Unchained, the Dark Forgotten (2010) (5 page)

“Well, girls and ghouls, that sounds like a great way to earn money and meet interesting people, doesn’t it? But I’d still ask a few questions before picking up my staff ID card. My sources have learned that, up until this recent hiring spree, the last man to join the guardsmen was Captain Reynard, back in 1758. Why did recruiting stop for two and a half centuries? And why do we so rarely see the guards outside the Castle walls? After that long, you’d think those guys would want a breath of fresh air.

“So, what exactly are our poor mortal lads getting themselves into? Once they’re in, there’s a confidentiality clause that forbids the guardsmen from talking to us. What doesn’t the Castle administration want us to know?”

Inside the Castle, Reynard found himself alone. He paused, letting the portal drift shut behind him. It closed with a faint popping noise that reminded him of smacking lips. The Castle had swallowed him up again.

He straightened his clothes, dusting mud from his sleeve. The light was low enough that his eyes barely needed to adjust from the dark outside. The area where he stood was a round, empty chamber, chosen because it was large enough to corral and capture the rabbitlike creature. Like most of the Castle, it was built of rough gray stone and lit by ever-burning torches that cast barely more than a flickering orange glow. He had expected to find some of his fellow guardsmen, but apparently they had bagged their quarry and left.

Well, he’d done his part already. Captain of the guardsmen who patrolled this section of the Castle, he had gone into the world and recaptured an escaped prisoner. He had done it a thousand times, and would do it a thousand more. His duty ended only if he was killed or the otherworldly magic of the Castle prison wound down. These retrievals were his only break in routine.

One would think he’d welcome them. Instead, he hated leaving the Castle. He hated coming back in. It was a cruel thing to taste freedom and then to walk away from it after only a few hours.

The outside world held everything he had lost, and everything he might be tempted to take. The Castle robbed him of much—hunger, thirst, lust, joy—as part of the ancient magic that prevented overpopulation by the inmates or the gobbling up of weaker species. Perversely, anger and bitterness remained. The Castle had little love, but much war.

In contrast, the outside world sharpened his appetite after decades of nothingness. Sensation—the scent of grass, the wind against his cheek—vibrated in his bones like colors long forgotten, clinging a moment before they crumbled into the dust of memory.

Desire, so heady minutes ago, still clung to his imagination. He envisioned Ashe Carver’s body under his, warm and female, the spice of thyme washing around them. She was strong, but no match for a guardsman. He could think of a thousand ways he’d like to show her that strength. He savored the hunger, imprinting it on his mind before it, too, fell to cobwebs.

Reynard had a reputation for iron discipline. Few considered why it might be necessary, or what would happen if that discipline slipped. On the other hand, he remembered who and what he’d been before he got there: angry, womanizing, a gambler, a duelist, and every other hazard a debutante’s mama might think to warn her baby chick against. That man was long gone, but every so often he felt that devil stir.

He wiped the light sweat that clung to his face and started walking down the corridor, barely bothering to look around him. There were no windows, no views of another landscape. There was only an inside to the Castle, an endless maze of shadowed corridors and vaulted rooms. The stone dungeon had lost its novelty value approximately two and a half centuries ago, but what could one expect from an eternal curse? From what he could tell, curses all began with great fanfare, but were one-note songs. Eventually they faded to the background, like a ticking clock:
doomed
,
damned
,
doomed
,
damned.

A crashing bore, really.

From a chamber or two away he heard Mac singing—if it could be described as such—at the top of his lungs, “Kill the wa-a-a-a-abbit!”

Despite himself, Reynard smiled. Mac had been a human officer of the law, become a fire demon, and now described himself as head of Castle operations. There was much to admire—courage, loyalty, and a shrewd mind. There was also much about him that puzzled Reynard.

“Kill the waaabbit!”

Puzzled him a lot.

Reynard turned the corner. Mac was in a small room to the left, writing on the duty roster he had pinned to the wall. Mac was large—a head taller than Reynard and bulky with muscle. He was wearing the same modern clothes many of the outsiders wore—jeans and a T-shirt that left his tattooed forearms bare. But Mac was no outsider. He was as close to a friend as Reynard had known for at least a hundred years.

“Did you kill the wabbit—er—rabbit?” Reynard asked. “I thought you merely wanted to recapture it.”

Mac gave him scandalized eyes—an odd look, since they held a glint of demonic fire. “Of course I didn’t kill it. We took it back to its habitat. Some idiot had left the gates open.”

“Then why are you singing about putting the creature to death?”

“I’m quoting Elmer Fudd.”

“One of your modern poets?”

A look crossed Mac’s face. “Not really.”

“Do I surmise that this is one of those cultural gaps no amount of explanation will close?”

“You got it.”

Reynard could hear the hubbub of the guards’ quarters a short distance away. Since Mac had arrived, the anti-appetite magic had been reduced in the quarters of the common men. Something close to a normal, noisy, messy life had returned—at least for the new recruits. For the old guard, as he’d said to Ashe, things never changed. They were subject to the Castle’s laws, but there was other, additional magic that ruled them—spells that denied them any benefits from Mac’s kindlier regime.

Reynard could smell the oily stink of roasting meat and hear the muted babble of one of those
television
devices. He edged a few inches away from the sound. They had a way of hypnotizing a man. He’d find himself wasting hours unless he was cautious, lost in images of things he could never have or do.

“How was the trip?” Mac asked.

“It was successful.”

“That much I got from the sofa-sized rabbit hurtling through the portal.”

Mac made a notation on a clipboard that hung on the wall, using a mechanical pencil leashed to the board with string.
As if that would stop a thief
. The Castle residents were notorious for stealing pens, flashlights, and anything else that was new. Such small wonders were as candy to children. Try as he might to ignore modern fripperies, even Reynard knew about cell phones and net-books. And—he was ashamed to admit—he had been known to carry off the occasional roll of duct tape. That stuff could be used for
everything
.

Mac glanced up from writing. “What I’m asking is whether you enjoyed your trip.”

“It is better if I do not enjoy myself. It makes returning all the harder.”

“Ever hear of the concept of vacation?”

“It’s different for us.” Reynard had seen soldiers go mad once they reached the open air, throwing civilization aside like barbarians sacking a town. “Killion left on a mission and murdered five farmers before we took his head. At the end, he was babbling about too much open space.”

“I think he was at the extreme end of the sanity bell curve.”

“Killion was not an isolated case.”

“You think your head would explode if you took a few weeks for yourself? Everyone deserves time off. I mean, it’s up to you, but you’re not one of the men I worry about.”

“Thank you, but no.”

Reynard thrust the idea aside before it could infect him. He liked to say he had two and a half centuries of overdue leave, but Mac didn’t understand. As capable as he was, there were things he didn’t know about the Castle.

The old guards had their secrets. There was a reason they never left.

One of the new guards walked by, pierced and tattooed, with a chain- mail shirt, leather kilt, stainless-steel coffee mug, and Doc Martens. He waved a hand at Reynard. “Hey, there, Cap’n.”

“Stewart.” Reynard nodded, overlooking the easy familiarity of the boy. Like the other new recruits, Stewart was a mere puppy, full of jokes and fun. Mac hired men as good with people as they were with weapons.

Stewart stopped, grinning sheepishly. “I’m going to need to book some time off in August.”

Mac looked up. “Yeah, what for?”

The boy’s eyebrows lifted, pierced rings and all. “Honeymoon. Becky said yes.”

“Well, all right!” Mac said, thumping Stewart on the back. “Did you make her sign an insurance waiver? Y’know, hold harmless against risk and all that?”

“Why, do you think marriage to me is as bad as an extreme sport?”

“You tell me.” Mac waggled his eyebrows.

“Ha, ha. Maybe I should sign one. She said she’d break my neck if she doesn’t get two weeks in the Rockies.”

“Congratulations! All the best wishes to you and the fair lady.” Reynard shook his hand. “So, you’ll expect your wedding day off work as well?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“We’ll consider it,” Reynard said, deadpan. “It might cause some problems with the schedule.”

Stewart grinned, showing the even, white teeth that all the new men and women seemed to have. “I know you’ll do your best, Cap’n. And I want you at the wedding, if you can come.”

“Thank you.” Reynard was unexpectedly touched by the invitation. He didn’t bother to say it was impossible to accept. That could wait.

Stewart ambled away, lifting the mug to his lips as he walked. Reynard studied the young man as he disappeared down the hall. New recruits were desperately needed, but it was all one could do not to resent them for the life they had. Stewart had a woman he went home to every night. He was also mortal and utterly fragile without the devil’s bargain that made the old guards ageless, indestructible, and trapped.

Trapped. The best he could ever hope for was a dull contentment and devotion to his duty.
Stop dwelling on it. Get over it.

He was picking up these modernisms at a shameful pace. Soon he would even talk like one of these boys.

That might be fun.

He imagined himself hurrying home to a woman after a hard day’s work. What would Ashe Carver be like stripped of all her weaponry? There was something of the pirate queen in her fierceness. Would she be soft and womanly between the sheets? Or just as much an Amazon as she had been tonight? He let that question melt on his tongue, savoring all the possible answers and loving the fact she was so different from any woman he’d ever met.

Evidently, even a brief exposure to the outside world had affected him. Or maybe some of that was just the woman herself. Either way, his imagination was going places he’d all but forgotten.

Mac finally finished writing. “There. I’ve taken you off the next watch.”

Reynard wrenched his mind back to his cold, stone reality. “Why?”

“Someone let that rabbit beastie out of its habitat. I want to go look at the gate again. Come with me.”

“Are you looking for something specific?” Reynard unhooked the clasp of the leather cartridge box slung across his left shoulder, taking out ball and cartridge and reloading the musket in a drill he’d performed thousands of times. Cartridge. Prime. Load. Ram. If they were walking into the depths of the Castle, he was going to be ready.

“Specific?” Mac mused. “Maybe. Or maybe just a general vibe. I want to know who opened that gate, and why. You know the residents of this place far better than I do. You might see a clue that I would miss.”

Reynard slid the ramrod back into its holder beside the barrel of the musket. “Perhaps it was sabotage. By a strange coincidence, there was a vampire hunting Ashe Carver at the exact second we were there chasing the creature. That led us on a merry little dance.”

Mac was checking his own piece, a SIG Sauer automatic. His eyebrows shot up. “What? Full report, soldier.”

“She was not harmed.”

“Of course not. You were there.”

Reynard allowed himself a small smile. “She would have skewered her vampire with or without me. I was merely a convenient accessory.”

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?”