Scorched (48 page)
The vampire had called her an abomination. She had opened her mouth to comment on how strange that was, coming from a bloodsucking monster, but closed her mouth again. It was weird enough that she didn’t want to even think about it. Besides, there were other, more pressing questions—such as why the vamp had chosen to die rather than talk.
It could be vengeance. It could be something else. Whatever it was, it was personal. That thought made her queasy.
“Are you all right?” Reynard asked.
“Yeah,” Ashe said, keeping her voice light, impersonal. “He went down easily enough.”
Reynard sat down on the bench, head bowed. Ashe looked away. He didn’t look happy, but skewering the enemy wasn’t a cheery kind of thing. But then again, you didn’t get into this kind of work to talk about your feelings.
Ashe turned to lean on the railing. Below was the garden, bathed in starlight. A much better view than the vampire. The body had already started to shrivel. In about twenty minutes, it would be a pile of dust. It was as if time caught up with vamps, grinding them to nothing. Once he was gone, they would search his possessions for clues.
Above, the stars glittered like sequins on a torch singer’s evening gown. Below, the gardens glowed like a fairy kingdom. It seemed distant and surreal, a pretty mirage she could look at but not touch. She was made from a different element—something dark and dangerous.
At some point along the way, when her parents died, or when her husband died, or maybe when she’d bagged her first monster, she’d let herself slide into the darkness. Now that her daughter was home, she had to snap out of it. Kids needed a bright, shiny world. Eden needed something besides a monster-slaying action figure for a mom. Too bad Ashe didn’t know how to be anything else.
She would try. Goddess knew she would try. She would try to see the beauty in the world and look away from the shadows.
She heard Reynard shift on the bench behind her.
“You should come see the view,” she said.
“No, thank you.” His voice was quiet. The dark made it oddly intimate.
“Why not?”
He was silent for a few heartbeats. “I have to go back to the Castle.”
“So?” She turned, leaning against the rail to face him.
He raised his head, but didn’t meet her eyes. “Whatever I see out here will make me restless, and I don’t have a choice about going back. It’s best I see as little as possible.”
There was so much regret in the words, it bruised her. Regret—that she knew. She could almost taste it like coppery blood on her tongue, sharp and familiar.
Now, finally, there was something about him that she understood.
And, Goddess help her, she suddenly wanted to fix it.
Also by Sharon Ashwood
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