This was typical, Kit thought sourly, slamming them back against the wall as a mob of mages rushed in. Find the perfect candidate and, naturally, everything went to hell before he could get away with her. Unfortunately, his lady was not one to understand unforeseen difficulties. He really did not want to think of the reception he was likely to get if he returned empty-handed.
            Of course, at the moment, he would rather settle for returning at all.
            “Search every inch,” the dark-haired leader snapped, and Kit silently cursed. 
            He’d been hoping for a group of slow-witted guards who might have assumed that the witch had somehow slipped past them in the confusion. But judging from their windblown hair and murderous expressions, these were the men she’d attacked outside. And he couldn’t take a half dozen war mages on his own.
            At least, he didn’t think he could, having never before tried. And he discovered that he wasn’t all that keen on finding out. He decided some subtlety was in order and started shuffling his little party toward the ruined door.
            He thought their chances of making it out undetected were reasonably good. He’d used one of the talents he’d manifested since becoming a master and gone dim as soon as he heard the men approaching. Dim wasn’t invisible–he could still be seen if someone was looking right at him. But even then he’d be only a faint, indistinct outline, like a haze of black smoke. And with all the real smoke choking the air, who was going to notice?
            A war mage, apparently. He’d almost reached the door, where only a single mage stood guard, when one of the nearby searchers suddenly changed direction and grabbed a fold of his cloak. “Sir! They’re—”
            So much for subtlety. Kit seized the man’s arm and slung him into the mage guarding the door, hard enough to send them both staggering backwards off the ramparts. Then he snatched the child into his arms, grabbed the witch by the waist and bolted.
            It wasn’t the most elegant escape he’d ever made, but a lifetime of close scrapes had taught him not to be picky. He dodged a spell that came blistering through the air after him, sidestepped a small battle, and headed for the stairs. And then pulled up abruptly and spun them back against the wall.
            “What is it?” the witch demanded. “Why are we—” She stopped, catching sight of the same thing he had.
            The stairs were choked with guards and the courtyard of the castle had turned into a particularly colorful hell. The flimsy wooden shacks that housed the kitchen, stables and blacksmith had caught alight and were burning merrily, with spell-fire tinting the billowing smoke in glowing colors. Horses were neighing, people were screaming, and spells were exploding on all sides.
            In other words, it was the usual battlefield chaos, which was what gave him pause. On any given battlefield on any given day, there were about a hundred ways to die–and that multiplied tenfold if it was a magical battle. He going to have to—
            A spell he hadn’t seen coming hit them broadside before he could finish the thought, sizzling against the shield the witch had managed to raise before flaming out in a burst of acid green sparks. And while no one might have been able to see them, that spectacle had been all too visible. Even worse, the effects didn’t dissipate; instead, a glowing nimbus pulsed in the air around them, like the corona of the sun on a foggy day.
            “Marker,” the witch gasped, before he could ask. “They used it to hunt us in the forests, to make it impossible for us to hide. You can’t conceal us now and I cannot protect all three of us!”
            She started struggling, probably deciding to use her remaining strength to save herself and the girl. But it wouldn’t be enough and Kit knew it. They had to stay together, and they had to get out that gate, but the stairs were impossible. He could probably survive the assault of the guards; but not the witches.
            That left only one option.
            “Hold on,” he said grimly, renewing his grip on them.
            The witch was quick; he’d give her that. “Are you mad?” she stared from him to the chaos below and back again. “We can’t go down there!”
            “And we cannot stay here! We’re sitting ducks. The smoke should hide us.”
            “Hide our bodies, mayhap,” she snarled, struggling to get away.
            Kit held on and dragged her to the edge of the rampart, trying to spot the least lethal landing place. But mages were converging on them from all sides, and there was no more time. He jumped, right before a bolt of pure power tore through the air he’d just vacated.
            It hit the side of the stairs behind them, blowing a hole in the stone and sending sharp shards raining down onto the crowd below. The screaming and cursing and spell throwing from the surrounding witches increased four-fold, but Kit barely noticed because something hit him full in the face.
            It wasn’t a spell, unless the mages had invented one that smelled like burnt feathers and tried to peck your eyes out. He cursed, but couldn’t do much more with his arms full of witches. But whatever-it-was went into a frenzy anyway, squawking and flapping its wings wildly, as if he was attempting to murder it.
            And then the ground tilted under his feet and he landed on his arse.
            It took him a few seconds to realize that he hadn’t hit the ground at all, but the edge of a cart full of woven cages of chickens. Half of them had been broken open in the battle and the contents were floundering around in the mud or getting roasted mid-flight by the spells crisscrossing the air. Except for the one which had somehow gotten its claws trapped in the wool of his doublet.
            The witch had righted herself and her daughter and was hunkered down beside the cart, watching in disbelief as he did battle with the guards’ dinner. Kit had the distinct impression that his credibility might have just taken a knock, especially since he seemed to be losing. And then wounded dignity was the least of his problems when a dark-haired mage jumped off the stairs and landed on the cart’s other end.
            Kit went flying into him, bird and all, and the three of them tumbled off the back of the cart. The mage was cursing and trying to raise a shield, while Kit attempted to drain him before he could manage it. They were both half successful. The mage snapped his shields shut, but they didn’t completely stop the flow of blood Kit was leeching out of him through the air.
            In a panic, the man sent out a cluster of magical weapons. Half of them collided with crazed birds while the rest attempted to bury themselves into Kit’s flesh. He swatted at them, but like a storm of angry bees, they kept buzzing around, rushing in to stab at him whenever they got the chance.
            “You’re losing as much blood as you steal, vampire!” the mage crowed, attempting to gut him with a sword.
            “But I can replace mine,” Kit said sweetly, sending the sword spinning across the fight with a well-aimed kick. “How about you?”
            “Well said,” the man replied, and kicked him in the square in the groin.
            Kit stumbled back, fervently wishing that padded cod pieces hadn’t gone out of style, and landed in the cages of squawking fowl. His impact burst most of the ones left intact and sent up a whirlwind of flapping wings and clawing feet. He fought his way free, finally tearing his own damned passenger loose and tossing it aside. But by the time he got back to his feet, the mage was gone.
            And so was the witch.
            “God’s Bones!” he hissed, staring around wildly. But she and the girl were nowhere in sight. That could mean that a mage had her, but he doubted it. The spells the Circle’s men had been casting weren’t the kind they used when they wanted to take prisoners, and he didn’t see her body.
            No, it was a safe bet that she’d run off somewhere while he was distracted. The question was, where?
            He glanced at the secondary gate, or what he could see of it through drifting clouds of smoke. It was temptingly close, and the mages hadn’t yet managed to lower the portcullis. It looked like they’d tried, but the witches had hit it with something that caused the metal to run like honey. And enough had dripped into the crevices of the track to cause the gate to stick partway down.
            There looked to be room to squeeze out underneath, but that required getting to it first. And that didn’t look likely. The Circle had placed a double line of guards across the opening to act as a human buffer, leaving their own men free to slowly decimate the witches who were gathering in force nearby. In between the two groups was a hell pit of smoke, spells and running, screaming people.
            If she’d headed that way, she wouldn’t last long.
            It had seemed such an easy task, Kit thought grimly, as he ducked and dodged his way through the melee. Interrogate Lady Isabel Tapley, a coven witch lately apprehended by the mages who was suspected of being in league with the Black Circle. There were rumors that another plot was brewing against the queen, whom the dark blamed for sheltering their enemies, and Kit had been sent to find out if there was any truth to them.
            But nothing had gone right from the beginning. Lady Isabel had poisoned herself before he arrived, leaving him to question a corpse, and not the animated kind. The fact that she’d resorted to such extreme measures made him that much more convinced that the plot was genuine, but she’d left no papers behind and her servants knew frustratingly little about their mistress’ plans. The only thing he had been able to glean was that she had a meeting in three days’ time with several men newly arrived from Spain.
            And that one of them shared the name of a noted Black Circle member.
            Kit needed to be at that meeting. And for that, he needed a credible Lady Isabel. But young, red-headed, coven witches were a little thin on the ground these days, thanks to the Circle. And his request to be allowed to borrow one had been flatly refused. He had therefore gone to the source and bribed the guards, only to land in this mess.
            The more sensible side of his brain offered the observation that, really, there had to be other witches who fit Lady Isabel’s description. And some of them might be found in somewhat less trying circumstances. The other part of his brain, however, the one that was always getting him in trouble, was dead set on this woman. He’d bled for her; he would have her. And the Circle would not.
            Assuming he could find her before they did.