“Destroyed. And what was left of it returned to the Castle,” said Holly, her voice heavy. “But it took all that Reynard had to do it. We hope that bringing him the urn will put him back on his feet.”
“Ah.” Now he understood the look in Ashe’s eyes.
She could save the old fox, but only to lose him to his old life. He would be trapped forever, always a guard in an old, cold stone dungeon.
Miru-kai knew a thing or two about being trapped.
Mac strode up to them, looking massive in a tight black T-shirt. “They’ve put Reynard in the infirmary,” he said to the women.
So it is serious, then.
Miru-kai felt a pang of conscience that Simeon would have applauded. After all, it was at least partially Mirukai’s fault this whole sorry business had begun. I’ll grieve for you, old fox.
He thought about how Eden had run to Reynard with all the pure affection of a child. About how, sometimes, the weave of the pattern just seemed to go wrong. The guardsmen’s thread had been flawed from the start.
We are the storm that breaks old patterns.
“Demon,” he said to Mac.
“No time.” Mac began ushering the women past the cell door.
“Wait!”
Mac stopped, wheeling impatiently. “What?”
Miru-kai spoke fast, before Mac changed his mind. “Do you remember that I tried to heal my friend by taking something from the vault?”
“So?”
“Did you never stop to think what, or why?”
Ashe and Holly were looking at him with puzzlement. Mac just looked irritated.
Miru-kai smoothed his mustache, thinking again of how that brave child had touched his heart. “I’ll make you a bargain if you let me go. I have something to trade. I know many of the Order’s secrets.”
Mac’s frown deepened. “Don’t mess with me.”
It was Ashe who understood first. “Goddess!”
Miru-kai gave a feline smile, enjoying himself.
The guardsmen’s sacrifice—now, that was a cruel, unnatural pattern worth breaking.
“I know how to put body and soul back together.”
Chapter 25
Saturday, April 11, 12:00 p.m.
101.5 FM
“. . . and so ends the remarkable tale of the guardsmen. Originally they numbered in the thousands. Now a few hundred of the old guard remain: Romans, knights, cavaliers, Celts, warriors from every conceivable time and place. Through some mysterious means, they are now all free to go and explore our world. It’s a brand- new and mysterious world to them. Listeners, can you find it in your hearts to make them welcome?
“The story has an interesting footnote. Shortly after the liberation of the old guards, a star appeared in the Castle above the black lake, the scene of last autumn’s horrific battle. Are these two miraculous events related? Or is it mere coincidence that ending a millennia-old injustice sped the healing of the Castle? What changed to make any of this possible?
“Food for thought, girls and ghouls.
“This is Errata Jones. Good night.”
Saturday, April 11, 6:00 p.m.
The Castle
Reynard’s quarters were military perfect. Of course, there wasn’t enough here to make a real mess. The guy had no stuff. There was a small living room and a bedroom, but neither screamed “live” or “sleep.” The front room had an armchair and two battered old trunks, plus a tiny bookshelf. The books were the only thing that struck Ashe as personal.
Of course, she wasn’t here to give decorating advice.
She leaned over the bed where Reynard was sleeping and peeled down the coverlet, knowing very well that he wore nothing beneath. The skin of his sculpted chest was marble-pale. Bare of tattoos.
“You see, they’re gone.”
She started. “You’re awake.”
“I keep waking up to find you taking care of me.”
“You have a problem with that?”
He reached up, brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Never. You’re as welcome as the sun after centuries of darkness. And I know what that means. It’s not just poetry.”
She leaned over him, finding the warmth of his lips. He was safe. He was free.
He’d been sliding in and out of consciousness for a few hours. Now his gray eyes were dark with fascination, his hair loose around his muscular shoulders. Dark stubble showed off his sharp cheekbones—the kind cameras loved and plastic surgeons ached to re-create.
He should model for a pinup calendar. Hot Historical Heroes. Sir September. The Duke of December. Marquess of May—or May Not. Reynard could have starred on every page.
His gaze stayed on her face as the slowly slipping bedcovers revealed his lean abdomen, each set of muscles cleanly defined. Nothing like daily battles for a few centuries to develop the old six-pack.
His hand caught hers before the coverlet could descend those last critical inches. A dare burned in his eyes. “You wouldn’t take advantage of a man when he’s down?”
“Sure I would.” She grinned. “Without apology. And, y’know, you’re not entirely down.”
“You witch.”
“Guilty.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “And what am I going to do with you now that you’re in one piece?”
His gaze made suggestions. “You mean now that I’m not half in a clay pot?”
“A nice pot, though.” She lifted her eyebrows, her expression pleased. “Not that you’ll need it anymore.” She looked over at the urn, sitting on the stand that held his washbasin.
He squinted. “I haven’t seen it for hundreds of years.”
“I caught it just as the place exploded. When you forced the demon back into the Castle.”
“Then you saved my life.”
She allowed herself a small smile. “Maybe.”
He squinted harder. “Is that duct tape stuck to my urn?”
Ashe looked a bit sheepish. “I caught it before it smashed, but I think the blast cracked it a bit. I didn’t want your soul leaking out. Tape was the only thing I could find fast enough to do any good.”
Reynard began to chuckle. “Witches, werewolves, vampires, and a castle full of guardsmen on hand, not to mention police, firefighters, paramedics, and the media—and the only thing that could save my soul was a roll of duct tape.”
The chuckle turned into a guffaw.
Ashe looked down at him with a mixture of shock—she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him really laugh—and pique. “I was doing the best I could. It was all chaos and demon bits!”
He touched her cheek, his fingers threading through her hair. Reynard was giving her that smoking look again, the one that made it feel as if her insides were turning to chocolate syrup. He cupped her head, pulling her mouth down to his. The kiss was urgent and vulnerable, as if he were making up for the centuries of emotion that
