Unchained, the Dark Forgotten (2010) (35 page)

“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.

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.”

E
arly the next morning, Ashe sat across from Eden on the floor of her old bedroom in the Carver house, listening to her daughter tell the story of her kidnapping again, from start to finish. Eden had gone through it the night before in front of everyone—Mac, Alessandro, and Holly included—and then again with just Ashe holding Eden in the narrow, pink-quilted bed. Ashe was relieved that Eden was physically unhurt, but couldn’t bear to think what might have happened if Reynard hadn’t thought to look in the Castle.

This was the room where Eden slept when she visited her aunt. It was mostly emptied of Ashe’s old things now, all the teenage paraphernalia packed away, but the yellow curtains were familiar, as was the angle of the sun on the floor. It brought back memories both sweet and painful.

Every so often, she reached across, brushing the dark curls of hair from Eden’s face, unable to stop touching her. Some part of Ashe needed that physical contact to reassure herself that Eden was really safe.

“I was just scared,” Eden said. “No one actually hurt me, and Miru-kai was really nice. I mean, I was so glad to see Captain Reynard, but I was okay.”

Eden had told the story several times already, but each time something new emerged. Today, it was the fact that the fairy prince knew exactly how Ashe’s parents had died. That wasn’t impossible—a very few in the magical community had that information—but it showed how thorough the prince’s network of informants was.

More important was the fact that he’d told Eden. In Ashe’s book, that was a crime in itself, whether or not he’d meant to do it. It wasn’t his secret to share. Still, it seemed he really had saved Eden from the vampires. The jury was still out on what he had meant to do with her himself. At the moment, according to Mac, Miru- kai was swearing up and down that he’d meant to return her to Ashe.

They’d probably never know the truth, but dark fey kidnapped children. Mac had no plans to let the prince go anytime soon.

“Do you need me to forgive you for casting that spell way back when?” Eden asked, looking up through her lashes. “Because I do, y’know. Everyone makes mistakes, sometimes bad ones. Look at Uncle Mac. He got himself turned into a demon, but we still like him, right?”

Ashe was stunned, her stomach doing a strange flip. Where had that come from? “What I did isn’t something that can be forgiven. Not really.”

“But I forgive you. So it happens.” Eden gave her a crooked smile. “And I need you at the top of your game for when I get my powers. You’re going to make sure I don’t make any big mistakes.”

For a moment, Ashe couldn’t meet Eden’s eyes. “I don’t have any game anymore. I lost my powers.”

Eden’s smile got bigger. “That doesn’t mean you’re not my mom. Moms always have game.”

Ashe snorted. “Tell me that after six loads of laundry. By then I’m all game-over.”

“Look.” Eden closed her eyes, holding out her hand, palm up. Ashe watched her with a mix of curiosity and maternal alarm, wondering what was coming. For a moment, there was only sunlight, the curve of Eden’s cheek, the peaceful feeling of the house. And then it happened—a cluster of bright blue sparkles hovering over Eden’s hand. Tears blurred Ashe’s eyes. She recognized the conjuring spell at once. It was one of Grandma’s first magical exercises.

“You’re growing up,” she said huskily, picking up the ball of blue sparkles and rolling it along her fingers. “Far too fast.”

“Hey,” said Eden, watching her mother play with the light. “I thought you said you couldn’t do magic.”

“I’m not a complete null,” Ashe retorted. “I’m still a witch.”

There were some things she would never tell Eden. Foremost among them, Ashe had never looked for a cure after the spell had taken her magic. She might have found one. After all, Holly had eventually healed.

No, Ashe didn’t know whether or not her powers could be revived, and that was the way she wanted it. When her parents had died, there had been no law on the books for manslaughter by magic, so Ashe had made her own sentence. She lived deaf and blind to everything but the most basic energy fields. There were senses she used to have but didn’t anymore. That was her punishment.