And yet, as much as she wanted to drown in the languorous haze of lust, her next thoughts had to be of her boy. Whatever Lore said, abandoning Sylvius would make her more of a monster than any blood hunger. If Mac failed her, she would have to find the courage to save her son all on her own. She wasn’t a servant anymore. She didn’t have the luxury of someone else’s protection, nor could she wait for someone to tell her what to do. It was up to her.
She rolled onto her back, holding the key up to the candlelight. If she left the Castle, would she truly become the ravening beast Lore feared? She could not wait long to put her fate to the test.
Please, oh, please, keep your promise.
When Mac rematerialized, he whipped around, sword ready, but saw the cave he was standing in was a storeroom. He was alone.
The first thing he noticed was that it was noisy, sound pouring up from the plateau below. After the silence of Connie’s corner of the Castle, the clamor felt like a physical blow. Most of it was male voices, booming and loud, and the occasional clank of weapons and armor. The context was different, but the mood was a lot like a busy squad room.
Mac looked around the cave. There were piles of old armor, shields, and breastplates emblazoned with the six-pointed sun that was the guardsman’s symbol. A rough wooden rack held ranks of spears. A trunk with no top overflowed with dusty uniforms. The place smelled like leather and oil.
Mac thought about changing into some of the clothes, but decided it was pointless. After hundreds of years of serving together, these guys all knew each other too well to count on a disguise. Besides, his plans were too vague. He had no idea what he needed yet.
On the other hand, he did poke around until he found a scabbard and shoulder belt for his sword. His hand was getting stiff from carrying it around. He’d even considered ditching it now that he had his Sig Sauer with him, but there were some critters a bullet wouldn’t stop.
It took a while until he found a rig that didn’t interfere with the gun holster, but finally he found something that did the job. Surveillance was the next step.
Mac settled near the mouth of the cave, burying himself in shadow and pulling the dark plaid shirt closed over the white of his T-shirt. From this angle, he could watch the tops of the heads of people coming and going from the busy room below. A dozen feet from the doorway, four guardsmen sprawled around a table. One, he saw with a flicker of annoyance, was Bran. He didn’t know the other three, but he could see the round, ruddy face of the man sitting next to Bran. There was enough firelight that it was almost bright.
Idly, he calculated the position and angle of each man, estimating their vulnerabilities and strengths. If he jumped from here to there, landing in the center of the table, he could probably take all four in eight sword thrusts or less.
That’s the demon talking, and it’s an optimist. There were at least forty other guardsmen to consider, and a major bloodletting got him no closer to finding Connie’s boy. Mac gave a quiet sigh, resigned to pursuing his mission the hard, dull, smart way.
The fair-haired man sitting across from Bran was talk ing.”... got there and the passageway was collapsed. We’re cut off from the north quadrant. It’s bad. We’ve lost communication with Captain O’Shea, and he’s got the trolls on his hands. We can’t send reinforcements. He’ll have to battle it out for himself.”
“What about Sharp?” Bran asked.
“He can’t get through, either. The bridge is down.”
Bran swore. “This whole damned place is coming apart. I’d hoped it was nothing but tall tales.”
Mac stiffened in surprise. So it was true. Something was wrong with the Castle.
The red-faced guardsman spoke up. “O’Shea said that’s why the trolls were coming up from down below. The places they made their dens are gone.”
“Fine for the trolls,” said blondie. “We’re stuck here. We can’t leave. We’re cursed.”
“We know what we have to do,” said red face. “It’s not pretty but it’s the only way.”
“Enough,” growled Bran.
“You said so yourself!”
“The captain doesn’t want to hear that kind of talk.”
But I do. Mac leaned forward a little, taking a better look at the guardmen’s rooms. From here, he could see into a few. About half looked like dormitories, each with a number of beds. The others were empty. Had they once been filled? If so, what happened to the men who’d slept there?
The fourth guardsman spoke up. “You’re too young to remember, but once the Avatar brought rain and sun. Nothing’s the same now.”
Avatars again. Holly’d said the Avatar had been stolen.
The others groaned and shuffled, as if this was a story they’d heard a thousand times. Blondie stood. “I’m off to patrol. Coming, Hans? Edward?”
The two others got up and joined him, walking away to leave Bran on his own. In the distance, another group of three guardsmen were wrestling a huge, misshapen creature up one of the staircases carved into the stone wall. What the heck is that? A troll?
All Mac could see from that distance was that it wore a tunic of some kind and was bald. Shackles around its wrists, ankles, and waist made climbing the stairs awkward. It lurched, nearly falling. One of the guards poked it with the butt of his spear, saving it from tumbling down the cliff face, but clearly hurting it at the same time. Mac scowled. He hated guys who took advantage of their authority that way. It wasn’t like the prisoner had been trying to escape.
The guards opened the barred door to one of the caves and shoved the creature inside. Well, that answers that question. Some of these caves are indeed cells.
Fuming, Mac returned his attention to the table below. Bran sat like a disgruntled lump. The only thing lacking was a beer to cry in.
The Castle didn’t have beer. Or bratwurst sausages. It truly was hell.
Reynard appeared, walking out from the room below.
“I’m tired to death of writing up the log,” said the captain in his la-di-da accent. He’d always sounded to Mac like he’d just quit his job as an announcer for the BBC. All he needed was a Rolex and a polo pony to complete the GQ picture.
The captain slid onto the bench, his back to Mac. “There are times I’d give anything for another one of those perpetual pens. We need to catch another smuggler and confiscate his wares.”
Perpetual pens? Was he talking about a ballpoint?
“Why not simply do business with the rats?” Bran asked with what came close to a sneer. “Then you could have all the pens and log books you want.”
Reynard’s answer bit the air. “Because smugglers also bring in weapons for the warlords to use against us. I won’t tolerate their presence.”
Bran shrugged. “As you say.”
Mac’s mind skipped away from the conversation. If Reynard had been doing paperwork, the room below was the captain’s office. That would be well worth a look. There might be some indication of where Sylvius was being held— like in the log book. Most officers would record anything of significance, and capturing an incubus surely counted.
If Reynard was sitting outside, that meant the room was probably empty. It was a risk. There might be others there, or supernatural traps he couldn’t anticipate. Still, he’d walked into equally dangerous places as a mere human.
Mere human? His demon was getting carried away again. If there was the slightest chance, he would strive to be human again.
Was that the best thing?
This wasn’t the time to think about it.
Mac dusted and trickled down the rock face, stretching himself out to be as inconspicuous as possible. He reassembled in a crouching position, hiding in the corner.