Unchained tdf-3

by Sharon Ashwood

  And nearly bashed Reynard with the door.

  He lounged on the stairs like a great cat, basking in the sun. He twisted his head to look up at her, inscrutable behind his sunglasses. “A half- clothed woman with a sword. I believe I had a dream like that once.”

  Was this smart-ass the same guy who’d been an absolute gem with her daughter? Ashe poked him with the toe of her Reeboks. “Get up. What are you doing out here?”

  He lazily pulled himself to his feet. His hair was slicked back and tied tightly at the nape of his neck. It showed off the lean angles of his face. “The sun felt good. I was indulging myself, just for a minute.”

  He pushed the sunglasses up his nose with one finger. She didn’t need to see his eyes to tell that it was a very adult look he was giving her. She’d modeled naked for a life-drawing class and felt less exposed than she did right then.

  Slowly, his gaze shifted to the long, jagged scar a werewolf had torn across her stomach, and then to her épée. “What’s this? Sword practice?”

  “Just getting in some lunges.” Glad to change the subject, she turned and walked back to the rack with the swords. “It helps when I run into a vampire from the old days.”

  “The old days?” Reynard intoned, amused. He looked around the room with obvious curiosity. “You mean my lifetime?”

  “That’s right,” Ashe said crisply. “Now we just shoot each other. Quick and to the point.”

  His smile was sun-drunk, all heat and languor. “Some things shouldn’t be rushed.”

  Ashe rolled her eyes.

  He picked up an épée and swished it through the air, testing its weight. “Light. More like a dueling sword.”

  “Nothing like what you’re used to,” she said dryly. “Or were you the swords-at-dawn type?”

  He pulled off the glasses, squinting. “I would not refuse a legitimate challenge.”

  “Would you today?”

  He looked startled for a moment, but recovered quickly enough. A very bad-boy look came over his face. “Do you think you could best me?”

  “No, I don’t have your years of practice.”

  He smiled, but it was condescending. “Then you’re not inviting me to cross blades with you?”

  Ashe leaned on one hip. She didn’t mind being the lesser swordsman, but the assumption that she was a complete amateur bothered her. “You think you can beat me without breaking a sweat.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “You said yourself I have years of practice.”

  “Which is worth something.”

  “Absolutely.”

  His tone bordered on pure arrogance. It made her want to needle him.

  “I have years of experience as a slayer, and yet you think I need your help.”

  He sighed. “We discussed this last night.”

  Ashe took a step back, shrugging. Her skin began to heat, the first sign of anger. “I prefer to work alone. I don’t like looking after a partner. I feel guilty when they get themselves killed and, bud, you’re pushing your luck with this whole urn business.”

  “How so?”

  “You shouldn’t even be thinking about wasting your time on my problems.”

  “Maybe putting someone else first is the point. Maybe it’s the only real choice I have.”

  That brought her up short. “Then you’ve got a bad sense of self-preservation.”

  He flicked his blade at hers, hitting it hard enough that it jumped in her hand. “Put me to the test.”

  “Why bother, if I’m such a pushover?”

  He slid the sunglasses back on. “I’ve had men with your temperament serve under me. They need to test their officers before they are willing to follow.”

  “That’s a leap. You don’t know a damned thing about me. And I’m not a great follower.”

  He bared his teeth in a hungry smile. “Oh, I do believe we understand each other rather well.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to beat that out of me.”

  “This is pure guy crap.” Ashe raised her sword.

  “Yes,” he said with a satisfied air, “it is. But it is also your . . . nature. You won’t grant me respect until I’ve earned it.”

  He had read her well. “Damned straight. And I play for keeps.”

  She realized with a sick jolt that she was facing off with someone who was no doubt an expert swordsman. Worse, she was wearing nothing but spandex underwear. No masks and padded jackets. The swordsmen in Reynard’s day had played for blood. Her heart started to pound, but only part of that was fear.

  This was interesting. Their reach would be about the same. Reynard was well muscled and clearly heavier, but he was fast. All the guardsmen had inhuman strength and speed. The odds suck. Good thing he plays by the whole gentlemanly conduct code, and I don’t.

  Which was why she would win.

  Ashe struck his sword with hers and leaped backward. The clash filled the sun-drenched room. He swept one foot back almost lazily, flexing his knees, raising his sword en garde.

  “It is customary to salute first,” he said, easily parrying her next lunge.

  “This isn’t the grand ball. Besides, we’re already on a first-name basis. Or we would be, if I knew yours. Do you even have one?”

  “Yes.”

  He launched a lightning barrage of moves, driving her back. She parried each one, even managed to strike the bell-shaped guard of his weapon. The slight lift of his eyebrows told her she’d done better than he expected. Ha!

  “So what is your name?”

  “Reynard.”

  Snarky bastard. He slid his blade under hers, then thrust up. Ashe sprang back, the shock of his sword against hers hard enough to make her arm tingle.

  “Good footwork,” he said.

  “Did ballet as a kid.”

  She managed to drive him back a step or two. He kept his sword arm lower than Roberto did, wasting no energy until the last possible moment. Reynard never hinted at his next move. It was like fencing with a brick wall. Gimme an opening, dammit!

  Finally, he lunged. She countered, following with a combination she’d practiced endlessly. Not fancy, not stylish, but by-the-book aggressive. Reynard melted back. She thrust. He disappeared to the side, letting her momentum carry her forward, then kicked her feet out from under her.

  Ashe fell to her hands and knees, just managing to let the épée drop before she landed on it. “What the hell?”

  He grabbed her by the upper arm, dragging her back to her feet. “Classic mistake. You assumed I would fight fair.”

  Ashe flushed furiously. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  He pushed the sunglasses onto his head and set his épée against the wall. “Do you take me for Sir Gala-had? When I’m fighting for my life, I bloody well cheat when I have to. If I didn’t, I would have died a hundred years ago. I’m not going to end up blood on your hands. I don’t need a nursemaid.”

  Ashe felt her cheeks burn. Her instinct was to make him pay for what he’d just done, but he had a point. She’d misjudged him yet again.

  He pulled her closer. “I’m not a relic from a chivalric age gone by. I’m about getting results. Sometimes it’s right to let the beast out. We both know that.”

  She could smell the warmth of him, clean and male. The strength of his grip was fearsome, and yet oddly comforting. They had matched wits and weapons, and this time he had won. On a primitive level, that made him worth that first inch of trust.

  “Okay. Whatever.”

  At that point, he should have let go of her arm. He didn’t, and she didn’t pull away, but their eyes did not meet. Instead, he took her other shoulder, pushing her back against the mirrored wall. The smooth, cold surface felt good against her hot skin. Sweat trickled between her breasts, tickling her.

  “Look at me,” he said. His voice was low, and cracked with emotion. “I’m like you. A fighter.”

  Instead, Ashe looked away.
Reynard exhaled slowly. She could feel the movement, hear the subtle shift of cloth over muscle. He stood too close. Ashe felt invaded, as if his body were a cage around her. She could feel her breath reflected off his cheek. Against his enormous strength, there was nothing she could do. If she pushed, he would push back.

  He was only half playing, and that was a turn-on. There was no telling what he’d do next.

  Sadness welled up inside her, an ache for both of them. He was a man without a future, and she couldn’t afford the emotional wrench that entailed. She was done with that kind of risk. No more tragedies.

  And yet, there he was, pressed against her, hot and real. Suddenly those complexities, that risk, melted like steam from a mirror. Just for a moment, I can have him. Just for this minute.

  She ran her lips along the clean angle of his jaw, feeling his breath ruffle her hair. She reached the tender spot where the jaw met the neck, and felt the fine trembling in his body. He was reining himself in, keeping them just this side of propriety.

  “Close your eyes,” she whispered, and pulled off the sunglasses, hooking them in the hip pocket of her shorts. Without them, he seemed vulnerable, his eyelids so pale she could see the network of faint veins.

  She kissed them, finding a tenderness she’d rarely possessed for a man. Maybe it was because he was so strong, or because he had nearly bled to death in her arms before. Strong. Weak. She couldn’t tell. Reynard was completely off her usual radar.

  His hand crept up her side, finding her breast, cupping it. His lips parted, angled, and then suddenly he was devouring her, crushing her mouth under his. There was nothing gentle in it. Pure need. Pure hunger too long denied. Her back pressed into the mirror from the bruising embrace, the ridge of her bra digging into flesh.

  A quick wing beat of fear pulsed in her belly, and then she gave herself to the kiss. He tasted and smelled of man, dark and musky. She traced the strong bones of his face beneath her fingers, felt the liquid movement of muscle in his chest.

  Instinctively, her legs parted, making room for him. She could feel his hardness against her, fanning embers low in her body. She began to ache in all her female places. This was what she always wanted. No compromise. No holds barred.

  Tears welled in her eyes. Sadness. Joy. Loneliness. Her throat ached with them.

  He ran his teeth along the arch of her ear, teasing with bites just this side of pain. Unexpected pleasure melted her inside, like the madness of a sudden spring thaw.

  Fingers traced the scar across her stomach, and the one that curled up her back. Loving them. Honoring them. He wasn’t afraid of who she was.

  Breath escaped her in a moan. She wanted to roar in triumph, like a jungle cat finally finding a worthy mate. But it wasn’t that easy. Reynard wasn’t hers to keep. He wouldn’t be anybody’s unless they found the demon thief.

  And then he would go back to his prison. Success meant separation; failure equaled death. Either way was the inevitable good-bye. Oh, Goddess.

  Ashe planted her hands against Reynard’s chest and eased him back an inch or two. “I told you never to kiss me again.”

  “Good thing I didn’t listen.”

  She raked a loose strand of hair from her eyes, using the gesture to wipe away tears. “We have work to do.”

  He squinted at her, blinking against the sun. He had that did-I-do-something-wrong? expression men got when they were shut down midseduction. She unhooked the sunglasses from her pocket and pushed them back onto his nose.

  “If we’re going to partner up, I need your mind on the job.”

  His mouth quirked. “Partner?”

  Chapter 11

  Invisible, Miru-kai watched the fire demon they called Mac. The prince bit his nail, wondering whether to proceed. He had several gambits in mind, but were any of them clever enough to achieve what he wanted? You of them clever enough to achieve what he wanted? You never knew with demons.

  Miru-kai was loitering in the doorway of the office where the guard rosters were made up. The room was a curious mix of ancient stone and modern equipment, for this was one part of the Castle where electricity could be conjured from the walls. Mac was sitting at an old metal desk, biting the end of his pen, dark head bent to his work. The desk was big, ugly, dented, and covered in a snowstorm of paper. A lamp with a green shade cast a stark circle of light in the center. The floor was bare stone.

  The scene was almost comical in its contrasts. The huge demon, a massive man by any standards, was covered in blue flamelike tattoos. The heat from his presence alone warmed the room. Miru-kai had seen him battle an army of rebel guardsmen single-handed. And here Mac was fretting over paperwork like a common clerk, making neat notations, writing lists, crumpling pages into little balls and tossing them to the floor.

  Like any good leader, Mac would do what it took, big or small, to get the job done. It would be interesting to match wits with him, but Miru-kai would try persuasion first.

  The prince crossed to the desk, reading the papers upside down. He understood the problem at a glance. Too many shifts, too few men trying to cover the added burden of interviewing a host of suspects. Something no amount of magic, fey or demon, could solve.

  He pulled the door shut behind him, making their conversation private. At the sound, the demon looked up and around the room, suddenly alert.

  With a flick of his robes, Miru- kai sat down in the visitor’s chair across from Mac and dropped the spell that hid him from sight.

  “Shit!” Mac jumped up, pulling out one of those small firearms the new guards used. Such speed meant years of training. Impressive.

  “Relax,” Miru-kai said, sounding calmer than he felt. “I did not come to fight.”

  Mac’s dark eyes glinted red. “Then what do you want?”

  The prince set a small flask on the desk, the gesture bringing on an unexpected and real sadness. “I need a human to mourn with me.” The words hurt, as if each one took a piece of his flesh.

  “What are you mourning for?” Mac’s gun didn’t waver.

  “My friend Simeon is dead. His loss feels so profound, it comes as a surprise that every being in the Castle does not know of it.”

  They stared at each other long enough that Miru-kai’s neck began to hurt from looking up at the tall demon.

  “You ambushed us,” Mac said coldly. “Stewart nearly died. Don’t talk to me about mourning.”

  The prince had heard that a guardsman was hurt, but not who it had been. A wrench of regret twisted in his chest. “I simply wanted to get away. I asked my men to make sure you were occupied, and they took that too far. I’m sorry that the young guardsman was hurt. That was far from my intent.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Miru-kai shrugged. “As you like. At least Stewart lives. My men died.”

  “Sorry about that. Maybe you shouldn’t have sent them to do your dirty work.”

  “Is it dirty work to cover my retreat?”

  “It is if you’re in league with a thief.”

  “I am a thief.”

  “And you have the gall to come back here?”

  Miru-kai gave a slight smile. “I am not the thief you want. Coming here is quite safe for me. You’re too curious about what I might say to fire that little gun.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Then blast away, demon.”

  Finally, Mac lowered his weapon.

  The knot in Miru-kai’s stomach eased. He always preferred a battle of wits to a battle of strength. After all, he was smarter than most people. “Drink with me. Drink in Simeon’s honor.”

  Mac sat down, looking pissed off, puzzled, and wary. “I’m sorry for your loss, but why do you need a human?”

  “My courtiers are dark fey, like me,” Miru-kai said in a low voice. “Simeon was a mortal. He arrived here with me, as part of my court.”

  “So?”

  “It is only fitting that another human, or someone who was once human, marks his end.” Miru- kai paused. A question he
hadn’t meant to ask elbowed its way out. “He died well, but I don’t understand that. How can you live, knowing your days will run out?”

  Mac opened one of the old metal desk drawers and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of Scotch. The light from the desk lamp turned the whiskey to liquid gold. “You just kind of do. It’s not like you have a choice. You don’t think about it.”

  Miru-kai shook his head. “It would make so much seem futile.” His own bluntness surprised him. This is not like me. Perhaps grief causes one to behave in strange ways.

  Mac shrugged. “I have a demon’s life span now, but not much has changed. I work. I kiss my girl at the end of the day. I watch the game. It’s all about quality of experience, not quantity.”

  Miru-kai sighed. “We—the prisoners here—longed so much for release from eternal darkness. Ironic. As nature returns to the Castle, so does death.”

  Mac blinked. “Is that what happened to your mortal friend?”

  “Yes.” He suddenly felt exposed. He waved at the Scotch bottle. “You brought out your own supply. Do you think I intend to poison you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m happy to share.” The demon unscrewed the cap from his bottle and poured a small measure into each glass. “So what were you looking for in the guardsmen’s vault?”

  Miru-kai flinched. That tone of interrogation again. The demon had been a human policeman, just like the ones shown on that television program Law & Order. “Ah, yes, the vault. I had hoped the chamber of the guardsmen held a cure for my friend, but it did not. Now he is dead.”

  “You could have asked for help. We’d have tried.”

  “In the end, there was nothing in the vault that helped me. And nothing you would have permitted me to take.”

  “And someone just happened to steal Reynard’s soul?”

  “I did not take Reynard’s urn. If I had, my friend would still live.”

  Mac said nothing, but it was a loud silence.

  The prince sniffed the Scotch. “This is better than what I brought.”

  Mac set the bottle down. “Help yourself.”

  “You must know the fey appreciate good manners.”

  “If I get you drunk, maybe you’ll tell me what’s on your mind.”