ashe stroked his forehead as he fell into a dreamless sleep.

“You saved my little girl,” she whispered. “I will never, ever forget that.”