Unchained

Chapter 4

Reynard’s mind was numb and reeling at once. Someone took my soul? Who? Why?

He didn’t wonder how. He knew that: They called it the guardsman’s sacrifice—and those memories were enough to bury a man’s courage like a corpse under January snow. Not that Reynard let one shred of horror show on his face. That was private, both from friend and foe.

He pushed aside those useless, tattered images from his first days in the Castle. That was so long ago, it was a wonder they hadn’t rotted from his brain. They had no right to still be vivid as a fresh wound.

Miru-kai wheeled on one boot heel. “Follow me.”

This time his voice wasn’t insinuating, smooth, or ohso-reasonable. He followed the command with an imperious glance over his shoulder. Mac looked at Reynard and shrugged, the look on his face clear. It might be a trap, but only fools would try to ambush a fire demon and the captain of the Castle guards.

Still, Reynard kept his weapon ready. Fools were everywhere.

They followed Miru-kai back the way they had come. The fey turned right down a narrow side passage. Like everywhere else in the prison, it was lit by undying torches. They flickered weakly, their light never quite bright enough to see by but still too persistent to allow the comfort of real darkness. Here, they were smaller, closer together, like the beat of a drum growing faster, a double-quick march to lead Reynard to the site of his doom.

He knew what lay at the end of the narrow passage, even though he’d been there only once, centuries before. No guardsman went there of his own accord.

It was a room with no name, just the guardsmen’s symbol, a six-pointed sun, painted in gold leaf above the arch of the door. The door itself was covered with another black iron gate strong enough to keep out an army of thieves—which was no doubt why it thoroughly interested Miru-kai.

“I had no idea this was here,” said Mac. “What is it?”

“One of the guardsmen’s many secrets,” Miru- kai responded, sweeping a hand before him like a showman revealing a three- headed calf. “Behold a treasure trove, my demon friend.”

“Treasure trove? I’m in charge of the place. You’d think I would have known about it,” Mac grumbled.

“It’s not Castle business,” Reynard said, his voice quiet. He gripped the stock of his musket tight, trying to hide the fact that his hands were shaking. “This belongs to the guards.”

He shouldered past Mac and Miru- kai to reach the iron grille. It wasn’t fancy, just a crisscross of black metal bars set into the gray Castle stone. The top of the grille was tipped with spearheads. The lock was as big as his fist and firmly in place. He let loose a relieved breath. “There’s been no theft here.”

“Look more closely.” Miru- kai’s dark eyes challenged him. “There is no dust on the lock. The grit beneath the gate has been recently disturbed, I think. And look,” he added, bending to pick up a sliver of something bright. “A fragment of painted pottery, yes? The edges look clean and fresh, as if this was broken mere hours ago. These are not begrimed with the grit and dirt of years.”

Reynard stared at the shard. Like the symbol above the door, it had been decorated with gold leaf. Like the symbol, it held great significance to the guards. A sick anger filled him all over again. He grabbed the fey’s wrist so hard, he felt a shifting of bones beneath his grip. “Perhaps because you broke it yourself? Do you know what a broken urn means?”

“No, what?” Mac asked, but Reynard’s attention didn’t waver from the fey.

The muscles under Miru-kai’s eyes tensed from pain. The dark fey curled his upper lip, baring teeth sharp as a vampire’s. “I did not do it. This door is warded with magic, as well you know. I cannot cross its threshold. I can’t even pick the lock. Not with the wards in place.”

“Then who got in?”

“Cockroaches go everywhere.”

“A cockroach broke that urn?”

Miru-kai jerked his arm free. “With proper instructions, a minor demon could have wormed his way inside. That has always been the weakness of great sorcerers. They set wards to keep out powerful enemies, not the village scoundrels.”

“And no scoundrel has attempted this lock before?” Mac asked pointedly.

“Not one with the right mentor.” Miru- kai gave his cuff a sharp, irritated tug. He locked eyes with Reynard for a long moment, glaring his displeasure. After a few heartbeats, the fey looked away. “Every thief here has tried it at least once.”

“So this villain is more clever than the lot of you.” Reynard gave the lock a vicious pull, but it held fast. Now frustration as well as alarm vibrated through his blood, making his ears pound. He kept his face away from the others until he could smooth it into its customary cool lines. “You’re saying this thief set a distraction by turning the phouka loose and then thoughtfully locked up this room behind himself?”

“Well planned, don’t you agree? Without me, you might have missed the whole event.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Reynard. “None of this makes sense. No one would ever think to look here for a robbery. Why would a thief need a diversion?”

Mac folded his arms. “Why did you tell us about this robbery, again? Just because we’re such good guys?”

Miru-kai smiled. “Perhaps there’s a touch of professional jealousy involved. I’ve always wondered what treasures gather dust behind this door.”

“I’d guess you already have the catalog,” Mac said affably. “If this door is warded, how do we get in to see what’s been taken?”

“You are head of Castle operations, are you not?” Miru-kai asked Mac. “I believe you have a master key that will work even on this door. Ordinary keys to the Castle will not.”

“How do you know?” Reynard asked. There were only nine keys, and he knew where most of them were—but not all.

“They’ve been tried,” Miru- kai responded. “It will take a master key, or—”

Reynard turned quickly to Mac, cutting off the prince. “Do you have it with you?” He hated the eager desperation in his voice.

Mac’s gaze slid to Miru-kai. “Take him aside.”

Reynard raised the barrel of his musket with a mix of impatience and dark satisfaction. “Walk back down the corridor until I tell you to stop.”

Miru-kai raised his hands with an aggrieved huff. “Such thanks I get for my assistance. I would not have taken you for such a boor.”

“Farther.”

The prince turned and walked with exaggerated strides, making sure Reynard saw each one. The fairy prince had missed his calling as a comic—but Reynard wasn’t in the mood. He’d sooner plant his boot in the prince’s backside.

“Farther.”

A flare of white light washed the corridor for a heartbeat. The magic of Mac’s key had unlocked the wards. Reynard blinked tears away, blinded by the sudden brightness.

Miru-kai turned. “Did it work?”

Mac pulled on the gate. It swung open on silent hinges. The heavy wooden door behind it surrendered to a shove from the demon’s bulky shoulder. Both Reynard and Miru-kai hurried forward.

There were torches inside the chamber, casting the same eternal, flickering glow as those in the Castle’s corridors. Reynard took a step into the chamber, his boots scraping on the marble mosaic that covered the floor in a pattern of dark and light squares. The space was octagonal, the stone ribs from each corner making a high, domed vault above them. From floor to ceiling on each side were rows and rows of narrow stone shelves filled with pottery urns.

“What the heck is all this?” Mac asked softly. The mysterious atmosphere of the shadowy room demanded low voices. “And why didn’t I know about it?”

“Each urn holds someone’s essence,” Miru- kai said quietly, entering the room behind them. “A life. A soul. Call it what you like. The old guards keep it a secret because what you see in this room makes them vulnerable.”

“Be quiet!” snapped Reynard, suddenly furious. He felt violated, invaded. “This isn’t your information to share.”

The prince ignored him and looked at Mac instead. “When the guardsmen—the old guardsmen, not your new men—arrived at the Castle, they surrendered their souls for safekeeping. It made them immortal, but it chained them to their duties. That is why they cannot leave for more than an hour or two before their powers begin to weaken. Once separated from their soul vessel, the guardsmen slowly begin to die.”

“Why?” Mac demanded.

“A very clever system.” Miru-kai went on. “Man and urn must both be in the Castle. The magic that holds them together fades in the outside world, and in a matter of weeks the guard is dead. Man in one dimension and urn in another hastens death from weeks to days. I suggest you get busy, Captain Reynard, and find your pot.”

Mac flushed with anger. “Whose stupid idea was this?”

“Those who created the guards wanted to keep them obedient. Those men who leave their post perish.”

Mac turned, staring at Reynard in bewilderment. “Seriously?”

Reynard gave a single, stiff nod. “I came to this room like all the rest. I did what was necessary. It was required of us.”

Thunder gathered in Mac’s face. “Who was doing the requiring?”

Reynard turned away, walking toward the shelves and setting the musket down on one long shelf. He was sweating with panic, the soft fabric of his shirt clinging as he moved. “It’s all in the past now.” His tone brooked no discussion.

He didn’t want to think about it.

“I want to know—”

“Look,” the fey interrupted, pointing to his right. “Some of the urns are broken.”

Reynard whipped around, filled with fresh panic.

“So what does that mean?” Mac stooped, picking up a broken lid, bits of wax seal still clinging to its lip.

Reynard answered. “Those men are dead. They were killed when the urns smashed.”

Mac spared an incredulous glance at the broken pottery. “Then who died? And when? Whose urn was outside?”

“No guard has died in several months. Those vessels were empty when they broke.”

Mac shook his head. “If each urn represents a guard, then a lot must be empty. There are thousands of jars here. There aren’t more than a few hundred of the old guards left.”

Reynard narrowed his eyes, struggling for the shreds of his self- control. “Some of the urns have . . . lost their contents. We do not age. That does not make us indestructible. Most of us have fallen in our battles with the warlords. Like him.” Reynard glared at the prince.

“Your vessel is obviously unbroken,” said Miru-kai, looking around the room with a mischievous glint in his eye. “But where is it?”

Beside each shelf was written a span of years from a calendar far older than the one Reynard had learned as a boy. His shelf was the last to be filled, his urn the last to be placed there. He covered the distance to that row in two strides. He snatched up one vessel after another, reading the names inked onto each potbellied side. Where is mine? It should be right here!

Or here.

Or here.

His heart was racing, making his head swim. He stopped handling the fragile pottery, afraid he would drop one of the vessels. He turned to Miru-kai, his face feeling slack with fear. “How do you know mine was taken?”

“Do you see it there?”

Reynard’s breath failed him for a moment. “No.”

“Don’t you feel its absence, like a hole in your belly?”

Reynard didn’t answer, because he couldn’t. He felt so sick with apprehension, he couldn’t tell whether anything else was wrong. “How do you know?”

“Call me clairvoyant.” The fey gave a predatory smile, his affable facade falling away. “Or a ferocious gossip.”

Reynard dove for him, snatching at the front of Mirukai’s rich robes. The force of his anger lifted the fey from the marble floor, dangling him in the air. The violence felt so good, a moment of release. Rage was one base instinct his curse hadn’t stolen from him. “What do you know?”

“Reynard!” Mac shouted.

Miru-kai lowered his eyes, looking down at Reynard with cool mockery. His glittering stare was inhuman, hostile. “What a prize the soul of the guards’ captain would make. A jewel for any collector. A collector who has carried it right outside these walls.”

“Who took my soul?”

“Better to ask why, and what else might have escaped the forest. That gate was opened before today.”

“Why?” Reynard roared.

Miru-kai was starting to wheeze under the iron clench of Reynard’s grip. “Ah, you have me there, old fox. I don’t know why the phouka was set free, but I’m glad it was. It gave me the perfect excuse to connive my way into this room.”

Mac was beside Reynard now, one hand on his arm. “Put down the enemy warlord and step away. He can’t talk much longer with you strangling him.”

The prince gave a jeering smile.

“Wretch!” Furious, Reynard threw Miru-kai to the ground, using all his strength to smash the fey like one of the shattered urns.

Miru-kai vanished before he hit the ground. Reynard heard him land, saw a shimmer, but his prey was gone. Reynard stumbled forward, swinging at the empty air with his fists. “Where are you, son of a whore?”

Blood pounded in his head. He stomped, driving his boot heel over and over into the floor, hoping to catch a limb or—better yet—Miru-kai’s sneering face.

“Forget it; he’s gone invisible.” Mac gave an experimental kick at where the prince should have been. Fire blazed in Mac’s eyes a moment, the heat of anger bringing his demon to the surface. “I had no idea he could do that. No wonder he made such a good thief.”

“Blasted fairy!” Reynard whirled, smashing his boot heel into one of the empty shelves. The stone split with a sharp crack, chunks crashing to join the broken urns below.

Mac grabbed his shoulder. “Cool it!” He swung Reynard around, looking him up and down. “We’re going to fix this. Somehow.”

“He knows!” Reynard snarled. “Someone stole my life and that thrice-damned fairy knows who it was.”

“Yeah,” said Mac. “But I doubt he came along just to gloat. Why was he so anxious for us to let him in here?”

Thursday, April 2, 12:30 a.m.

The Castle

Reynard stormed through the gloomy corridor, heading back to the guardsmen’s headquarters. He needed to know who was patrolling this section of the Castle over the last week. Somebody saw something; they just didn’t know it yet.

“How clearly are you thinking right now?”

Reynard turned on his heel, wheeling around to face Mac. Anger ripped through him, leaving his thoughts in dangling shreds. Striking out would be a relief, whether or not Mac was the right target. He had to look up into the demon’s face, but that didn’t faze him. He’d taken on bigger creatures and won.

“I commanded this guard for a very long time before you joined us.” The words were polite, but Reynard’s tone was ice. “I know the workings of this place better than anyone. I’ll find this thief.”

Mac’s expression was carefully neutral, torchlight playing on the planes of his face. “Cut yourself some slack. You’re going to need help on this one. Even from a newbie like me.”

Hauling in the reins of his self-control, Reynard turned and started walking again, his footsteps echoing in the darkness. “No one can help me.”

“Is that so?”

Reynard stopped dead. Fury was a cold thing, freezing the flesh from his bones. “The guardsmen have carried on, decade after decade, heading out to fight monsters we cannot possibly defeat,” he said quietly. “It does not matter what bites, wounds, or claws us. We heal and keep going back for more until we’re torn to pieces so thoroughly that even we cannot mend. That is the service we owe.”

Mac said nothing, just listened.

“It is not right.” Reynard paused, breathing hard. “Not right that we should die because our soul vessel smashes like an old teacup. It’s bad enough that some foul thing has stolen my life, and that I am passed around from seller to buyer like cheap goods at a county fair. If someone drops or damages the urn, then it’s good-bye, Captain, and fetch the broom and dustpan. I am the head of the guardsmen, a warrior with centuries of skill, and I am vulnerable as an egg.”

Mac shook his head. “Yep, that sucks.”

“It’s bloody ironic.” Reynard’s rage ebbed a little, enough to feel the fear beneath. Amazing that he still fought to live, when hope was such a cruel joke in the Castle. “It’s bloody embarrassing. A man should be a bit less breakable.”

“How come you’ve never mentioned any of this before?”

“The prince had it right. The magic that rules the guardsmen binds us to this dungeon more securely than if we were one of the prisoners. We vowed to keep silent about the soul vessels for our own protection, and the secret unites the old guards like nothing else could. Nevertheless, that vow must have been broken, if every thief in this place has an eye on our vault.”

Mac clapped a hand to Reynard’s shoulder. “We’ve gotta get a handle on this. What was that Miru-kai was saying? There’s a collector involved?”

“Unless he was lying.”

“But if he isn’t, that means your life essence—soul, whatever—has left the building.”

Reynard took a deep breath, realizing Mac had somehow calmed him down. Directed his anger to a practical problem. He wasn’t the kind of superior Reynard was used to, but he was damned effective.

Reynard gave a tired smile. “I would bet all two and a half centuries of my overdue pay that there is a conspiracy in the Castle, and Miru-kai is in the thick of it.”

The two men shared a look. Demon fire smoldered in Mac’s eyes, a sign of temper.

“Yeah,” said Mac. “Okay. First, who or what else is in the forest that might have escaped? I’m thinking opposable thumbs here. Someone who could be a thief, perhaps coached by our fairy friend.”

“A demon would be the most likely candidate, but the forest is vast. There are thousands of hellspawn, and no means of checking to see if one is missing.”

Mac grunted unhappily, and Reynard could see him adding “demon inventory” to his mental list of projects.

“Perhaps a demon got out first, and then the phouka today,” Reynard added.

“That’s right. Someone had to let the phouka loose. A flunky demon had to open the lock to the guardsmen’s storage room. A sorcerer had to know how. And then someone else had to have a connection on the outside. While it’s remotely possible that was all one or two people, I highly doubt it.”

Reynard considered that. “And in the outside world, there is a collector and the vampire assassin hunting Ashe Carver. Two very different interests. There is more than one player beyond these walls as well.”

“See, I said you needed help tracking down all the answers.” Mac swore under his breath. “I’ll bet this is the tip of a nasty old iceberg.”

They began walking again. Reynard felt his sense of purpose trickling back. “When I’m done with the guards, I will begin questioning the known thieves.”

“Dude, I’ll cover the stuff inside the Castle. You’ve got to get outside and find your soul. We don’t know exactly when the urn was taken. I know it can’t be too long because you’re still okay, but . . .”

Reynard jerked, the words cleaving him like a broadsword. “Outside?”

“If it’s separation from your urn that’s the problem, you need to be wherever it is. If it’s left the Castle, you have to follow it.”

“Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful. How am I supposed to track the wretched pot through a world I don’t know anymore?”

“Ask for help. We’ve got friends. Ask Caravelli. Holly.”

Freedom. A sudden chill seized him, making goose-flesh. Anticipation or fright, or both. If he left the Castle for too long, would he be strong enough to come back to eternal duty in a dark dungeon? Or would that much freedom drive him mad, like poor Killion? “This isn’t how I envisioned getting a few days’ leave.”

“Ain’t life a funny old thing.”

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 bone 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.

With sweat cooling on her skin, she realized she was threatening an empty pillow.

Goddess, she hated anxiety dreams.