Master of Shadows

  Sylas chuckled. “Forgive me, my lady; ’twas something of an emergency. Have you word of our visitors?”

  “Yes, Alain brought word to me and my ladies. We should have the main hall ready in a few moments. Did you miss me?”

  “Aye.” He smiled. “I will show you how much later.” He remembered what she had said earlier. “Is that mortal—Will’s friend—with you? She will have to go.”

  “I left her with Alain,” Rebecca said. “She needed but a few minutes to take photographs of the workrooms, and then he will escort her from the stronghold.”

  Having a strange mortal under their roof at the same time strange Kyn were arriving made Sylas uneasy. Still, he had no time to chase after Reese Carmichael, and Alain would assure that she came to no harm. “Very well. I will see you shortly in the hall.”

  Not for the first time, Sylas was glad of the work he had done to disguise Rosethorn’s fortifications from the ever-curious eyes of the mortal world. Flower beds and turf covered the steep inclines of the curtain walls’ plinth bases. Trees planted along the inside of the lower courtyard cast shade over the subtle crenellations and hoardings where the Kyn on perimeter patrol stood watch. The plaster veneer of the keep, which had been designed to appear as a large contemporary manor house, concealed five-meter-thick masonry walls.

  The decorative casings above the large picture windows housed rolls of steel slats that at the push of a button could be dropped down to form an impenetrable barrier over the glass panes; dual wooden shutters on hidden tracks flanking the windows covered tall, narrow arrow loops. The garages, gardening sheds, generator, and pump houses were actually smaller versions of the old gate towers and were manned by armed guards around the clock. Even the collapsible ramps leading from the lower bailey up to the shield walls had been paved with granite cobblestone and lined with flowering shrubs to appear to the ignorant eye as nothing more than pleasant, well-landscaped walkways.

  Robin had disagreed with his castellan over the need for one last, outmost barrier against invasion. While the modern world had developed formidable means and firepower since the age of castles, water still presented a sizable and difficult obstacle. The suzerain, however, had maintained that nothing could adequately conceal or explain away a wide, water-filled trench encircling the entire property. Sylas had to be content with a series of retention ponds and ditches for which he fashioned collapsible borders and a massive underground system of supply pipes. Should the stronghold come under attack, he could flip a switch and flood the ditches within minutes, creating an almost instantaneous moat.

  Knowing the stronghold was well guarded did not relieve all of Sylas’s misgivings about their unexpected visitors. If the Brethren had tracked the Italians after they had fled Venice, they might have followed them across the sea to America. Hopefully their mistress had been too clever to lead their mutual enemy directly to Robin of Locksley’s door.

  Sylas led his personal escort down the ramp to where the Italians were waiting. Their leader, a tall warrior whose dark face gave away none of his thoughts, stepped forward and performed a respectful bow.

  “I am Saetta, maréchal to Contessa Salvatora Borgiana, sent here by leave of your suzerain, Robin of Locksley.” He straightened and met Sylas’s gaze with the steadiness of an experienced leader. “We are grateful for the sanctuary you provide.”

  As castellan, Sylas had considerably more rank than Saetta, whose position in Italy was roughly equal to that of a head groom or stablemaster. Under any other circumstances it would be an insult to have such a member of the contessa’s household act as her liaison. Still, Sylas knew that Salvatora Borgiana and her jardin had been without proper leadership since the death of her lord paramount and husband, Arno, during the jardin wars. That Richard had permitted the situation to persist for so long puzzled him, but was not a matter for him to question or challenge.

  “Sylas of Daven, Lord Locksley’s castellan.” He walked forward a few steps, eliminating most of the space between them before returning the bow. Among the Kyn, it was a gesture of confidence as well as a silent offer of friendship. “You and your men are welcome here, maréchal.”

  “We will endeavor not to create any hardship for you or your men, castellan.” Saetta turned and introduced his most senior men, who exchanged the proper greetings while keeping a wary eye on the battlement patrols watching them from above.

  All of them, Sylas noticed, had old, faint marks on their faces, hands, or arms that he recognized as burn scars. It was not unusual for Kyn to suffer scarification from fire—burns healed slowly, and the flesh always retained some mark from it—but he had never seen so many afflicted.

  Once Sylas had accomplished his turn at introductions, Saetta gestured toward the front gates. “What weapons we managed to bring with us from Italy are stowed on our transport vehicles. I have allowed my men to retain their daggers for personal protection. I ask your permission to permit them to continue to carry them during our stay at Rosethorn.”

  Seventy men armed with daggers could inflict a great deal of damage. “You are under no threat here,” Sylas pointed out.

  “True, but to strip a man of all his blades after he’s been driven from his homeland and obliged to seek shelter in a strange country, among those who are not blood Kyn…” Saetta made a subtle gesture. “It is a matter of personal dignity.”

  He would not beg for his men, Sylas thought, but nor would he see them suffer unnecessarily. His respect for Saetta rose another notch.

  “It took me fifty years to grow accustomed to not wearing a sword outside our territory. As long as your men conduct themselves appropriately, I will allow it.” He raised his voice a degree. “All of the mortals who serve at Rosethorn are tresori, and are to be treated as such. Females are given the right of choice, and the right of refusal. All Kyn women here have been claimed or are bonded.” He expected to hear a few soft groans, but none of the cavalieri made a sound. “We will see to your needs. Rosethorn has ample stores, and I will arrange to provide you with transportation at regular intervals to territory where you may hunt.”

  “Your generosity will not be forgotten.” Saetta turned and issued an order in Italian, repeating it in English. “We are among friends here. You are to speak in their tongue and respect their customs. If you do not know, ask and you shall be told.”

  The men responded in silent unison by each going down on one knee and crossing an arm over his chest.

  “You are welcome here,” Sylas said. “Now come—come and meet your American Kyn.”

  The hard line of Saetta’s mouth finally eased. “I have thought of little else since getting off that cursed boat.”

  Once he had led the Italians to the main hall, Sylas kept watch over the two groups as they came together. Rosethorn had many Kyn visitors over the course of the year, but never had so many of their kind descended at once. He felt proud as he watched his men greet Saetta’s and separate them into smaller groups. The ladies appeared with bottles of blood wine and goblets, offering their smiles as they served the cavalieri. Saetta accepted a goblet but remained at Sylas’s side.

  “The one with the golden brown hair and the face of a Madonna,” the maréchal said, nodding in her direction. “She is yours?”

  “Yes, that is my wife.” Sylas eyed him. “How did you know?”

  “Her smile changes when she looks upon you. There, now.” He gestured with his goblet as Rebecca smiled across the room at Sylas. “She is lovely.”

  “She is.” Sylas didn’t like other men complimenting his wife, or even looking at her—such was the price of their bond. “The first time a Kyn male admired her in my presence, I believe I threatened to rip his head from his neck.” He glanced at the Italian. “I think I have mellowed in my old age. Now I only wish to tear out his tongue.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “She is sygkenis as well as wife.”

  Sylas asked Saetta about his journey from Italy, and as they discussed the perpetual hazards of travelling
among mortals, the maréchal seemed to relax, enough to make Sylas turn the conversation to more delicate matters.

  “Your men are too few to make a proper jardin, and too many to join another,” Sylas said. “How did your mistress prevent them from abandoning her to become rogues?”

  “After our suzerain was killed in battle, and our lady refused to accept another in his place, some of the men spoke of leaving Venice. Those of us with wives and blood Kyn needed more protection, and considered pledging ourselves to another lord paramount.” Saetta’s tone grew distant as he gazed out at the assembly. “I think we would have, if not for the fire.”

  Fire had always been a threat to the Kyn, as being burned was one of the few ways they could be killed. “Was it a Brethren attack?”

  “Of a kind.” All expression left the maréchal’s countenance. “Our women kept their faith better than we did. They still attended services together in our lord’s chapel several days each week. After the jardin wars, they decided among themselves to secretly install a priest. They thought they could control him. They discovered they were wrong when he trapped them inside the chapel and set fire to it.”

  Sylas looked at the faint burn scars on the men’s faces and limbs. “The men tried to rescue them.”

  Saetta inclined his head. “We lost eighteen that day, but none of the women survived. My wife, Francesca, and our daughter, Mariposa, were among them. Then there were the suicides. Another five.” He paused, removing his gloves to reveal strong hands and forearms, every inch covered in faint but visible burn scars. “I should have been the sixth, but for the contessa. She tended our wounds herself, never resting, never leaving us until we had healed. She promised us that she would make our lives worth living again. She saved all of us.”

  Sylas tried to imagine surviving Rebecca. He couldn’t think of his life without her in it. “Forgive me for reminding you of your loss.”

  “You did not know.” The Italian looked out over the assembly. “We pledged our lives in service to our lord, and our loyalty to him never wavered once. But I tell you this: Every man here would gladly die for our lady.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Reese felt Alain watching her as she snapped a few more shots of the tapestries hanging from the work frames. “I’m almost done.”

  “You are depressingly industrious,” he informed her. “Are you quite certain you do not wish to see my chambers? I have many things there that might please your eye. The furnishings are especially fine, too.”

  “I’m flattered, but as Rebecca said, I have to leave soon.” Reese moved to another angle, one that brought her closer to Alain. “You’re not English, are you?”

  “No, I was Irish in my human life. A traveling minstrel with more hot blood than cool sense.” He came to stand beside her and looked down at her intently. “Damn me, lady, but I swear I know you.”

  Reese shut off her camera and tucked it into her purse. “Perhaps we met once in the city.”

  “I think not. It is not your face, pretty as it is. It is your scent. I never forget a woman’s sweetness, and yours…” He bent his head and breathed in. “’Tis like something in the night.”

  “A field of berries at moonrise,” she finished for him.

  “Yes. Exactly.” He straightened. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  “I didn’t.” She put her closed hand on his chest. “It’s what you said the first time we met.”

  He gave her a broad grin. “I knew it. When—” He stopped and glanced down at the sharp-ended pressure cartridge sticking out of his shirt. Then his clouding eyes met hers. “Why do you this, girl?”

  “I can’t leave,” she told him. “Not yet.”

  He stiffened. “I know you now. You came at night. You brought me…”

  “I know.” She caught him as he staggered and held him until he sagged. “I’m sorry.”

  It took a few minutes to take what she needed from Alain before she secured him where he would not be immediately found. Once Reese had seen to that, she checked the hall and then left the workrooms. The timing of the Italians’ arrival could not have worked out better for her; all she needed to do now was conceal herself in the lord’s chamber and wait for him to come to her.

  Robin of Locksley occupied the largest suite of rooms at Rosethorn, but the furnishings were unexpectedly plain and the decor uncluttered. A great many plants and small trees had been brought in, enough to make a visitor mistake the chamber for a tidy greenhouse. Among the beauties of nature Reese noted a number of incredibly old artworks, carvings, and tapestries, all dating back to the time when Locksley had been human. He could not return to that forgotten world, Reese thought, but he surrounded himself with constant reminders of it.

  She opened a door to another set of rooms, smaller and much less cluttered, and switched on the lights. She knew they belonged to Will from his scent, as dark and rich as bittersweet chocolate, which still lingered in the air.

  Instead of the expected red, Robin’s seneschal had chosen the blue of ice crystals, the paleness of cream, and a blue-tinged onyx for his colors. Shades of winter, she thought as she wandered about, touching the surface of the old black oak desk where he had neatly sorted piles of estate paperwork and letters.

  She picked up a pretty fountain pen, the barrel made of an ivory-streaked dark blue, and removed the end cap. He’d used it so often that he’d worn down one side of the golden nib. “Who taught you to write?” she asked under her breath.

  Silence gave her no answer.

  She replaced the pen where she had found it, and glanced over at the bed. It was large and placed close to the fire, and she could almost see him sleeping there, warm and safe, dreaming of some adventure with Robin, smiling a little as he remembered those happy times.

  Did he ever dream of the nights in Aubury? she wondered. Or had he forgotten?

  Her pocket buzzed against her hip, making her jump. With a shaking hand she took out her phone, expecting to see her father’s number on the screen.

  But no, it was her Lover boy.

  She stared at it for a long moment, and then flipped it open. “Hello, Will.”

  “You are doubtless furious for being made to leave the house,” he said, all in a rush, “but let me explain.”

  “You don’t have to,” she assured him. “I know the protocol involved with visiting Kyn. Get all the un pledged mortals out of the house, and then break out the bagged blood.”

  “You sound hoarse. Are you ill?”

  “My throat is a little sore.” She looked around her. “I had thought you’d do your rooms in red.”

  “You’ve been to my chamber?”

  I’m standing in them right now. “Rebecca was kind enough to show them to me. You need a new fountain pen.”

  He chuckled. “A pity you cannot sneak back into Rosethorn tonight. I would very much like to see you in my rooms.”

  “I haven’t left the house yet. Maybe…Hold on.” Reese heard shouts from the hallway and crossed the room to listen at the door. She opened it a bare inch to peer outside, and saw one of the guards collapse a few feet away. The dark-haired warrior standing over him held a dart gun, and paused long enough to reload it with two cartridges filled with blue liquid before hurrying off.

  “Reese?”

  “I thought I heard something.” Reese carefully closed the door and ran for the bag she had left on the desk. She searched through it until she found the small cigarette case at the bottom. Her hands shook as she opened it.

  “You cannot stay at Rosethorn,” Will said. “Come to the gallery show. I’ll ask Rob to give me a few hours for myself. We can go dancing.”

  She removed one of the thin glass vials from the case. “I don’t think I can do that, Will.”

  “Why not? With the Italians there, you cannot stay to do your work. What else have you to do but sleep?”

  She didn’t answer him until she had swallowed the contents of the vial and replaced the case. “I’ll call you wh
en I get out of here.” She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth against the pain.

  “I will be waiting for your call,” he warned. “Until then, sweetheart.”

  “Good-bye, Will.” Reese ended the call and started for the door when three men brandishing tranquilizer guns came into the room. She threw the phone at them and ran, but two of them caught her before she could escape and pinned her between them.

  “She is no threat to us,” the burly one holding her left arm said in Italian. “Only another of their mortal servants.”

  The third, a tall, lean man with sad eyes, nodded. “Take her down to the tunnels and lock her in the dungeons with the others.”

  At the downtown gallery, Will parked the car where it would be easily accessible—long experience serving as Robin’s second had taught him to always prepare for a hasty departure—before he opened the rear door and helped the contessa out.

  “Grazie, seneschal.” She shook out her skirt, spreading the scent of marigolds around her before she surveyed the gallery building. “Are you sure this is the place? It looks too small.”

  Will didn’t like Salvatora Borgiana or her aura of lazy contempt. So far tonight she had complained about the weather, which she considered too humid, the mortals in the city, whom she decided overcrowded it, and even the limousine ride from Robin’s building, which she felt had taken too long. She might be a refugee seeking sanctuary, but she conducted herself like a disgruntled queen among peasants.

  You were a peasant, he reminded himself. “I shall go in first and scout the premises,” he told his master.

  “That will not be necessary.” Robin took Salvatora’s arm, but he had eyes only for the gallery. “Check their security measures and then report back to me inside.”

  Will almost refused—he took his duty to keep Robin safe very seriously—but then saw the glitter of copper in his master’s eyes. “Yes, my lord.”

  A quick and quiet reconnoiter of the building revealed the federal agents strategically posted at the front and back entrances as well as the roof. He noted that the windows and doors had also been wired with sensors, doubtless connected to a monitoring station inside. The mortal authorities had fashioned the entire building into a trap, but their crude methods were no match for Robin of Locksley.