Ashe gave a cold smile. “Thought so.”
She slowly got to her feet and picked up her helmet. Caravelli stood, tracking her every move. Her body said more of rage than any curse. Then she turned to Mac, her expression venomous. “And where do you fit in?”
Mac took in the violence in her eyes. Carefully, he resurrected the charming smile. “I’m a nice, quiet guy, but if I find out you’re going all Van Helsing on my friends, then I’m your worst nightmare.”
Ashe gave a lopsided smile. “I’ll look forward to it.” She turned, recoiling when she nearly bumped into Caravelli. “Get the hell out of my way.”
He fell back a step and she swept toward the door. For the second time that night, the whole pub turned to stare.
Holly looked shell-shocked. “Oh, Goddess, what just happened?”
“We tried to reason with a madwoman,” Caravelli said, dropping to one knee beside her chair and raising a hand to her cheek. “I’m sorry, cara, but she won’t be happy until I’m dust.”
“She’s my sister,” Holly said quietly. “I want her to be the way she was when I was little. I want that Ashe, not this one.”
Caravelli hushed her.
It was time for Mac to go. He was a third wheel. He put money on the table for his dinner and got up. He touched Holly’s shoulder lightly, but he addressed Caravelli. “I’m going to make sure Buffy isn’t hanging around outside.”
The vampire nodded. “A sound idea.” His face was unreadable.
Mac headed for the door, pushing aside the headache bashing the inside of his skull. With all the angry energy flying around, his demon should have been straining against its leash, but instead it lay queasy and still.
The fresh night air felt delicious against his baking skin. It was doing the raining-but-not-quite routine, tiny droplets stinging the skin with icy pinpricks. Mac ducked into the pool of shadow beside the Empire’s door and scanned the street. A Ducati would be easy to spot. He didn’t see it, but it wouldn’t hurt to take a tour of the block to be sure. He’d been listening and hadn’t heard a motorcycle.
Hunching against the dark, he walked to the corner, turned left, and went as far as the alley that led past the Castle door. The iron gate stood open and Nanette’s neon sign blinked an antiseptic blue from the other end of the passage. The flashing light made the dark corners of the alley even blacker. He could smell the damp bricks and the heavy pall of age that seemed to rise out of the ground—or maybe that was his imagination adding color to the scene. He’d heard once that the old town gallows had stood nearby.
They knew how to get rid of troublemakers back then.
Mac nearly passed by, but he took one last, closer look into the alley. Ashe was standing in front of the Castle door. He’d nearly missed her, except the faint light had caught the sparkles on the front of her shirt. He started walking toward her, the old cedar bricks sounding hollow under his feet.
“You really don’t want to mess with that,” he said, using the firm-but-friendly community cop voice.
Ashe didn’t look up, but laid one hand against the door. “What do you want?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, but moved her hand over the surface of the door. “There’s power here. Even I can feel it.”
“If you snuggled up to a nuclear reactor core, maybe you could feel that, too.” Mac jammed his hands into his pockets. “It’s about as dangerous.”
She trailed one hand down the wood like a lover’s caress. “What’s behind the door?” she asked. “It feels amazing.”
He suddenly realized the hellhounds were absent. Don’t those guys ever work? “It’s the back entrance to Nanette’s,” he lied. “She had a sorcerer put a spell on the door so no one walks in to see the bondage shows for free.”
Ashe pulled away from the door with a disgusted noise.
“I’d thought maybe you’d like that sort of thing.”
“It’s no fun unless I get to hold the whip. Besides... werecats? That would be like watching a kitten play with duct tape.”
That surprised a laugh out of Mac. Ashe gave a warped smile.
“Speaking of werecats, I heard something on the radio,” she said. “I think it was the university station. Something about a door in an alley leading to a big secret called the Castle.”
“Leave it alone.”
“You shouldn’t lie. It doesn’t suit you,” she said, and walked toward the other end of the alley. Crap.
Mac watched her go past the kitchen exit of a Chinese restaurant, the door propped open with a big white pail. In the brief pool of light, her slim back and fall of blond hair looked like a teenager’s. The swing of her hips did not.
Mac had no reason to stay, but he lingered for a mo ment in front of the door, suddenly tired. It was time to go home and sleep off his headache, but he hesitated. What was Constance doing? Was she still in the Summer Room, thinking up new ways to bite him?
A twisted corner of his soul hoped so. It was a very stupid, twisted corner.
Mac bowed his head. He couldn’t need her. He shouldn’t want her. But he did. It wasn’t as simple as falling in lust with a set of fangs. There was also a woman there, just like he was still a man. He had looked into that woman’s eyes, and been smitten.
The same way, he was sure, Caravelli had once looked at Holly. They’d made it work, hadn’t they? He’d just seen them stand united against Ashe.
I so don’t need this. Even as he thought it, he felt a thread of resignation in his soul. Constance might not have gotten her teeth into him, but she was firmly on his radar, and she was in trouble beyond even the guardsmen-stole-my-baby problem. Crap.
It wasn’t in Mac to stand by and watch her flounder. Not that he was in favor of the whole Turning thing, but there had to be an easier way to go about it than jumping and biting a stranger. Unfortunately, Mac knew squat about the whole vampirization process. If she did manage to drink from a living victim, what exactly would happen? How would she change? Would her personality stay the same? Weren’t vampires supposed to have a sponsor, or a team leader, or whatever they called them? He should ask Caravelli. Maybe he could help.
He heard a motorcycle start up about a block away, the engine revving to life.
Would it work if Constance drank from a guy who was only part human? And that part is getting smaller and smaller. Mac pushed away the memory of his demon rising, trying to claim her. It won’t happen again. It can’t. I don’t trust myself with that dark side riding me.
He put his hand on the door, feeling the swirling energy of the magic all the way to the bottom of his uneasy stom ach. Maybe I can make a difference. Maybe I can save the incubus and kiss the girl, but what will be left of me by then?
Every time he went into the Castle, he came out less human. There was no denying it.
But there was work to be done. The kind he was good at and thrived on. If he didn’t go in and help Constance get Sylvius back, kick guardsman ass, and undo the crime that had been committed, Mac was denying the part of himself he valued most. The thing that made him human in the first place. The part that cared enough to become a cop.
Demoned if you do, damned if you don’t.
Lost in thought, he almost felt the velocity of the Ducati before he heard it. Mac spun around to see the bike barreling down the alley, Ashe perched on it like a Valkyrie on her steed. Mac’s headache cost him a split second of reaction time. He sprang aside.
He wasn’t even sure if she hit him, but it sure as hell felt like it. He bounced against the brick of the alley wall, smacking the back of his head.
Oh, God. Mac slid down the wall, his vision exploding in blasts of white. He heard the Ducati tearing away, the motor a distant snarl.
Now he finally had something in common with Caravelli. He hated that bitch.
Chapter 13
October 4, 7:00 a.m. Mac’s Apartment
“Good morning! Tnis is CSUP at seven o’clock for your local and world paranormal news bulletins...”
Mac’s hand slammed down on the radio button before he opened his eyes. Blessed silence rang like the aftertones of a bell. He did a quick inventory. His stomach had settled and his headache was gone. Whatever bug he’d had yesterday had shoved off. Sleep had done the trick.
Good, because he had a lot to do. He wasn’t awake enough to remember everything, but the list ended with— if he could get it together—rescuing an incubus from the bad guys.
Mac threw the covers off, stifling. He sat up and nearly fell to the floor. Obviously, he was still half asleep. He caught the edge of the mattress, steadying himself. Need coffee.
For a moment, he thought the light-headedness came from smacking his head on the wall when Ashe had buzzed him with the Ducati. Then he realized it was hunger. He hadn’t eaten a lot of that god-awful stew, but he had made himself a sandwich when he got home. That should have been enough to hold him until morning, but he felt like he hadn’t eaten for a week. Time for breakfast, then.
He stood up, feeling thick-headed and oddly clumsy, and padded into the kitchen wearing nothing but his pajama bottoms. The condo felt too warm. Still groggy and feeling all thumbs, he switched on the coffeemaker—he always prepped it the night before—and shoved bread in the toaster, eating another piece untoasted because he was too starved to wait. While he waited for the appliances to do their thing, he shuffled into the bathroom.
When he went to wash his face, he noticed the problem. Mac froze, the water gurgling down the drain as his brain groped with what he was seeing in the mirror.
What the fuck?
His brain backed up and tried again. His reflection wasn’t exactly him. For one thing, he had to duck to a new angle to reach the sink. Not much. Just enough to realize that he was slightly taller than when he’d gone to bed. And he had put on pounds of hard muscle.
Huh?
His mind went absolutely blank. He blinked, the confusion on the Mac-but-not-Mac’s reflected face multiplying his alarm. Aw, c’mon, what the hell am I supposed to do with this? I look like a fucking action figure.
Mac reached under the stream of water with trembling hands—hands that now felt too large—and splashed his face. His basic features, at least, hadn’t changed, though he looked like he hadn’t shaved for three days. Well, he probably hadn’t—and with dark wavy hair that had gotten far too long, all he needed was a loincloth and he’d be good to go for Mac the Barbarian. He sluiced water over his face again, and again, stalling while his brain scrambled for footing. No. No. No. I don’t need this!
Finally, he turned off the taps, grabbed a towel, and blotted the water from his eyes. Then he looked down at himself, shivering with delayed panic. Oh, God. There was too much leg sticking out of the pajama bottoms he wore.
The lightweight pants showed that whatever had happened to his body had left him much more than anatomically correct.
Oh, God. No wonder he’d felt so horny last night. Not enough air.
He stumbled out of the bathroom, throwing open the sliding balcony door. The force of his shove made the glass all but jump the track. Shit.
He stepped outside, the concrete cold under his feet. He sucked in lungful after lungful of the October chill, grabbing the painted iron of the railing to steady himself against the swimming sensation in his head. What’s going on?
Disorientation didn’t cover what he was feeling. It was like going through adolescence all over again, and in eight hours. The big body, clumsy and unfamiliar. The raging hormones. It makes no sense. Why did this happen?
His brain stalled again, crashing under a wave of panic and outrage. What is this? More demon crap? A curse?
All he’d wanted was to be human again. Instead, he got Mac 3.0, manly man edition. He made a fist, watching the play of extra muscle in his forearm. He’d been strong already, fit, in perfect shape, but his demon strength had been limited by his human frame. This body could do so much more. He’d grown into that demonic power.
Maybe that was the point. The demon infection had been stalled by Holly’s magic, so now it had taken a new direction. Under the Castle’s influence, it was still Turning him, just a different way. That makes no sense. People are supposed to renovate houses, not the other way around.
Mac let the fist go, feeling blood flow into the relaxing flesh. Every time he went into the Castle, something bizarre happened. He sucked another lungful of air, now noticing the stronger swell of his chest. He’d been a big-enough man before. This was—well, like he’d spent his life chasing woolly mammoths instead of felons. Most guys would like this. He should be feeling jubilant. Potent. Powerful. What he felt was pissed off. He’d had enough of magic messing around with him.
Anger steadied him. Plus, the cold air had cleared his head a little. Straightening, he looked out over Fairview. At least it looked the same as it always did. The pale morning light showed patches of russet and gold in the trees. The distant strip of ocean gleamed pewter gray. Life woke in the town, pulsing.
It pulsed through him, too. That strange, electric feeling he’d felt before rushed through his blood at full tilt. He was insanely alive. Every muscle and thew of this body wanted to run, fight, and burn off this fierce, hot energy.
Beneath it all, his demon powers hummed like a dark, Gothic chorus. They had gained ground, leaving him feeling far less civilized. I’m so screwed. How the hell am I going to come back from this one? Am I even a little bit human anymore?
Well, the upgrade would make fighting idiots like Bran that much easier.
He noticed the curtain of a neighboring condo twitch. The place had a clear view of Mac’s balcony, which was why he seldom used it. Great. He looked around and noticed a few other female faces in other windows, one with a camera phone.
He thought of a few fresh obscenities, but a corner of his ego did the happy dance. He stomped on it. Mac stalked back inside, feeling the confinement of the apartment like an assault. Hunger was moving on to nausea. He was going to pass out if he didn’t eat something.
He grabbed the cold toast out of the toaster and shoved one piece in his mouth. He put two more slices of bread in the slots and punched the button down. With a sigh of relief, he chewed the dry toast, washing it down with black coffee. Then he felt patient enough to actually butter the second piece. He rummaged in the fridge for a block of cheese, ripped open the pack, and broke off a piece with his hands, not bothering with a knife. By then the next round had toasted, and he started the ritual over again. Mindlessly, Mac kept going until he ate nearly every damned thing in the fridge. Then he checked the freezer. Nothing there but frozen peas. He could go to a restaurant, but he wasn’t sure he was up to facing the world as SuperMac just yet.
Still, more groceries were an urgent priority. Mac refilled his coffee cup. He’d always taken it black before, but now he piled in the milk and sugar, still craving fuel to burn. His bones ached, as though they’d been stretched and pulled. It must hurt to be a werebeast. Never thought about it before.
He slurped the coffee, stalling.
What are you doing? Going through the motions of coping doesn’t mean a damn thing. But that was all he had, outside of running through the streets screaming at the top of his lungs.
Admit it. Who doesn’t want to wake up in a better body? And it’s not like you haven’t switched species before. But this isn’t me. Well, it is now. That’s not exactly a bonus.
He sat down, the wooden kitchen chair creaking beneath his unaccustomed weight. He felt healthy but insanely hot, like the fever he’d had last night had become permanent.
Hunger raged, the same way it had the last time he’d been transformed into a demon. The only positive was that this body didn’t seem interested in eating souls. It definitely preferred meat. Lots and lots of it.
It wanted a fight, the exertion of all this power against another. It wanted to dominate.
It wanted sex, and not the pretty kind.
His mind went to Constance, sleek and small and aching for his touch. He
had smelled the desire on her, the musk beneath her perfume. He itched to get to her, to claim her the way her hungry lips had said she wanted to be claimed.
And the vampire hickey? This body could take it. Bring it on, sweetheart. Bite me if you dare. He swam in that thought for a moment, remembering how eager she had been to seduce him. Oh, yeah.
Oh. Hmm.
Dragging his thoughts from the mental home theater, Mac set down the coffee cup, careful of the fragile ceramic handle. Maybe the first thing this new body needs is a cold shower. It had all the rampant enthusiasm of a seventeen-year-old. Great. I’m never going to ask anyone to supersize me again.
Already his stomach was cramping with hunger once more, his enormous breakfast forgotten. This is ridiculous.
The phone rang. Thankful to connect with the normal world, he picked it up, holding the receiver gingerly. He had visions of squishing it by accident.
“Macmillan.” He nearly dropped the phone. His voice resonated differently, bouncing around in a larger rib cage. It was also shaking with stress.
“Hello? Mac?” It was Holly.
“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat, trying to shrink his voice back to normal.
“Sorry to call so early. Have you got a cold?”
He rumbled again, feeling like a sports coupe that woke up as a monster truck. “What do you know about the Castle making superwarriors?”
“Guardsmen? Mac, are you all right? You sound strange.”
Guardsmen. Was that what he’d become? But they were originally human, not demon. They were bound by oaths and spells and trapped against their will, sent to the prison by some whacked-out secret society in charge of supplying Castle guards. Nothing to do with him.
“Mac? What’s going on?”
How much did he want to say this minute? He was too hungry to think, too impatient to explain himself. Too scared. Too embarrassed. “I’m okay,” he said.
“I found something on the demon boxes. I figured you’d want the information as soon as possible.”
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