Unchained, the Dark Forgotten (2010) (30 page)

The statement hung in the soft bedroom air like the confession it was.

A shattered look crossed Ashe’s face, and then her expression grew clean and hard as a sword’s edge. “Well, Julian, we’ve got an urn to find. Let’s go see a dog about a demon.”

They took Ashe’s Ducati Superbike 1198S. The bright red motorcycle was her favorite possession. She’d traded up to a bigger bike with dual seats when she discovered Holly loved riding as much as she did. Once Holly could bear to leave Robin for an hour or so, they had begun hitting the open road. Other sisters got mani-pedis. The Carvers went cruising. As sister bonding went, it worked for them.

It worked for Reynard, too.

The technical details of the machine were lost on him, but by the rapt expression on his face, one ride had revealed his inner speed junkie. He got off the bike a little unsteadily, his lips parted with breathless wonder. “I had an Andalusian mare, but even she was not that fast.”

Ashe pulled off her helmet. She’d taken the long route to Lore’s shop, finding a stretch of highway to show off a little. What the heck—it was a beautiful spring morning, and the detour was only a few minutes. She looked fondly at the bike. “I love this baby. But, hey, a horse is probably better company.”

“She nipped.” Reynard straightened, now fully recovered from the ride. “I still miss her, though. She had a strong personality.”

Talking about horses seemed perfectly natural. They were in an old parking lot behind brick buildings that had been warehouses long ago. Age and pollution had blackened the name of the feed company that was painted on the fourth story of the old building directly ahead. The rutted alley that led to that spot could well have been designed for carts instead of cars. Only the telephone poles and a battered Dumpster disturbed the old-time feel of the place.

They started across the lot, the air heavy with the smell of sun-warmed earth and car exhaust. “This area is called Spookytown by the locals,” Ashe said. “Johnson Street runs in front of these buildings. It’s one of the busiest streets in the downtown. Most of the nonhumans in Fairview live right around here.”

Reynard looked from side to side as if expecting an ambush.

“It’s actually pretty peaceful,” she added, recognizing her own first reaction to the place. “The crime rate is lower than average. The nonhumans want equal rights. They’re doing their best to be model citizens.”

Ashe led him to an old door in the side of the building. It had peeling white paint and small, dirty panes of glass at the top. She tried to look through the locked door without success, so knocked instead. She could hear faint music, as if someone had the radio on inside. Was that Def Leppard? She knocked again, louder this time.

The music died. After a few seconds, she heard a bolt draw back and the door opened. It was Lore, the young alpha of the hellhound pack. Like all the hounds, he was tall and lanky, with big bones and shaggy dark hair. He wore coveralls splattered in grease and paint and an expression that gave away nothing.

“I expected you, Ashe Carver,” he said. “I did not expect the captain of the guardsmen to come to my door.” He spoke a little haltingly, although he didn’t have a defined accent. It was the speech of someone translating their thoughts as they went.

“Is that a problem?” Ashe said, putting some steel into the words.

“The hounds are free from the Castle. That was guaranteed to us.”

Reynard held up his hands in the universal not- armed gesture. “I am here only for information. You and your people are safe from me.”

“Do you give your word, guardsman?” Lore asked. The question had the weight of ritual.

“I do.” Reynard made no move until the hound nodded.

“If it is you who swears, then I will accept your truth. You are one of the few guards who always keep your word. Come inside.”

They followed him into the cavernous warehouse. It seemed to be hollowed out inside, with only a mezzanine above for offices. Large windows let in air and light, but it was dark enough that Reynard slipped off the glasses. Metal shelving surrounded the open area. A moving van was parked beneath a rolling steel door that opened onto busy Johnson Street. A dozen hounds were moving what looked like freshly upholstered furniture into the van.

“What kind of business is this?” Reynard asked.

“Humans are wasteful,” Lore replied. “We take what they throw away and make it new again.”

“Furniture refinishing?” Ashe queried. “You’ve gone into decorating?”

Lore gave her a look that might have been amused. Hellhounds were notorious for their poker faces—for them, showing emotion was a private gesture. Lore was more expressive than most. An effort to blend in with the humans, she supposed.

“Among other things.” He shrugged. “Engines. Appliances. Whatever we can fix.”

Reynard said nothing more, but looked around with intense curiosity.

There was a kind of coffee nook in the back with a few folding chairs gathered in a loose circle. As they approached, the four hounds sitting there glanced up. As one, they rose and went to help the movers, leaving them alone.

Lore stopped beside the coffeepot. “May I offer you something to drink?”

“Yes,” said Reynard unexpectedly. “I would be honored.”

“Captain Reynard fears he will insult me,” Lore said in response to Ashe’s puzzled look. “Our elders do not take it well if hospitality is refused.”

“Then, sure, I’ll have some coffee,” Ashe replied. “Whatever makes the elders happy.”

“That is what I say, all too often.” Lore found three clean mugs and poured from what looked like a fresh pot. “Please help yourself to cream and sugar.”

It was real cream. The coffee tasted like hazelnut. The recycling business must have been doing well.

Lore sat in one of the folding chairs. “How may I assist you?”

Reynard sniffed the coffee experimentally. He looked pleasantly surprised. “We are searching for a thief.”

Lore’s dark brows came together. “And so you came directly to me. Am I to be flattered or insulted?”

Ashe blew past that one. “This thief is probably dealing in high-end valuables or curiosities. That includes goods from the Castle.”

Lore sat up straight, his eyes dark with carefully banked anger. “I once traded supplies with the Castle warlords to free my hounds from slavery. You think that means I know every thief and smuggler who sets foot in the Castle?”

“There aren’t many rumors the hounds don’t hear,” said Reynard quietly. “That’s why we are here. You are the best source of information we could hope for.”

Lore sat very still. Ashe felt queasy with the tension in the room. She preferred fighting to info gathering, hands down. Hitting someone over the head was easier than convincing them to cooperate.

Reynard went on, his face grim. “We think this thief may be a demon.”

“The same one who owned the bookstore that burned down yesterday,” Ashe broke in. “Y’know, the one Holly asked your hounds to guard so no humans blundered inside? We think we’re dealing with a collector demon.”

Lore looked confused. “Then if you know who the demon is, why are you asking me?”

“Because the store burned down, and now we don’t know where he’s gone. If we know who he hangs out with, or if he’s on the market for more stuff, or, well, whatever the rumor mill can tell us, we might be able to track him down again.”

Lore nodded, confusion fading to thoughtfulness. “Such as . . . perhaps he is pursued by a vampire?”

“Are you serious?” Ashe stiffened.
Bingo!

“Hellhounds cannot lie. That is our nature, as you well know.” The annoyance was back.

Reynard sat forward. “Tell us. Please.”

“There’s not much to tell, but the incident was unusual.” Lore got up, put his cup on the counter, and turned. “I worked here late last night. Around midnight a vampire knocked on my door. He asked the same questions that you are.”

“Goddess,” Ashe breathed. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know. He was a stranger. He was powerful. Tall, red-haired. Very, very old. I smelled anger on him. He, too, had heard that the hounds knew about trade in stolen goods. By the questions he asked, I am certain he is hunting for the same thief.”

“Belenos.” Ashe stood up, too wired to sit still. “He’s the King of the freaking East.”

Lore’s brows drew together. “I wondered. There were others with him, but they stayed in the shadows outside. He’s traveling with a guard.”

“Did he do more than ask questions?” Ashe asked.

“Wait here a moment.” Lore started across the warehouse at a jog-trot, heading for a small office stuck in the corner.

Reynard rose and set his cup on the counter. It was half-empty. He held the handle a moment before letting his fingers slip away, as if reluctant to let it go. “That tasted good.”

He’s dying.
She knew that, but it hit her with a gut punch all over again. Ashe tried to keep her eyes steady as she searched his face. “You don’t look upset.”

“It’s hard to explain what it’s like to really taste something after hundreds of years.” He gripped the counter a moment.

“Are you feeling okay?” Ashe said tentatively.

“Of course.” He turned to face her.

Like the hellhounds, he was a crappy liar.

Oh, Goddess
. Guilt made her turn away, cursing under her breath. “I should have a plan of action by now, and I’m not sure where to go next. I thought Lore would be more help.”

“But he has been. We know our visiting vampires may lead us to the demon’s door. If we find one, we’ll find the other.”

“I’ve got to come up with something.” She paced a few steps, digging deep to find the clinical calm that had taken her through so many hunting missions. “This is taking too long.”

But she didn’t have time to think further. Lore was returning, a pink object in his hand. He stopped, an unhappy look on his face. “The vampire king left this. He said others would come asking about the collector, and they would know what this meant.”

Lore held out a pink stuffed rabbit. “Do you understand this?”

Reynard stiffened. “It’s a threat.”

Lore looked flummoxed. “A rabbit?”

Ashe took the plush toy. It looked expensive. Reynard turned over the gift tag tied to its paw.

“ ‘For Eden, hugs and kisses,’ ” he read aloud.

Ashe felt her heart freeze. “Goddess, I’ve got to get to my daughter.”

“T
his is Oscar Ottwell at CSUP, coming to you from the University of Fairview. We’re interrupting regular programming with a request to our listeners to be on the lookout for a lost little girl. Eden Carver is ten years old, with brown eyes and brown curly hair. She is wearing blue jeans, a long-sleeved pink T-shirt, and is probably wearing a blue jacket. She was last seen at around noon at her aunt’s home in the Shoreline neighborhood not far from St. Andrew’s Cemetery. If you see Eden, please call the station immediately at 555-CSUP. Volunteer searchers are also requested.”

Miru-kai moved silently through the Castle, freed to roam the prison once more. Mac had finally run out of questions and let him go. Or, more precisely, Miru-kai had chosen to run out of answers. He had given enough good information to buy himself out of that cell.

Mac wasn’t fully satisfied, but couldn’t afford any more time to spend on the prince’s evasions. Belenos with a key to the Castle presented a bigger threat.

A fortunate turn of events, because Miru-kai had to find the vampire first. Today he was scheduled to collect his payment from Belenos. Just because the thief had turned out to be a despicable double-crosser, that didn’t mean the vampire wouldn’t keep his part of the bargain. No one broke a deal with the fey. That carried with it an automatic curse no amount of time or distance could cure.

It was the prince who had buyer’s remorse. This was a bargain he should never have made. And yet the gem Belenos offered had been too much for even his jaded soul to resist. Over time, the stone had been given various silly names: the Stone of Darkness, the Treasure of Jadai, Vathar’s Bane. It was a fey treasure, and though other species knew it was potent, few even knew what it did. How Belenos had gotten his cold, clammy hands on it was anybody’s guess.

The gem solved a fundamental problem for the prince. No fey could leave the Castle, even with a portal standing wide open. The wizards who built the prison had put extra safeguards in place for those, like Miru- kai, who had the power of invisibility. If they tried to walk out, a wall of power sent them hurling backward like a ball slammed with a racket. That hurt. A lot.

The gem, in the hands of a powerful fey like Miru-kai, meant freedom at last. He had made the pact with Belenos without a moment’s hesitation. He wanted that stone!

But so much had gone wrong.

He had promised delivery of an urn.
Not an urn with a soul in it
. Again, wording was everything in these deals.

Miru-kai had told the demon
very specifically
to look for Bran’s urn—the same empty urn Miru- kai had picked up by mistake. Ironic? Definitely.

The idiot demon had stolen Reynard’s instead—probably grabbed the closest pot to the door in his bumbling haste. But Miru- kai could hardly make him take it back and fetch another, could he? He’d found out about the mistake too late to cover his tracks. The pattern mocked him.

So he had decided to tell Reynard about the theft. Make the game a little more fair. That was the fey thing to do. And, of course, by then he had discovered it was necessary to get an urn for himself—for Simeon. The fact that Reynard’s soul was at stake made it easy to get into the vault.

That was the only thing that had gone right.

First, Miru-kai had picked up the wrong urn.

Then Simeon had died days before Miru-kai could rescue them from this hole.