“There is no change, my lord prince.”
Miru-kai nodded and passed her, entering the cool, dark room. He picked up a candlestick and blew lightly on the candle. Flame blossomed from the wick. He stood a moment, using his hand to shield the light from the figure sleeping in the bed. It was an old, old man.
A mix of sorrow and fear twined around Miru- kai’s heart. Each breath the sleeper took seemed too loud, too wet. Age was drowning him with each tick of the clock.
Yes, the Castle had changed in the last year. Much of it was for the better. Spring was in the wind, like a brilliant green madness. Sap ran in forests long dead. But for those who were not truly immortal, the irresistible current of time had taken over. With nightmare fascination, Miru-kai watched mortal friends wither and die, day after day after day. The return of life to the Castle had a blood price.
Part of him was willing to pay it. He understood change. It was necessary to be truly alive, even for the dark fey. But this—this was one change he could not accept.
“Simeon,” he whispered, at once wanting to wake the old man and yet wanting him to sleep on. There was no pain in sleep. This man, this mortal warrior who had laughed and drunk ale and been the hearty, backslapping father Miru- kai had craved, this hero did not deserve a mortal’s insignificant, sour-smelling death.
The man’s eyelids, wrinkled as winter leaves, flickered open. “Kai?”
The prince set the candle on a bedside table and knelt to look at the old man. “Simeon, how are you?”
“I am content.”
“There is no need to jest now, old friend.”
“I don’t. The sentinels brought news of rain.”
Miru-kai frowned. “Rain?”
Simeon’s hand emerged from the covers, tremulously seeking that of his prince. “There was rain to the east. The Castle is truly coming back to life. The sentinels caught the rain in their helmets and drank it. They said it was the sweetest taste that had ever crossed their tongues.”
“Of course, I hesitate to think where those tongues have been.”
Simeon squeezed his hand, a feeble gesture, and let go. “Kai, be serious for once. This is a good thing. Something to celebrate.”
“Of course, and we’ll celebrate in fine style. Just as soon as you’re well again.”
Simeon closed his eyes. He didn’t need to speak the words Miru-kai had heard so often: I’m going, my boy. Fare thee well.
Miru-kai was the mightiest of the warlords in the Castle, but what did that mean? The dark fey had few friends—such was their solitary nature—and the few he had were mortal boon companions, pirates and thieves like himself. Like Simeon, who had taught him the ways of the sword, of parley and battle.
Miru-kai had seen the television. The world he and Simeon had known was gone, replaced by an utterly alien landscape. Too much was happening that he didn’t understand. He needed Simeon with him. His old friend could make sense of so many puzzling things—those problems that sorcery or trickery couldn’t solve. Matters only a mortal heart could unravel.
So the prince would change what he could not accept.
The fey believed in a weave of cause and effect, of natural laws and divine commands they called “the pattern.” It dictated what could be governed by choice and what was destiny.
They also believed that weave could be altered, either through good deeds or bad. When Mac sacrificed his humanity to save the Castle, he had changed the pattern. Where, once upon a time, the cycle of life and death had been snipped away from the Castle’s design, now it was sewn back in.
The same sacrifice had ended Simeon’s thread, but Miru-kai was willing to play weaver. He was a master of magic, both light and dark.
Miru-kai drew an urn out of the folds of his robe and prepared his mind for sorcery.
By the time Ashe left the Gardens, picked up her daughter from her sister’s place, and got home, it was midnight. Eden had fallen asleep in the car. Ashe had put her to bed feeling guilty for keeping her up so late. Just another reason to stay away from hunting jobs—especially ones that blew the lid off the weirdness scale.
When she got to bed herself, she fully expected to lie awake worrying about rabbits and assassins, but every muscle welcomed the springy oblivion of her mattress. Exhaustion won out in minutes.
Ashe dreamed she was sleeping in her own bed, the room, the dark bedcover, her entire apartment exactly as it really was. That made the sensation of someone else slipping between the sheets all the more strange. At first, an illogical part of her thought it was Roberto, coming in late as he sometimes did.
But her husband was long dead. The realization wrenched her gut with anger and grief as raw as if that loss were new. After close to five years, that wound reopened now and again, bleeding afresh.
It seemed to take forever for her dream-fogged mind to turn away from that thought to wonder who, then, was beside her.
She felt a cool hand slide down her arm, leaving a wash of pinprick electricity in its wake.
Vampire. Oh, Goddess.
She needed to turn her head, to see the face that belonged to the hand, but terror had fused her neck into one stiff column. That cold hand was freezing her in place as it slid over her hip to caress her belly. She willed herself to leap up, smash her elbow into the jaw of her attacker. Run.
Fear for her daughter began to pound through her with every heartbeat. If this was happening to her, what was happening to Eden?
“I didn’t know we were both watching you. You should be more careful.” The whisper was so soft, she barely heard it.
Ashe felt the slide of lips against the back of her shoulder, nuzzling higher and higher to reach the soft down of hair at the nape of her neck. Then the hot, intimate pinprick of fangs. Ashe exploded out of bed, sheets flying, grabbed the handgun on her nightstand, and whirled.
With sweat cooling on her skin, she realized she was threatening an empty pillow.
Goddess, she hated anxiety dreams.
Chapter 5
Thursday, April 2, 2:00 p.m.
Downtown Fairview
The plaque beside the glass-paneled door told Ashe that she’d arrived at her destination: BANNERMAN, WISHART, AND YEE, BARRISTERS AND SOLICITORS.
The eleventh floor of the sleek Benoit Tower was definitely outside her comfort zone. Tired as she was from so little sleep—there had been no falling asleep after her nightmare—anxiety had her wide-awake. Ashe hesitated. Her hand looked bare without a stake. For an instant, she wanted to bolt, but running never got rid of monsters. It just made them chase you.
Which would be bad, since she was wearing high heels. She’d forgotten how much she loathed them.
Gripping the door handle, she bit her lips and tasted the unfamiliar sweetness of lip gloss. Putting on her game face, she stepped into the hushed office suite, closing the door behind her. The lighting reminded her of an expensive salon—subdued, calming, almost metallic in its urban polish.
Ashe was glad she’d worn the winter-white skirt suit. At least she looked like she had a right to be there. She’d even remembered her pearl stud earrings, a wedding present from her husband. She straightened her shoulders and advanced through the reception area, doing her best not to fall off the heels.
An older woman sat behind a mahogany counter, guard-dog alert.
“Good afternoon. I have a two-o’clock with Mr. Bannerman,” Ashe said. “My name is Ashe Carver.”
The receptionist tapped her mouse and glanced at her computer screen, a confused expression pleating her brow. “I show your appointment as being canceled.”
