Sylvius gave a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “My apologies, Captain Reynard, but I’d rather not spend the rest of eternity as a paperweight.”
“That is not your decision,” said Atreus. “You are mine to dispose of as I please.”
“No,” the youth said quietly. “Not about something like this.”
Captain Reynard looked sad. “You are a prisoner here.”
“But not in your box.” Sylvius flew to a ledge closer to the door, landing with the grace of a hawk.
Reynard swore under his breath. Things were obviously not progressing according to his well-reasoned plans. “Atreus?”
Constance let her eyes drift closed, riding a cushion of pain. Atreus was old, older than she had ways to measure. Time and the strange magic of the Castle were finally stealing his wits. Still, he had good moments. She prayed this would be one of them. She forced her eyes open again. And was disappointed.
Atreus moved to face the ledge where Sylvius was perched. The sorcerer was pulling at his hair now, twining a few long, black strands around and around his fingers. “Captain Reynard is right. Your very existence is a danger to everyone. It would be better to surrender.”
Sylvius’s reply ached with reproach. “I thought you loved me, my king.”
“It would not be love to let you roam free. Too many desire you.”
“They desire what I could do for them. I do not think it’s me they want.”
The men stood like a tableau, staring up at the demon-angel perched on the stone ledge above.
“Do this out of love, Sylvius,” said Atreus. “You see what damage you’ve caused already. Constance is hurt.”
I have to move. Constance crawled on hands and knees from beneath Viktor’s hairy belly. Every motion made her body scream, but she wasn’t going to give them one scrap of ammunition to use against Sylvius. Her foot got tangled in the hem of her dress, but she got to her feet, raising her eyes to her boy.
“Sylvius.”
They all turned.
“Don’t listen to them. This isn’t about you. They’re afraid.”
The look he gave her broke her heart. “I know that, little mother.”
All eyes bore down on her, waiting to hear her answer. All eyes, except that of the captain. Reynard moved the box with his foot, sliding it forward an inch or two, wordlessly stating his insistence. The sound of the wood on the stone grated harshly in the sudden silence.
Pride more than strength kept Constance on her feet.
She wasn’t used to speaking out, and the very audacity of it was adding to her dizziness. “Put that trinket away, Captain Reynard. You’re not taking him.”
Viktor whined, but she motioned him to stay. She walked toward the men, putting one foot gingerly before the other, but her attention was on Sylvius. He sat still and silent, his eyes fixed on her with the look of someone losing his world. I’m all right. Don’t let them use me to trap you.
She heard the rustle of Atreus’s robe as he raised his hand to strike her again. She wheeled on him, the sudden movement making her head swim. “Threaten me if you like but you can’t kill me. I’m already dead.”
He blinked, looking away. “You will be silent.”
“Think!” she snapped. Insulting a sorcerer wasn’t smart, but she was wild with fury. “You’re letting the captain bully you into betraying the few people left who still love you.”
Atreus raised his eyes and glared. “You know nothing of my reasons.”
“Reasons? You’re my master! You’re supposed to protect me!”
Atreus stared at her a moment, but his eyes grew distant until he looked straight through her flesh.
Constance’s voice grew low and hard. “I don’t know how I’m going to stop this, but I will.”
“You’re a girl. A milkmaid, at that. A nothing.”
“Be careful, Constance,” Captain Reynard warned softly. “Your bravery does you credit, but you will not win this battle.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Atreus blinked, seeming to awaken from a momentary trance.
There was no feint, no warning gesture. She was utterly unprepared.
The sorcerer slammed her into the wall again, this time holding her there with the brute force of his magic. She was pinned six feet above the floor, like a butterfly stuck in a shadow box. He held her hard. Insanely hard. She could feel the compression doing something inside her, something not even vampire bodies were supposed to endure.
Viktor howled his outrage, but Atreus used a second bolt of power to smash the huge werebeast to the floor. The sorcerer may not have had enough power left to rule a kingdom, but he had more than enough to wound those closest to him.
Captain Reynard looked up at Sylvius. The look was almost a plea. “You can end this.”
There was no air in Constance to scream with. She watched, helpless, as Sylvius stood on the ledge, a look of utter devastation on his face. “I’m afraid,” he said.
“I will protect you,” said Reynard. “I give you my word.”
“But will you protect them?” Sylvius pointed to Constance and Viktor.
Reynard nodded. “I will see to it. My men will come here every day to make sure they are well and to supply whatever they might need. That is my pledge in return for your freedom.”
Sylvius said nothing more, but seemed to droop even as he poised on the balls of his feet, balancing on the very lip of the stone. Then he fell forward, wings half opened, arms loose at his sides. His long hair fanned behind him, his eyes closing with all the resignation of death. As he fell, his form thinned and lengthened, melting into an iridescent haze that shone from within. The cloud seemed to be made of dust particles swirling around and around, neither sparkling nor dull but gleaming with the sheen of pearls.
Hardened as they were, the guardsmen still gave a collective gasp of wonder. The spectacle was beautiful, the mere sight enough to revive some of the urge for life that the Castle had stolen away.
Like a glowing finger, the cloud that was Sylvius landed on the demon trap, making the red lacquer dazzle with intensity. The box seemed to inhale, dragging the billowing particles inside itself—more and impossibly more, fitting what seemed like a roomful of pearly cloud inside the tiny cube. At last the lid snapped shut, and the brilliance was snuffed out.
Once again, Constance slammed to the floor as Atreus released her. This time, she didn’t open her eyes. She heard the guardsmen shuffle and talk in low voices. She heard their footsteps as they marched away. She heard Viktor’s low whines. Finally, she heard the rustle of Atreus’s robes as he wandered out of the chamber.
They took my boy.
She lay coiled into a painful ball. If only her mind could slide into the pain and dissolve, but she was a woman. As long as one of her own needed her—be it a stray calf or a foundling incubus—she couldn’t rest. She had to save Sylvius, but how? She had needed a protector to survive in the Castle. How could she possibly save someone else?
Constance braced one hand against the floor, then the other. Experimentally, she pushed herself up enough to slump against the wall. Viktor butted his head against her thigh, letting her know he was there. She rested one hand on the beast’s head, too weak yet to scratch his ears.
Despite Viktor, she felt horribly alone.
She touched the pendant Sylvius had made for her, pressing it against her skin. The feel of it was an anchor in a sea of nausea. A true vampire could heal much faster. A real vampire could fly and had astonishing speed and strength. Constance would need full vampire powers if she was going to rescue Sylvius.
Holy Bridget, what am I thinking?
She had never fully Turned, because she had never tasted human blood. The guardsmen had imprisoned her too fast. So, Constance needed to hunt.
Oh, bollocks.
She’d never considered giving up the last shreds of her humanity before. But then, no one had needed her help so very badly. Even so, could she bear to do
it?
Drinking blood was beyond disgusting, and who was there to bite? The guardsmen were the closest thing to human, and they certainly didn’t smell edible. Putting her lips on Bran’s flesh would surely make her retch.
Her fingers stirred the thick fur of Viktor’s ruff. He sighed. She sighed, and it was painful.
All right, maybe not Bran. But she had to be strong, like a warrior queen of old Eire. If she had to embrace her vampire nature to save Sylvius, so be it.
Her child was at stake.
She would find a victim.
She would become the necessary monster.
Chapter 5
October 1, 9:00 p.m. 101.5 FM
“Welcome back to CSUP. This is Errata, and we’re speaking with demon expert Dr. Philip Elterland of our own Fairview U. So, Dr. Elterland, as a cryptozoologist, can you explain to us the difference between different kinds of demons? Are there, like, four-door and two-door models, or what?”
“Thank you, Errata, for such an interesting question. You are correct that there are a lot of different creatures we call demons. Calling one of these entities a demon is analogous to using the term ‘bird.’ There are chickadees and there are eagles.”
“Tell us more.”
“With pleasure. Keep in mind that some demons, like incubi, are born, and others are created from a human host.”
“Dr. Elterland, isn’t it true that species that are born as minor demons—like hellhounds and incubi—aren’t particularly dangerous unless attacked?”
“That’s true, but they are in the minority. Take, for instance, the species that most people have heard of, popularly called the soul eater. They are extremely aggressive. These demons infect—some written sources use the verbs ‘curse’ or ‘taint’—a human host with a parasitic condition popularly called the Dark Larceny.”
“How does this happen?”
“All we have determined with any accuracy is that it takes person-to-person contact.”
“You mean you can’t get it from a toilet seat?”
“Um. No.”
“So what happens once somebody’s cursed, Dr. Elterland?”
“They are stricken with the urge to feed on human life essence. At some point, the host is entirely absorbed by the demon and acquires supernatural powers.”
“How long does the process take?”
“A matter of days. It is interesting to note that although demons shape-shift, they can only make other demons when in human form, and they only attack humans.”
“Is the demon a separate consciousness?”
“Not as far as we know. It’s more like a cluster of driving biological imperatives the host cannot control. For the human, it is a painful, terrifying experience. The hunger. The loss of bodily control. The sudden realization that survival means feeding on other humans. Simply put, the human’s civilized nature is no longer in the driver’s seat. Eventually, those better instincts are extinguished and the human becomes a true monster.”
“Huh. Sounds like the ultimate frat party experience.”
“Well, it is about feeding and reproduction.”
October 1, 9:00 p.m.
The alley outside the Castle
Mac was trapped in a solid circle of hellhound bodies. He lashed out, knuckles smashing against the hard metal snaps of a jean jacket. He heard an off and then someone swept his legs out from under him.
Mac crashed to the brick pavement, his spine searing with pain as he landed on his tailbone. Then the toe of a heavy work boot drove into his kidney. Blind with pain, Mac tried to roll to his knees, but another foot thumped into his stomach. He flopped to his back, throwing his arms protectively over his face. He braced for an old-fashioned beat-down. There wasn’t much even a quasi-demon could do against six hellhounds and a pissed-off vampire. “Hold,” snapped Caravelli.
They stopped midkick. Moving quickly, Mac tried to get his feet under him, but one of the hounds casually put a foot on his throat. Mac could feel the grit on the thick rubber treads scraping the flesh of his neck.
Shit. He was caught.
“Put him in the Castle. He was Geneva’s thrall.”
Everything in Mac tightened at the sound of the name. He hated that her mark still branded him like a Made in Hell sticker.
As one, the hounds bent, grabbing Mac’s hair, his arms, his clothes. Their dark shadows blotted out the neon glow of the Kitty Basket’s sign, leaving only an impression of shaggy hair and the glinting embers of their eyes.
Metal grated on metal, and the Castle door opened with a theatrical groan of iron hinges. Mac’s feet left the ground as the hellhounds lifted him into the air. He squirmed, twisting in the hounds’ stubborn grip.
“Caravelli, no! Please, no! I haven’t done anything.”
The hounds heaved him over the threshold like a sack of sand. Mac skidded on his stomach, his chin hitting the stone floor hard enough to clack his teeth together. He hit a jog in the floor and jolted into a sprawling log roll.
The bolt grated shut with a heavy, hard rasp. Mac tried to leap to his feet, but stumbled, his joints folding uselessly. The crash onto the hard stone floor had numbed every nerve.
“Caravelli! Damn you!“
He pushed himself up again, his palms flat against the gritty floor. His head spun, half from shock, half from the dim, flickering light but this time he made it to his feet. Pain flowed like hot oil as his flesh registered the fall. Mac dragged in a breath, then lurched to the door and gave it a single, furious blow.
“Damn you to the darkest hell!”
His demon could sense Caravelli on the other side of the door, a lurking presence. Caravelli, his judge and jailer. Mac gave the door a savage kick, putting all his force behind it. The heavy oak barely vibrated, adding insult to his fury. After a second’s pause, he could feel Caravelli move off, the shadow of a passing storm. He’s leaving me here!
Panic rolled up Mac’s throat, cold and foul as a corpse’s embrace. I’m going to stake that walking mosquito. Slowly. With sharp toothpicks so it takes a long, painful while. Not to mention what I’m going to do to his hellhound henchmutts.
Little by little, he turned to face his prison. The Castle was just as he remembered. There was no exterior, just miles and miles of dark, damp corridors that rambled outside of time and space. And now I’m back in the joint.
He took a few steps forward, shoving his hands into his pockets. Unease settled on him like thickly falling snow, palpable as the low hum of the Castle’s magic.
The last time, that hum had nearly driven him mad. It was barely audible, a pressure just below hearing that made his sinuses ache all the way from his molars to the top of his head. It made the demon in him stretch and flex, suddenly restless. The Castle was supposed to damp demon hunger, but right now it was making it harder to control.
He had to do something. Move. Explore. He started walking, carefully noting each near-identical corner and hallway. The rubber soles of his track shoes were nearly silent, only the rustle of his clothes echoing in the cavernous space. He seemed to be alone. Where was everyone?
A year ago, after the battle where Geneva died and her armies were crushed, Mac had awakened somewhere in this maze. The force of the spell that had killed Geneva had blasted him deep into the Castle. He should have died.
Instead, Mac had made a half-dead crawl for the exit, like the survivor of a spectacular pub brawl—except there was no way out. As his injuries healed, the crawl had become a run, then a game of survival. Injured and confused, he didn’t remember much, but his trek through the dungeon had given new meaning to the term “bad neighborhood.” As far as he could tell, it had taken around six months to find a way out of the Castle. He’d stumbled on an open portal, a piece of pure dumb luck.
He’d escaped once. He could do it again. This time at least he knew the location of the door. The trick would be getting it open. Then, a heartfelt discussion with the Vampire Caravelli.
He stopped abruptly, his body reacti
ng before he even knew why. Perfectly still, he listened. His ears strained to catch the sound again. Behind him. Faint, but growing. Scuff scuff scuff.
He turned. A man was running toward him—one that Mac knew all too well. Good ol‘ Guardsman Bran. A feeling of sour anger washed through Mac, adding old resentments to his already foul mood.
As if the day wasn’t bad enough, an unholy grin of pleasure split Bran’s face, the look of a bully finding new prey. Mac could run, maybe hide, but before he even reviewed his options, Bran was mere feet away and drawing a short sword.
Back in the Castle five friggin’ minutes and I‘m in the middle of an ass-kicking. Mac wiped a sudden sweat from his face. Same old Club Dread.
Mac circled his opponent, who mirrored his low, watchful crouch. Bran was a huge, bare-armed hulk covered with spiraling blue tattoos. He stank like old leather shut up in an attic trunk for far too long. A black braid swung past the man’s hips as he moved, a dark slash against the scarlet and gold silk of his tunic.
Guardsman Bran was one scary, ugly mother.
Shadows ate at the ceiling and surrounding passageways, giving the illusion there was no reality beyond the circle of their combat. The solitary sound in the corridor was the shuffling of their feet on the stone floor. Torchlight played along Bran’s short sword, reminding Mac the guardsman was armed and he wasn’t.
Sharp objects mattered, but Mac’s pulse roared in his head, drowning out fear with every heartbeat. He felt drunk, high, complete, even relieved. He was ready to pound this grunt and love every minute of it. Kill or die. The shredded remainder of his demon side had finally slipped its leash.
Mac lunged. Bran was quick, blocking him, slashing at Mac’s ribs—but Mac was supernaturally fast, dancing aside before the blade could land.
They sprang apart, circling again.
“Nice to see you, too,” Mac said with a taunting grin. Without warning, he changed direction, but Bran followed the sudden shift with the poise of a gymnast. Mac licked his lips, his mouth dry from breathing hard. “Interesting tatts. Still working the Bronze Age look?”
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