Scorched tdf-2

by Sharon Ashwood

  “Isolation doesn’t bring safety, especially when fear is in the air.”

  She gave a sour laugh. “There’s always fear, Captain. There are always wars between the vampires and the werebeasts, or between one warlord and the next. To tell you the plain truth, sir, I’m tired of worrying about it.”

  “This is different.”

  “How, sir?”

  His shrug tried to be casual, but it showed tension. “There are stories running like roaches through the halls. Whispers and murmurs claim that in the darkest corners of the Castle, the corridors have collapsed. Rooms are vanishing. Creatures have been driven from the deeps and wander the halls at will.”

  Constance leaned against the cold stone wall, now a little amused. “But, sir, surely no one believes this? There’re plenty of monsters here without adding fairy tales.”

  But the shadows in his eyes grew deeper.

  Holy Mother, there’s something to this. Her stomach grew hard and chill.

  “Myths grow with the telling,” he said. “Both guardsmen and prisoners teeter on the edge of panic. It gives new fuel to the wars, and you know the guards aren’t invincible. No new recruits have come since my time. There aren’t enough of us anymore to stop every skirmish.”

  Constance frowned, her mind scrambling to sort through the conversation. “Captain Reynard, why are you here? Why are you telling me this? Were you with the patrol? What has any of this to do with my family?”

  “That was no patrol.” Reynard lowered his eyes from her face. In that instant, he seemed to age a decade, the lines around his mouth and eyes falling into bitter grooves. “We’re on a different errand. You know I will do what I can to keep peace here.”

  She nodded, not liking his tone.

  “There is something they all desire—Prince Miru-kai, Shoshann, and all the other warlords and sorcerers of the Castle. This thing is a danger to both the prisoners and my men, and it is left carelessly unguarded. For a time, the warlords lost all knowledge of its location, but now their spies have found it. Precious secrets don’t lie hidden forever.”

  His harsh expression, even more than his words, fanned her anxiety. “Then you must lock it safely away!”

  He lifted his chin. “That’s my intent.”

  “Why are you telling me this? What is it?”

  “I want you—of all people—to understand.” He said it quickly, the words clipped, and turned away.

  Constance grabbed his sleeve. “Captain, wait! Why does it matter what I think? I’m no one.”

  He pulled himself free, his touch nearly as cold as her own. His eyes had gone flat, all sympathy between them ended. “You’re still an innocent, Constance, despite all that you’ve seen. Maybe I’m looking for absolution for doing my duty.”

  Constance let her hand fall away. “What is this thing that everyone wants?” she demanded.

  But Reynard strode away from her instead, stiff and silent. He moved as if the uniform alone kept him from crumbling to ash.

  She slumped against the wall, bewildered. She didn’t have patience for this sort of riddle. Captain Reynard should have just spit out what he had to say. Now he’d made her afraid.

  Deeply afraid.

  Up ahead, she could hear boots on the stone floor. Reynard had joined his men. Now four guardsmen were marching toward the part of the Castle where her family lived, and she had no idea what they wanted. Their mysterious treasure? Why are they looking for it here?

  She whistled for Viktor. After a long moment, he came bounding out of the shadows with his doll. She dug her lingers into his heavy coat, grateful for his reassuring warmth.

  “Come on, boyo,” she whispered into his ear. “We have to go home. I don’t know what we’re going to do about our visitors, but Atreus isn’t himself and Sylvius is too young to help him. You and I have to be the level heads.”

  Viktor looked doubtful.

  “Best leave the talking to me,” said Constance.

  He woofed agreement, drooling around the doll.

  With one hand clutching the werebeast’s fur, she followed the guardsmen, keeping a long way back. Viktor padded at her side, possessively close. What do they want with us? she wondered. We’ve already lost everything we had. Constance turned hot, and then cold as anger and apprehension chased each other through her blood.

  There were no gates or fences to define the borders of her family’s home, but everyone in the Castle knew where their neighbor’s territory lay. Atreus’s corner of the dungeon was a handful of chambers clustered around a square hall.

  The guardsmen strode directly into the hall and formed a semicircle, standing an equal distance apart. Constance lingered in the doorway like a half-remembered ghost, Viktor still at her side.

  Despite the four visitors, the room felt bare. There was furniture, but it was plain wood pitted with centuries of use. At one end of the room was a high-backed armchair, sculpted like the throne of an ancient king. No subjects waited at its feet.

  Atreus sat on it, one finger tapping his lips, watching but saying nothing. That stillness meant the calm before a storm of temper. Either Captain Reynard didn’t know, or didn’t care.

  “Sorcerer,” Reynard said, with the merest sliver of a bow—a show of courtesy, not subservience.

  “Captain.” Atreus nodded. He shifted on the great chair, light playing over the soft folds of his jeweled blue robe. A sleek circlet of gold bound his mass of ink-black hair. His face was strong, rough-hewn and swarthy, the visage of a prince. “You trespass here, you and your guardsmen. This is my place now.”

  Reynard gave the specter of a smile. “You cannot bar the door from us. You have no army.”

  “I have followers.”

  “You have a dog.” Reynard’s eyes slid toward the door, where Constance hovered. “And a vampire who’s never tasted blood. Almost a human. Lovely to look at, but weak.”

  Constance felt hot shame crawling up her cheeks. A look of surprise flickered in Reynard’s eyes, as if he hadn’t expected his words to sting. He looked quickly away. “You must negotiate with us, Atreus of Muria, if you expect to live here in peace.”

  Atreus rose, taller than even the largest of the guardsmen. “I ruled a kingdom within this Castle. I kept order over the demons and werebeasts when you could not. Who are you to give or take permission? You are merely turnkeys, lackeys of the prison.”

  Reynard locked gazes. “It’s no secret your magic has rotted away to nothing.”

  “Lies and rumors.”

  “Truth. Your subjects chose a new king and left you to scrape an existence out of dust. You’re finished. A ghost with barely a chain to rattle.”

  As Reynard spoke, Atreus’s face flushed dark with rage. He fingered the hem of his wide, draping cuff, kneading it as angry tension soaked the air.

  “I speak the truth,” Reynard repeated softly, almost in apology. “Think of the loyal few who stay with you. For the sake of their welfare, you must listen to what I have to say.”

  Atreus looked over Reynard’s head, as if the guardsman were beneath notice. The seam of the cuff was starting to give, the ancient silk shredding between his hands. “I ruled. I held the power and wealth of the Castle’s vampire clans, the prides and the packs, between my hands. I took tribute from those who came to me for refuge from your beatings and your shackles. Do not speak to me of sacrifice for the sake of my subjects. I have sheltered them for a hundred of your lifetimes.”

  Among the guardsmen, there were impatient shuffles of feet and shared glances. Constance heard tearing cloth, and winced. She was running out of thread to mend her master’s robes.

  Reynard shook his head. “Prince Miru-kai sends spies deep into your territory. Soon his warriors will take what little you have left. You need our help.”

  “You would help me as a jackal helps a wounded lion.”

  Constance slipped from the doorway into the room, past Reynard, and took her place at her master’s side. She gave the guardsman a hot glare.r />
  Atreus glanced down, dark eyes barely focusing on her face before he turned back to Reynard. She put her hand over her master’s, stilling his fingers, smoothing the hem of his sleeve.

  The Captain rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “We will keep you from harm, but first there is something that you must surrender. It tempts others.”

  “But you said yourself that I have nothing.”

  “You still hold one object of great value,” said Reynard.

  “Do I?” Atreus returned.

  “Something others will try and take.” Reynard gave Constance another of his sad looks.

  “Oh!” She suddenly understood. Holy Bridget, no. She should have guessed. Should have known. Reynard had tried to prepare her—as if that were even possible.

  Constance felt suddenly light-headed, as if a void had opened where her stomach should have been. Reynard, you cold bastard. This is what you consider your duty?

  She looked up at her master. “No, don’t let them!”

  Atreus gave her a quelling glance, his fingers working at his robe again. “Whatever I have, I can defend.”

  Reynard narrowed his eyes. “I think not.”

  “Don’t let them!”

  “Be silent, girl!” Atreus warned, his voice sharp and dark as an obsidian blade. “You’re not a fishwife bickering at the market. The wrong word at the wrong time is as fatal as a plague.”

  Constance nearly bit her tongue in her haste to close her mouth. Part of her wanted to die and turn to dust. The rest—the bigger part—wanted to explode with fury.

  Atreus put one hand on her shoulder, gripping it tight. “Silence.”

  Constance squirmed, until he squeezed all the harder. Reynard took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Give us what we want, and we’ll keep your enemies away.”

  “And if we do not?”

  “If I were in your position that is a chance I would not care to take.”

  Atreus dropped his hand from Constance’s shoulder. “What do you want?” he asked. “A spell book? A jewel?”

  Reynard’s eyes grew hard, skating past Constance as if she weren’t there. “The incubus you call Sylvius.”

  My son.

  Chapter 4

  Outrage jolted Constance so hard that she gripped the arm of Atreus’s chair to keep from staggering. Her one instinct was to stay upright. If she was standing, she could defend her child.

  Something moved behind the guardsmen, gliding through the shadows.

  Not something. Someone. Oh, no. As if he had come at the mention of his name, Sylvius paused in the arch of the doorway, the gray stone framing him against the eternal dark beyond. He was as tall as Atreus, but pale as moonlight. He wore only loose trews of dark silk. Muscles rippled under his fair skin, but his was the lean body of a youth, not a seasoned warrior. Silver hair fell thick and straight to his hips. Startling dark eyes dominated a long, angular face that was softened only by a wide, expressive mouth.

  Just sixteen, Sylvius had never set foot outside the Castle. A foundling, Constance had raised him from a babe.

  His posture was drawn tight, like a bow about to fire, or a bird about to take flight. She could see from his face he’d heard every word. Her lips parted. Instinct made her want to call out—to warn Sylvius, to comfort him, to bring him to her side—but caution won out. Every second he remained unseen by the guardsmen, he remained safe. Constance dropped her eyes and forced her face into a neutral mask.

  She wasn’t a good enough actor. Reynard raised a brow and turned his head slowly toward the doorway. “And there he is.”

  Calm, almost casual, Atreus sat again, rearranging his robes with a careless flick. “Why do you want the boy?”

  The question was a stall. Even Constance knew the nauseating answer. The Castle took away hunger, thirst, and lust—no doubt a safety spell to keep the inmates from reproducing or feeding on one other. The result was an eternity devoid of basic, pleasurable drives.

  The antidote was the power of the incredibly rare incubi—like Sylvius. For an hour or two, their intimate touch—or blood—gave back passion. Not just the urge to mate, but gusto, energy, the gleeful frenzy of spring. This was the treasured drug the warlords were willing to kill for. With it, they could promise anything, bribe anyone.

  At sixteen, Sylvius was just coming into his power. His newly adult blood was a treasure and a weapon. And it would take no time at all to bleed him dry.

  Run! Constance willed the word with all her soul, but telepathy had always been beyond her talents.

  “The incubus is a rarity. Too dangerous to leave unprotected,” said Reynard. “My plan is to put Sylvius under lock and key. Now that he is grown, the Castle will go to war over your pet. He is the Holy Grail that could kill us all. I won’t allow it.”

  That was too much for Constance. “No! Sylvius, listen to me!” She dodged out of the reach of Atreus’s restraining hand. Every nerve in her body burst with angry excitement. “Get out of here! Run while you can!”

  “But where would I go?” Sylvius looked at his master, confusion in his eyes. He had known only kindness in his short life. Constance had protected him too well.

  Atreus cast a sideways look at Reynard, and then turned his gaze on the youth. “There is no place to run to. Do not listen to Constance, my boy. Your first duty is to obey me.”

  Atreus is taking the guardsmen’s side! Constance gaped for a moment, shocked. It was as if the universe moved, the stars and planets spinning awry. To blazes with that! She bolted forward, grabbing Sylvius’s arm, swinging him toward the door, but she was too slow. The guardsmen closed around them with the lethal swiftness of a well-tied noose.

  “Constance!” Atreus snapped.

  She ignored him and drew her knife. Centuries of obedience could not trump the instinct to protect her child.

  “Constance!” Atreus bellowed. His voice bounced off her, meaningless sound.

  “They always say it’s the women who rule any household,” said Reynard dryly.

  “Let me give her a fight,” put in a big, tattooed guardsman named Bran. “She looks energetic.”

  “Silence, Bran,” said Reynard. “We’re here as men of honor.”

  Bran closed his mouth, but his expression made Constance’s skin shrink against her flesh. She tried to put her body between Sylvius and the men who threatened from all sides. There just wasn’t enough of her, but she’d fight any way she could. No rules. This was her family, her child, at stake. Constance bared her teeth—her hated vampire fangs—in a snarl.

  “She can’t hurt you,” said Reynard to his guards. “She’s never tasted blood. Her powers are barely more than human.”

  But I’m a mother. Don’t underestimate mothers.

  A swarthy-faced guardsman tried to grab past her to get at Sylvius. She could hear Sylvius moving, feel his solid weight as he bumped against her. He was young and strong, but she doubted that he’d ever thrown a punch. He needed to have brothers, like I did.

  The guard lunged again. Ruthlessly, she swiped at the soldier with the blade. His arm came away coated in blood that splashed down his long green tunic. “Fanged whore!”

  Viktor growled, reacting to the blood or the angry words. He ripped free of Bran’s hold on his ruff and joined the fray, grabbing the guardsman in his jaws.

  “Atreus, control your minions!” Reynard roared.

  “Constance!” Atreus flicked his fingers, threads trailing from his cuff like wisps of smoke.

  An invisible weight hurled into her, smashing her to the stone wall behind. Her spine took the impact, her arms and legs flopping like the limbs of Viktor’s toy. The knife dropped from her hand. She barely noticed. Her ribs felt as if they were bending inward, crushing into her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. She became one with the stone, sinking into it for a split second before she realized it was her own bones that gave.

  A moment later, Constance crumpled to the floor like a rag, waiting for the waves of pain to
come crashing home. If she were a human, she’d be dead. Instead, she felt the eerie crawling feeling through her flesh that said her body was already healing. Her mind was like a clean white page, empty, blank. Stunned.

  When her senses returned, she had her first thoroughly disloyal thought, and it burned. Atreus, you bastard.

  Reynard picked up her knife, carefully sliding it through his own belt. The captain paid attention to detail.

  She smelled as much as heard Viktor bound to her side. The werebeast straddled her, as if sheltering her with his body. Then there was the rough wetness of his tongue, licking at her face. The blunt affection melted her resistance to the pain. It swamped her like bad whiskey, tides of nausea and dizziness and hot, brutal agony. She willed her eyes open and managed a sliver of vision.

  They had Sylvius, bewildered and passive, a guardsman holding each arm. Reynard stood before the youth, a considering look on his face.

  Sylvius looked from the captain, to Atreus, to where Constance lay. “What are you going to do with me?” His voice shook.

  Reynard took a tiny red lacquered box from his pocket and set it on the floor between them. He depressed a catch and the lid sprung open. “Do you understand what this is?”

  Constance tried to scream, but couldn’t draw enough breath.

  Sylvius nodded, turning deathly pale. “It’s a demon trap.”

  It’s a prison, four inches square.

  “No one can harm you inside there. Nor can your influence cause harm to others.” Reynard spoke with the air of someone doing a difficult but honorable thing. Of course, he wasn’t the one getting inside the torturously small box. Evil, devious prig.

  Sylvius suddenly flung up his arms, surprising the guardsmen into letting him go. Through the haze of her injuries, Constance felt a stab of terror and fierce pride. He’s going to fight back.

  Instead, he unfurled the wings he kept folded tight against his back and leapt into the air. Sylvius landed on a ledge high above them, crouching so his hands and one knee touched the stone. His wings spread above him, boned and webbed like a bat’s, but finer and more elegantly arched. Like all of him, they were pale and beautiful, a translucent white flushed with the heat of his blood.