“The guards are necessary. Overton tried using you to seize the ville,” Nathan growled, the tendons in his neck tightening from barely controlled rage. “Our son would make an even better key.”
“Your uncle’s bastard son is dead,” she reminded him, shivering in spite of the warmth of her coat.
“Besides,” a new voice stated, “I’m here now.”
The Cawdors turned at the pronouncement and watched as Clemont Brigitine Turpin stepped into view from the exposed stone stairwell. The grizzled soldier was dressed in heavy leather clothing, with an Enfield longblaster slung across his wide back. Two bandoliers of ammo crisscrossed his chest, the handle of a knife jutted from his boot and a hatchet was slung at his side where a handblaster should have been.
“My dear Lieutenant Turpin,” Tabitha said, smiling.
His broad features dusky with a growing beard, the big man scowled. “Clem,” he replied in a friendly manner. “Just Clem, my lady. I ain’t no royalty. Just a grunt.”
“Chief of my sec men,” Nathan corrected sternly, noting the other man’s serious expression. Few things bothered Clem, and most of those got aced immediately. The big backwoodsman wasn’t a believer in either forgiveness or patience.
Just then a squad of sec men climbed out of the hole in the floor where the stairs ended and moved quickly across the bare expanse of concrete. Longblasters at the ready, the guards circled the Cawdors, keeping close together. Every man carried an AK-47 salvaged from the war, a bulging pouch of precious ammo clips slung over his side.
“What’s the matter?” Nathan demanded. “Have more blues been found in the woods?”
“Hell, no,” Clem drawled, his thick accent slurring the words. “Patrol finds them, they chill them. Don’t need to bring that detail to you. But there’s a new problem, yeah. Our spy from Bull Run ville says their baron believes you plan on invading them with the new troops that arrived last month.”
Softly, the mountain wind ruffled their clothing, finding bare skin through every tiny lace hole and opening.
“But Overton’s troops are dead.”
“She don’t know that.”
“And she wouldn’t believe us if we told her.” Nathan glanced at the handful of people working on the front gate. “We will have to move fast if they’re planning on attacking first. The ville can’t withstand a charge by blind rabbits at the moment. Not until that damn drawbridge is repaired!”
“We can stop them,” Clem stated confidently.
Nathan frowned. “Unless she’s not sending her army, but just one man. One thing, actually.”
Clem furrowed his brow. “Y’all mean an assassin?”
“A mutie by the name of Sullivan.” Nathan drew the Desert Eagle and dropped the clip to examine the load. “Shitfire, I had heard the thing was dead years ago. I once saw him rip the throat out of a griz bear on a bet. Didn’t even work up a sweat.”
“Are you serious?” Tabitha asked, sounding frightened.
“Totally. He’s a monster, and damn hard to kill. Many have tried and failed. Sullivan drank their blood and mutilated the corpse for laughs.”
Without speaking, Tabitha tucked her hands up the sleeves of her coat, and they heard the soft metallic clack of a blaster’s hammer being cocked.
“I’ll be in the nursery until further notice,” she announced, and strode toward the stairs.
“Stay with her!” Clem ordered, pointing, and half of the attending sec men started after the woman. The rest clustered tighter around the baron.
“Sullivan,” Nathan muttered, checking the ammo in his snub-nosed .38 revolver. “This could be worse than Overton.”
“Mebbe you should stay out of sight till I find this asswipe,” Clem suggested, sliding the Enfield off his shoulder and working the bolt. “Direct the rebuilding from inside the castle, or mebbe the barracks?”
“I won’t hide,” Nathan answered brusquely, holstering the blaster. “Besides, Sullivan is an expert at disguises. He can even mimic another person’s voice so that in the darkness you think it’s them. Damnedest thing. I heard that was how he chilled the last baron of Bull Run castle.”
“I could interrogate everybody new,” Clem suggested. An assassin was something novel to the hunter. Barroom brawls were more his kind of fight.
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