Unchained

Chapter 10

Friday, April 3, 11:30 p.m.

101.5 FM

“Good evening, children of the night. You’re listening to CSUP, 101.5 FM at the beautiful University of Fairview campus, and I’m Errata Jones, your hostess for the evening. For our last item tonight, here’s the latest tidbit I’ve found about the guardsmen, thanks to Perry Baker, my favorite werewolf researcher and Internet sleuth.

“Where, oh, where did the old guardsmen come from? They were put there by the same jolly folks who built the Castle—those nine sorcerers who decided the world needed a prison for the supernatural folks. Well, it only made sense to install live- in security, I guess, especially if you were trying to cleanse the planet of anything that might be more magical than you.

“The subcommittee in charge of security was selected from the same families as the sorcerers. Nothing like keeping world domination in the family.

“An interesting sidebar: They were all warlocks.

“Another interesting sidebar: In later years, those same families made up a supersecret society called the Order.

“Third sidebar: Warlocks, and the Order, are supposed to have disappeared from the face of the earth.

“However, if I’m reading my history right, they’re actually still running the Castle. I mean, aren’t the old guards all from warlock families? Whatcha make of that, listeners?

“Well, it’s nearly the witching hour, and I’m Errata Jones, signing off as your hostess for the evening. I’ll be back at nine tomorrow with special guest and entertainment insider Mina Arcana, and she’ll be talking about the latest Howlywood headlines. I can’t wait, and I know you can’t, either. Addicted to the fake-blood scandal? Who isn’t? I mean, a vamp that can’t put the nosh on? What’s up with that?

“But before I leave you, a tasty treat to wish you sweet dreams. Here’s a tune from Nine and Twenty Blackbirds with the title cut from their hit collection, Darkest Rose. Kiss, kiss, and good night.”

Saturday, April 4, 9:15 a.m.

Morgan’s Gym

Ashe finished a run on the treadmill, grabbed her towel and water bottle, and climbed the stairs to the top floor of the gym. It was a large, barnlike room with an area for fencing. A long rack was hung with masks and jackets. Another rack held practice foils and épées. The equipment was basic. Competition-level fencers went to the university’s salle, where there was an ex-Olympian coach and electronic scoring. Ashe wanted less style and more aggression, and Morgan’s delivered with brutal, bruising efficiency.

No one else was in the fencing area. The early-morning gym crowd hung out in the cardio room downstairs. Ashe took a blade off the rack and began running through her drills. The épée had a bell-shaped guard and a blunted tip designed to snag on the opponent’s clothes long enough to register a hit. Not deadly, but a blow still hurt.

Because she was alone, Ashe didn’t bother with a mask or jacket.

Sun streamed through the tall windows, flashing on the mirrors, on her blade, warming the color of the old fir floor. She let her mind go still, concentrating on her form as she glided through the elaborate, dangerous ballet.

She’d finally slept last night, thanks to Grandma’s charms. She’d still worried about her job, or lack thereof. About Eden, and the horrible mistake Ashe had made by forgetting just how often kids eavesdropped when you thought they were off doing something else. About Reynard and about the hundred and one monsters out to complicate her life. It was bad when you didn’t know what to worry about first. Too many choices.

But at least she’d done it after getting a solid seven hours of vampire- free Zs. Of course, those came after another telephone marathon calling those bump- in-the-night types who might be willing or able to give her useful information. Sadly, no one had seen a thief, demon or otherwise, with an urn tucked under his arm. She began mixing moves, making a few up, pretending she was in an actual skirmish. Thrust, step, turn, parry. When you fought for real, you had to know how to improvise. She’d learned that from Roberto.

Her husband had been the first to teach her to fence—just another aspect of his danger-junkie lifestyle. Maybe that was why they’d hit it off initially; when they met, she’d been in a fatalistic mood. He’d picked her up in a bar in Switzerland, made her love life again, and married her four months later.

She reached the back wall of the gym, spun around, and began working in the other direction. Thrust, parry.

Roberto had made her forget her past, her parents, and her guilt. She would always love him for that gift.

Lunge, redouble, retreat.

Should she have pushed her husband to take fewer risks? If she had succeeded, he would still be alive. But would he be Roberto? When was protecting someone chaining them down?

Still, if Grandma was right and she was a warrior born to protect, her track record sucked. Few seemed to survive the Ashe Carver hazard zone, aka random magic, rampaging bulls, and vampires with sniper rifles.

Now it was happening again. If Ashe couldn’t find a way to help Reynard, he would die.

Dread flooded her, weighting her limbs until they dragged to a halt. She didn’t want to lose him. They might only ever share that one kiss, but it had been . . . She didn’t have the right words for it.

Except first kiss. That was the whole problem. Reynard had made her feel alive. For the first time since Roberto’s death, she wanted to get back into the business of finding a mate. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She was still turning the emotion over and over, hunting for signs that she was betraying her husband’s memory. Sure, she’d had sex since he died, but this was different. She wanted a particular man.

One logic said she could never have.

Ashe panted, feeling the sweat trickle down her back. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Reynard had promised to meet her. Where was he?

The sun pouring through the windows made the room beastly hot—apparently the air-conditioning was toast. She was wearing only a sports bra and jogging shorts, but she was still roasting. She strode to the fire escape and pushed it open to let in some fresh air.

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?”