Scorched

Read on for a sneak peek of Sharon Ashwood’s next Dark Forgotten novel, UNCHAINED Coming from Signet Eclipse in July 2010

Reynard fell to his knees in the dirt beside Ashe. He put a hand on her shoulder—a hot, firm touch. “Are you hurt?”

“Get down!” she barked, dragging him to the ground by the collar of his fancy coat.

The next shot missed his head by a whisker.

She could smell his sweat, the dirt, and the tang of crushed plants. She’d landed in a herbaceous border, destroying the gardeners’ careful work. A mound of thyme was bleeding spice into the night air.

She could hear the clock tower of the main building chiming eleven. She should have been home watching the late news, not chasing monsters around a botanical garden tourist trap. Wait, they’d bagged the monster. So why was someone still shooting at them?

Reynard gripped her arm. “Are you hurt?” he repeated.

“No.” She turned to look at him, careful not to raise her head too far. “How about you?”

“No.”

They lay still for a moment, breathing, listening to the dark spring night.

“Anyone trying to kill you these days?” she asked. “Not outside the Castle.”

His eyes glittered. It might have been humor. She couldn’t quite tell. He was too closed, too different, like a map with no street names or landmarks. Just a lot of really nice geography.

Ashe swallowed hard, willing her jackhammer pulse to slow down. “Then the shooter must be after me.”

“A common occurrence?”

“Not since I moved to Fairview.” Shit. Shit. This was all supposed to be in the past. She had relocated, given up life on the road, scaled down the hunting to almost nothing— just the odd case. She’d let the word go out that she was retired. Sure, there’d always be some unhappy campers-friends and relatives of the supernatural monsters she’d exterminated—but even they’d grown quiet.

Quiet enough that Ashe had taken the risk of sending for her daughter.

Shit.

Ashe crawled backward, a slithering motion that brought her to the shadow of a thick bush. She rose into a crouch, molding her body to the shape of the greenery, hiding in the dense leaves. She guessed at the angle the bullets had traveled. That put the shooter high up the tall column of rock that formed the lookout in the center of the sunken garden. She knew there was a nearly vertical staircase that led up to the platform at the top, but it wasn’t lit at night. All she could see was the dark spire of stone that blotted out the stars.

Reynard moved around to her left, noiseless as a phantom. Wisps of dark hair framed his face. His neck cloth had come untied. Ashe couldn’t help notice that messy looked good on him.

He rested on one knee, raising the long musket. “Stay down,” he said quietly. “I’ll take care of this.”

A sour burn of impatience caught in Ashe’s throat. “There’s no way to make the shot at this distance.”

“No?”

“It’s dark.”

“I live in a dungeon. I’ve adapted to the dark.” He sighted down the long barrel as confidently as if it had one of the supercalifragilistic nightscopes Ashe had seen in the latest mercenary’s mag.

They were wasting time. Firing would give away their position. They’d be better off sneaking up on the sniper. “That thing has a range of two feet. A crooked two feet.”

He sighed lightly and cranked back the hammer. It was at that moment she saw it had a real, honest-to- Goddess flint secured in the jaws of the mechanism. This thing relied on sparks and naked gunpowder. They’d be lucky if it didn’t blow up.

“They won’t be expecting us to return fire,” he said evenly.

“Because it’s not possible! I have a real gun, and I can’t make that shot.”

Thoroughly ignoring her, Reynard pulled the trigger, jerking as the musket recoiled. It banged like a giant cap gun and smelled like a chemistry lab gone wrong. Ashe opened her mouth to protest and got a mouthful of foul-tasting smoke.

And there was a distant, sharp cry of pain. Reynard had hit his mark.

“That’s not possible!” She realized she sounded annoyed. He made a noise that was almost a laugh. “Just a touch of a spell. I thought witches were open to magic.”

“I’m not a witch anymore.”

He gave her a look, grabbed the musket, and slipped into the darkness. Swearing, Ashe ran to catch up. The entrance to the staircase was on the other side of the tall spire of rock, forcing them to circle its base. The colored lights that illuminated the flower beds dwindled, then stopped as soon as they left the footpath. Ashe tripped, nearly going down on one knee before she bumped into Reynard.

He steadied her, and she could feel the remnants of magic in his touch. She’d broken her own magic with an unwise spell when she was still a teenager, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel power.

She was picking up far more than the few traces clinging to Reynard’s long, strong fingers. Right now she felt power spilling over her like sand in a windstorm, stinging in a thousand tiny bites. Whoever—whatever—had been shooting at them was hurt, and not human.

She thought again about her daughter, and knew fear.

Reynard took a step forward. Ashe grabbed his arm. “You had only one shot in your musket. I should go first.”

He pulled what looked like a very modern Smith & Wesson—it was hard to tell in the dark—from a holster hidden at the small of his back. “I could reload. I also carry a backup. As Mac is so fond of saying, shit happens.”

The obscenity sounded wrong coming from him. Of course, every assumption she’d made about him so far that night had been off base. Not a good thing when they were supposed to be covering each other’s backs.

Reynard started up the stairs, showing just how good his night vision was. Ashe brought up the rear. There was an iron railing to her right, but that was her gun hand, so she left it alone. Her skin crawled, not just with power but with vertigo. Normally she didn’t mind heights, but all that changed when she couldn’t see where she was putting her feet. She felt for the steps and counted each one. Good to know how many steps she’d climbed in case she had to reverse course in a hurry. Thinking you were at the bottom of the pitch-dark stairs when you weren’t could be a problem.

More plants and bushes grew on the rock spire. Leaves brushed her face like slick, green fingers. She fought not to jump, stumble, and finish the night with a broken leg.

They reached the landing, where the stairs took a sharp turn. Overhead was a wash of stars, thick and bright because the gardens were outside the city. Above the canopy of trees, the moon gave a thin wash of light. Ashe saw Reynard hold up his left hand, then point. His right hand was curled around his weapon. Ashe grasped her own gun with both hands, reassured by its cold, heavy weight.

They went up the last dozen stairs. At the top was a kidney-shaped platform surrounded by an iron railing. It was like another small garden. The flower bed, maple tree, and bench would have made for a lovely resting place in daylight. At night, it was eerie.

Reynard turned right and swept his gun downward to point at the fallen shooter. Ashe aimed at the figure sprawled facedown on the ground. He was twisted as if an effort to duck had spun him around.

Vampire. Now that she was close, Ashe could almost taste his essence. His energy was pouring needles of power over her like the skitter of insect feet on her skin. She glided to the left of the figure, Reynard to the right, until they stood on opposite sides of their quarry.

What happened next depended entirely on the vamp. Why had he shot at her? She wanted an explanation. She’d be happy to keep him alive—vibrantly undead?—at least long enough to question him. Longer if he played nice. Then again, he’d tried to kill her already. If he attacked, there’d be no messing around.

The vamp was male, medium height, dressed in jeans. A scatter of weapons and a tripod were strewn