She touched a bronze pendant that hung at her throat.
“Sixteen.”
He had to make a mental shift to envision her child as a young adult. She looked so young. “What do the guardsmen want with your son?”
“Sylvius is an incubus.”
“Oh, shit.”
Mac dropped his hand from her shoulder, his fingers unconsciously seeking the shape of his weapon beneath his coat. An incubus added a whole new layer of complication. They were the so-called angels of lust, sought after like a drug.
“Atreus protected my son until now, but he’s lost too much of his power, and Sylvius is just coming into his. The guardsmen said taking him was for the safety of everyone in the Castle, but I think it was for their own pleasure. I trust the captain to keep his word, but not the rest.”
Angels of lust, Mac thought again. This one was going to be angel puree. Incubi were not fighters. The guardsmen would make mincemeat out of the kid. What a train wreck.
“Was there a demand for ransom?”
“No. They have Sylvius, and that’s what they wanted.”
Constance studied his every expression, as if she were trying to find hope. “They put him in a demon trap. The only good part is that Captain Reynard led the guardsmen. He is not as cruel as the others.”
Mac knew who Reynard was. “But Bran is his second-in-command.”
Constance bit her lip. “I—”
“Sh!” Mac held up a hand. He could hear the distant sound of voices and tramping feet, the clank of weapons against armor.
Constance lifted her head, suddenly alert. “It’s the patrol. We have to leave here. We can’t be caught near the door.”
Swiftly, they got to their feet. Then Mac caught a glimpse of the approaching men. It was dark and they were distant, but their shapes looked wrong. Not human. He pushed Constance further into the shadows. “That’s not the patrol.”
“Come this way,” she said, grabbing his hand. Her fingers were so cool that Mac felt like he had a fever. “Reynard said Miru-kai’s spies are in these parts. The warlords want Sylvius, too, and they probably don’t know he’s gone.”
“Oh, great.”
She started to run, a quick, effortless glide through the shadows. He followed her down the corridor, sliding the Sig Sauer out of it’s holster as they moved. The cop in him was on high. For the first time in ages, he felt completely alive. Useful.
Her touch alerted every male cell in his body.
She was beautiful and in trouble. A double threat. Oh, baby.
“Where are we going?” he asked. “I know a secret place.”
An arrow hummed by his head, the wind brushing his ear. Crap!
It skittered harmlessly to the stone floor, but Mac and Constance jolted into a sprint. Someone shouted. It wasn’t any language Mac knew, but the guttural, angry tone was clear.
If she’s not fully a vampire, how badly could an arrow hurt her?
Constance darted around a corner, leading them into a nearly identical hall. Mac risked a glance at their pursuers. They were closer now. He could see four. All wore what looked to him like medieval battle gear. One had tusks.
Mac had a fleeting thought about werebacon.
He turned and scrambled after Constance. She led him through the maze, going deep into an area where Mac hadn’t been before. Except for their pursuers, this part of the Castle looked deserted. This was not at all like the busy, thronging territories Mac had been in before, each with its own ruling bully. This was a wasteland.
Someone could make a fortune with a GPS system in here.
“Hurry!” Constance waved him forward, heading for a path that inclined gently downward. The rigid crisscross of corridors was breaking into longer, curving paths, the stonework ragged and natural. Drips of stone hung from the ceiling, frozen in time. It was like the masons of old had gone for coffee and never returned to finish the job.
For a moment, Mac could feel the magic of the Castle like a breathing presence, watching, considering. Then it was gone, the random bump of a shoulder in a crowd, but the vastness of that consciousness was enough to make Mac stumble, grab the wall for support.
What the hell was that for?
No time to think about it. Constance flitted down the path, pulling a small but efficient-looking knife out of a belt sheath. Mac trailed after her, listening for their pursuers. They were getting closer, heavy footfalls echoing in the gloom. The air was cold and damp. Mist clung to the floor, long fingers swirling over Mac’s feet as he moved.
Then the ceiling rose, the corridor widening until it formed a huge cavern ringed with torches. It could have held a gymnasium with room to spare. Ropes of fog floated in the air, twisting like something alive.
Mac stopped cold, grabbing Constance’s arm. “There’s no cover here. We can’t cross open ground. They’ll shoot us.” He could dust and float across, but that wouldn’t do her any good. Crap!
“We have to get over there.” Constance pointed. Ahead was a stairway. The light barely touched it, showing only a few horizontal edges highlighted against the prevailing murk.
Another arrow whirred over their heads, slicing into the mist. In a single motion, Mac crouched, pulling Constance down with him, turned, and fired two shots in the direction of their pursuers.
Someone—something—screamed. A hit.
Mac’s heart hammered, adrenaline raging through his veins. His demon flared, sharpening sight and hearing, burning through muscle and nerve.
Was that it? Were they gone?
Darkness. Footfalls.
The thing with tusks burst out of the darkness with a feral roar, brandishing a spear over its head. Shit!
Images flew at Mac, sharp and lurid. Torchlight lit the creature’s metal-studded tunic. Tiny eyes under a massive brow. Tusks jutting from the lower jaw, ringed with heavy bands of gold. It was huge, twice as big as a man, looming like a truck.
The spear left its hand, flying with ferocious speed toward Mac’s chest.
Training kicked in. Mac dove to the side, rolled, and emptied three roaring blasts into the thing’s chest. It flew backward, chest shattering to gore, spraying the darkness with a ruddy mist. The spear smashed into the stone where Mac had been a moment before, showering a fountain of sparks into the air.
Constance yelped, scrambling backward, knife ready to stab.
“You okay?” Mac bellowed. “Bloody Bridgit’s toenails!”
If she could curse, she was okay. Mac scrambled to his feet and down the tunnel, weapon at the ready. Hot demon rage warred with a cooler demand for caution. Damned if another one of those things is going to get the drop on us.
He stepped around the creature he’d shot, feet skidding on things he didn’t want to name. It reeked, an unfamiliar putrid stench worse even than a dead werewolf. Mac held his breath as long as he could. The passageway flickered with torchlight, the irregular stonework casting gnarled shadows.
I shot this one. I hit another. There should at least be blood.
Mac slowed. A second body sprawled on the ground, limbs at random angles. The body was melting to a puddle of slime, rotting in fast-forward. He’d seen that before.
Changelings—the twisted, malformed children of the vampire world. Those that hadn’t Turned right. They made the Hollywood nosferatu look cuddly.
It wasn’t easy to kill a vamp, but he’d hit it in the head.
Mac looked around. There was no sign of the other two. He finally took a deep breath but instantly gagged at the stink of foul blood. Goddamned Lord of the Rings wannabes.
Mac wiped the sweat from his palms, then his face. A tremor passed through him as the adrenaline left his system, leaving him hot and queasy. The Castle offered far too many chances to die.
He turned, looking again at the body of the first creature he’d shot. What the hell is that thing? He tried to remember if he’d seen anything like it the last time he was in the Castle.
“They were Prince Miru-kai’s fol
lowers. I’m sure of it.”
He looked up. Constance was standing nearby, the knife still in her hand.
“It was a goblin,” she said. “They’re fierce, but they’re not very brave if you put up a fight.”
“The others were changelings.”
“I know. Turned wrong. Like me, but I was luckier.” She held out a hand. “Come. They won’t be back today.”
Mac stared at her. She was solemn, but far from terrified. “You sure we’re safe?”
Some of her poise faded. “What they really wanted was Sylvius, and we don’t have him.”
“Right.” He still kept his grip on the Sig Sauer. He wasn’t putting it away quite yet. “Attacks like this happen much around here?”
“Not here. There are many in the courts, of course.”
“Were there many goblins in the courts?” He didn’t really care, but it was something to distract them from what had just happened.
She lifted one shoulder. “A few. I spent plenty of time hiding behind the throne. It was good, sturdy oak.”
Mac met her gaze. Her eyes were steady, but he thought he caught a slight curve of the lower lip.
“The werecats were the worst. If they got in a temper, you could say goodbye to the upholstery.” She turned and beckoned him to follow.
Mac complied, his heartbeat almost back to normal. They were out of the corridor before she slid the knife back into its sheath. Mac watched her. “You’re a vampire. Surely you’re strong enough to use a sword?”
“And what would I do with a great blade, like a Highland clansman? I’m too small. Besides, it’s hardly ladylike.”
“Even a small sword would give you greater reach.”
“Stealth and accuracy are just as important. You men are all about size. Sadly predictable creatures.”
“Guilty.”
She smirked, then took a glance at the Sig Sauer. “Mind you, something like that would come in handy.”
“Women always like the big explosions. Delightfully predictable creatures.”
She tossed her head. “Now you sound like you’re boasting.”
“I’m flattered that you think I have cause to boast.”
“I think you have a smooth tongue.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I wonder how often you’ve whispered that in a maiden’s ear?”
“I’m not sure I’ve known that many maidens.”
“And next you’ll tell me that was your doing.”
As they retraced their steps, Mac couldn’t help but look down at the goblin he had shot, or the spear that lay across their path. Constance skirted the carnage, lifting her skirts to keep them clean. How can she live in this place, with so much violence, and still seem so innocent?
Because she’s not. She’s a vampire. You’re playing with fire.
As they crossed the cavern, the ropes of fog clung like spiderwebs, dewing Constance’s hair like a mantilla of jewels. Then they started up the uneven steps, ascending into a mass of shadows that billowed where the ceiling should have been. The soles of Mac’s ankle boots slid on someting slippery.
“What is this crap?”
“Moss,” Constance replied. “Be careful.”
“I didn’t think anything grew in here.”
“The tales say once there were gardens.”
Mac gave her a disbelieving look.
She shrugged. “There are dead trees in one of the great halls. The stories might be true.”
He reserved judgment on that one.
When they reached the top of the stairs, they started down a corridor that looked different from the others, the walls polished to a dull sheen. It opened into a vast space ringed with balconies. In the center was a dark pool, the sparkling black surface rippled by a faint wind. White marble rimmed the water, the carved lip fluted and curving outward. The overall shape of the pool was geometric, squares overlapping squares, reminding Mac of a Chinese design. Rather than torches, fires burned in four braziers that ringed the space. Beautiful though it was, the hall echoed strangely, making Mac think of people and places he had lost.
“Where are we?” Mac asked, looking over his shoulder. Something about the open space put all his senses on alert, as if the lightless corners had eyes.
“This place doesn’t have a name that I know of,” she said. “Atreus used to come here to meditate.”
No wonder he’s nuts.
Constance looked around. “I was hoping Viktor would be here. He always finds his way home, but he likes this place. With Miru-kai’s soldiers around, I’d rest easier if I knew where he was.”
Mac started to follow her gaze, searching the inky shadows, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him along like a child. He allowed himself to be led, his eyes following the way her skirts swirled around her knees. All those layers of cloth made a swishing rhythm that had a seductive music all its own.
They crossed out of the open space of the hall and entered a long corridor mottled with patches of torchlight. The passageway angled, then branched into three. Constance went to the left. Finally she stopped at the entrance to a large room. Mac reached around her, opening the door. She nodded, accepting the courtesy, and walked in. Mac followed.
A waft of sweet-scented air greeted him. Mac looked around in wonder. It was like walking from Frankenstein’s castle into the Arabian Nights. “This is called the Summer Room,” she said. “I don’t think anyone knows it’s here.”
It didn’t look particularly summery, but it was extraordinary. The space was gently lit by a scatter of pillar candles. Tapestries hung on the walls, strange-looking birds and animals glittering with silver thread. Swaths of silk draped the high ceiling, giving the impression of a tent. There were couches and chairs and a canopied bed in the corner, piled with a mountain of gold and black velvet cushions. Books were scattered everywhere. A violin case on one shelf. A waterfall ran down one corner of the stone wall, splashing into an enormous marble basin that drained away below. Expectation hung in the air, like words formed but not yet spoken.
“This isn’t like anything else I’ve seen in the Castle,” Mac said, his voice hoarse. He turned around, and around again, trying to take it all in. “This is the opposite of the Castle. It’s beautiful.”
Then he remembered Holly’s description of the room she had found, and wondered whether this was the same place. The one place in the Castle where natural appetites were not repressed. This could be interesting.
Constance trailed her fingers down one of the tapestries, making the silver threads glitter in the candlelight. “There are a few havens like this. Remnants, I think, of another time. I found this place not long ago. It belonged to Atreus’s household once, but he doesn’t come here anymore. He left everything under a spell so that it wouldn’t decay.”
Mac touched the arm of one of the chairs, feeling a faint ants-over-the-skin vibration of magic. It went straight for the gut. Growing more and more curious, he looked around again, taking in additional details this time. A wardrobe, the door ajar to reveal feminine clothes hung on hooks. Soap, towels, a silver-backed hairbrush. Everything had a careful neatness.
“Do you live here?”
“I’ve always come here as much as I could, but now I... Yes, I live here now. I needed a new place to stay.” Her eyes seemed to go dark, as if she was retreating from him. Whatever Constance was thinking, it was painful.
Mac’s gaze fell on a stack of women’s magazines—Vogue and Chatelaine—that looked like they dated from between the two World Wars. A few were later, perhaps from the early sixties. “Do you read these?”
An inane question, but as he’d intended, it snapped her out of her thoughts.
Constance looked momentarily sheepish. “Oh, um. I found them. Sometimes people smuggle things into the Castle. I like to read them to see what people wear now. How they talk, what words they use. I don’t like to feel like I’m old-fashioned.”
Never mind her clothes look like they came from C
olonial times. And her pronunciation was sometimes off—though some of that might have been the Irish lilt. It didn’t matter. He could understand her well enough.
Now she was busy as a model homemaker, straightening the ornaments on a dainty side table. There was a fleck of goblin on her skirt, which she cleaned off with a fussy little grumble. No, I can’t say I’ve met anyone quite like her before.
Mac picked up one of the magazines. It had been read so often it was nearly in shreds. “What do you think of the new styles?”
“Oh, they’re lovely, but clothes that fine would be wasted on this place. What I have is good enough for me.” Constance turned away and rearranged the cushions on the couch.
Mac set the magazine down. At least by his standards, Constance had been too young to begin living when she was trapped in the Castle. Now she was trying to catch up vicariously with magazines a good seventy years out of date. That was just wrong.
He slid the Jane Austen out of his jacket pocket and beneath the top Chatelaine. The gesture felt good, especially after blasting the goblin to chunky soup. Not that he had a big choice when Tusky came yodeling out of the shadows, but his karma still felt like a twelve-car pile-up.
Constance turned to face Mac, extending a hand to the chair where she’d just fluffed the cushions. “Please, sit.”
Mac sat down in the chair. The Castle’s magic felt thick in this room, almost touchable. Conscious. The vibes—or maybe it was the aftermath of the fight—were making him feel light-headed, as if he’d had one too many shots on an empty stomach. Which reminded him he’d skipped lunch.
Wait a minute. If he was hungry, that meant the lid was indeed coming off his appetites. This must be the same room Holly’d been talking about, the one that let a person’s natural desires run free. Keep an eye on your impulses. Keep an eye on the pretty little vampire.
His gaze traveled to Constance, who was pacing back and forth, her slim, straight back a fierce exclamation. Her hips swayed when she walked, twitching her skirts like a cat’s tail. Mac blinked, fascinated by her curves. It was getting hard to think.
Reynard. Incubus. Bran. Right.
At least where the guardsmen were concerned, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what would happen next. The captain might be an okay guy, but there was only one Reynard and a whole Castle full of Brans. With a prize like an incubus at stake, it was only a matter of time before the guardsmen’s already shaky discipline came tumbling down like a house of cards.
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