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
