Free The Return of Nightfall by Mickey Zucker Reichert Page A

brought your questions directly to the duke.”
    Suddenly seized in a grip of ice, Nightfall momentarily froze. His last discussion with the duke of Schiz had ended in angry shouting, imprisonment, and the threat of execution. Though it seemed as if he held all the cards this time, Varsah could turn that advantage against him in an instant. In his own element, the duke could threaten nearly anything, and Nightfall would be hard-pressed to call any bluff. As the cold prickles ebbed away, Nightfall cleared his throat. “Very well.” He glanced down at the rumpled, stained, and bloody silks he had worn for a day and a night, through a fight and several walks through dusty streets. “Let me change my clothes first.”
    The guards drew together, exchanging looks but no words. Finally, the wiry one said in a voice like flint, “Of course, sir. We think everything’s intact back there.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward the sleeping quarters. “But you can tell better than we can if anything’s missing. We’d like to know what you think.”
    Nightfall nodded. No matter the appearance of the back rooms, he had little idea what he should think. It frustrated him that the one thing that might gain the information he needed to help Edward, retaking demon guise, would also destroy the bond between them. The gallant king would never forgive him harming, threatening, or killing anyone to assist in such a rescue, nor could any ruler keep on an adviser linked to the demon. Without another word, he headed for the quarters he shared with Edward and a rotation of bodyguards, feeling the eyes of every guard, worker, and patron boring into his back.
    Nightfall slid the door open a crack, glad to find these hinges well-oiled. Surely, the hardware on the main tavern doors would be no harder to maintain, and Nightfall guessed the patrons had come to like the high-pitched squeal that announced every entrance or exit. Apparently, even an irritating noise could soothe when it became familiarly associated with a place of comfort. It was a notion not altogether foreign to Nightfall. He had returned unhesitantly to the mother who cursed and beat as often as cuddled him, though he did learn to read her moods, and eventually even those of strangers, with flawless accuracy. He slipped inside and soundlessly shut the door.
    The room looked nearly the same as when Nightfall had last left it, the few changes reasonably attributable to the king and his bodyguards having spent most of a day and night in there since. A glimmer of moonlight trickled through the only window, and the heavy curtains hung still, unstirred by a breeze carrying the scent of fire. The proprietor had brought in three reasonably comfortable pallets: the ticking firmly wrapped in cotton thick enough to dull the sharp edges of straw. Neatly draped blankets covered the pallets. Piled straw lay against one wall, the usual makeshift accommodations of the He-Ain’t-Here now reserved for an extra sleeper or a comfortable roost for an alert sentry. Aside from a change of clothing, now spread across one pallet, Nightfall carried no gear he could not fit on his person at all times. A guardsman’s dusty pack lay beside the piled straw. A battered chest supplied by the proprietor stood at the foot of Edward’s bed, and a man-sized shadow flickered beside it.
    The movement seized Nightfall’s instant attention. He crouched, waiting.
    Nothing happened.
    A draft from the window stirred through Nightfall’s hair, cold against sweat-dampened skin. He remained in place, keeping his own breathing silent, his every muscle still. Like most predators, humans were drawn to motion.
    Still, nothing moved. Only the musical sounds of the night touched his hearing. Nevertheless, Nightfall remained in position past those critical moments when most men believed themselves safe. Hopefully, his silence would convince the intruder that a guard had only glanced inside, then retreated.
    The other