Mac gave a dry laugh and set off down the hallway, gesturing for Reynard to follow. “That’s Ashe, all right.”
“I’m serious. I might have stayed home with my feet up. Most cutting to a man’s sense of self-worth. It’s not as if I haven’t killed my fair share of men and monsters.” In fact, considering his duels, battles, and years in the Castle, he’d simply lost count.
“Just think of the pleasant conversation you’d have missed.”
“Are you referring to the part where she threatened to blow my head off, or when she insulted my Brown Bess? There was no time for pleasantries. She didn’t even refer to the battle for the Castle, or that we had met before.” Or that she had nursed me in my hour of need, saved my life, kept me from bleeding to death. Such pathos, utterly wasted on the woman.
Mac shot him an amused look. “Disappointed?”
Yes, bitterly, but he hid it. “Perplexed. It’s true we were busy, but anyone else would have at least asked after my health.”
“Dude, she’s a killer.”
“Some of the most pleasant people I know are flesh-eating werejackals. There is no excuse for bad manners. Did you know she has a daughter?”
“Sure. Her name’s Eden. Cute kid. Calls me Uncle Mac.”
“Ashe is a widow, is she not?”
“Yup.”
“Hm.” Reynard stopped there, refusing to indulge his curiosity about the woman any further. It wasn’t as if he could put any of the information to good use. Opportunities for seduction were long lost to him.
Mac sighed. “Let’s just focus on the hell bunny. Tell me what happened. From the beginning. What was Ashe doing there, anyway?”
Reynard fell into step beside him. The conversation, however much it was about the task at hand, lightened his mood. They passed a pair of guardsmen returning from patrol, the torchlight throwing strange shadows across their weary faces. They paused and exchanged a few words. Brief, efficient, factual, but friendly—the way Reynard liked it. Morale was important but hard to maintain.
They moved on. Reynard told Mac what had happened in the gardens that night, step by step. They passed another group of guardsmen, but this time Mac just waved a greeting. Reynard had reached the part where they’d killed the vamp.
“What the hell?” Mac grumbled. “This was no coincidence. Who would be working inside and outside the Castle? Who would know that Ashe would get the call to go investigate?”
Reynard hated the fact that she’d been tricked. He would, come what may, teach that unknown villain courtesy to a lady. “Someone who knows she is in Fairview, obviously.”
“More than that. Someone who knows her family. The police wouldn’t call her directly. They’d call her brother-in-law first.”
“Then why did he not come instead?”
“There’s a new baby in the house.”
“Of course.” A witch and a vampire had produced a baby girl—a miracle by anyone’s standards. Even the Castle guards had heard that snippet of gossip. Odd how even the most seasoned warrior could be moved by word of a birth. Soldiers were surprisingly sentimental.
Mac and Reynard had walked beyond the guards’ quarters and were crossing through a long cavern that sloped gently downward. The atmosphere changed, growing almost cavelike. The ceiling was the height of several men, but at least half of that space was black with shadow. Whispering echoes sighed like the breath of some nightmarish sleeper.
Dry, dead, gravelike . . . but not quite.
Once, the Castle had been a living universe, green and pleasant, until one of its creators had stolen the life force from it. After a long, slow decline, the Castle had become nothing but hewn stone, a true dungeon. It had been that way as long as Reynard could remember. Then, last autumn, there was a battle. Reynard had nearly died and Mac had sacrificed the last of his humanity, but the life force that had once made the Castle a living world had been restored. The effect was gradual. The rebirth that stirred deep in the Castle had not reached this far. Still, Reynard could feel it like the intimation of mist against his skin.
A hint of something. A spark. For the first time Reynard could recall, the breeze that swept the dust from the bare floor carried the sharp scent of mud and moss. Here and there, freshwater springs bubbled out of the earth and trickled over the stones, murmuring of a future.
It made Reynard restless, like a stallion catching the first whiff of spring meadows.
It made the darkness seem heavier.
They’d reached the gate of the enclosure. It was a huge, arching thing of wrought iron. Each post was thick as Reynard’s forearm and crusted with a layer of dead moss. Beyond was the corpse of a forest, a skeletal wasteland of bare branches festooned with luminous fungi. The place smelled fetid, like a rotting woodpile where something furry had died.
Mac shifted uneasily, red demon fire glinting in his eyes. Reynard understood. Strange creatures lived in the depths of the wasteland—most with names long lost to mankind. This was where the demons too dangerous to mingle with the other monsters were kept. God’s teeth, even the trolls feared to venture past the rusty padlock that held the two halves of the gate together. So who had wrenched the lock open, leaving it a mangled bit of scrap on the ground?
The tension between Reynard’s shoulder blades bit deep enough to crack his spine. They peered between the bars of the gate. Its massive height made Reynard feel no bigger than a schoolboy. Someone had secured the gates with a thick chain and a shiny new lock. The lock looked blindly optimistic.
“Charming place,” Mac said dryly. “Great site for a romantic getaway.”
“Only if you wanted it to be your last. If a monster didn’t finish you, I’m certain Constance would.”
Mac chuckled at the mention of his woman. “Yeah, too Gothic even for a vampire.”
“Especially one so fond of shopping.” Reynard stepped back from the gate and looked around uneasily. “Not a boutique in sight.”
There wasn’t much to see, period. A few more dead trees. Some boulders. Dust. It was no wonder the rabbit beast had bolted for freedom. Reynard gave a helpless gesture. “I see no clues. There’s nothing to suggest who broke the lock.”
Reynard could feel the heat radiating off Mac, a sure sign of a fire demon on the edge of losing his temper.
Mac swore. “I want an arrest for this.”
“I want someone’s head on a pike. I haven’t had a piked head for ages.”
“I’ve heard about English cooking.” Mac sat down on one of the boulders. “Crap.”
“Indeed.”
The demon heaved a frustrated sigh. “It’s a crime scene. I could print the broken lock, but no one from here’s going to be in a fingerprint database.”
They were silent for a moment, and then Mac spoke again. “You know, I’ve tried to loosen security up a bit. Make the administration approachable. I’ve always figured that if you treat people like you expect them to behave, well, they usually do. But here in the Castle, I’m not so sure that’s working.”
“Change is a slow process,” Reynard offered. “You are taking a place ruled by brute force for thousands of years and trying to bring it enlightenment. That may take decades to accomplish, and you’ve been here six months.”
“If folks think they can get away with this bullshit,” Mac said, kicking the broken lock, “I’m rethinking my approach.”
Something tugged at Reynard’s senses, making him look over his shoulder. A figure was ambling toward them, as unhurried as a sightseer out for an afternoon stroll. In a place where every rock was a hiding place for fanged death, that casual air reeked of trouble. Reynard raised his musket.
Mac got to his feet. “Who is it?”
Reynard sighted down the barrel, using the moment to study the set of the figure’s head and shoulders. What he saw made every fiber of his body go still and quiet as a hunted bird.
