Scorched tdf-2

by Sharon Ashwood

  He’d left Connie asleep. After she’d told him what she knew about the guardsmen’s lair, they’d made love again. Twice.

  It had sated them both and exhausted her, sending her into a deep, comalike slumber. He’d held Connie for a long time, studying the soft curves of her face and body. There was no inch of her skin that he hadn’t touched that night, and he knew without doubt he would touch, taste, and claim it again.

  His inner caveman beat his chest and roared with jubilation. Today it was good to be Mac the Barbarian.

  He stopped at a crossing of corridors. The wavering torchlight showed one hallway curved away to the right. To the left, the stonework had crumbled like a giant fist had punched through the wall. A vast cavern loomed beyond.

  Connie had mentioned this place. He hopped up the rubble, using the fallen stones as a stairway to the gaping hole a dozen feet above. The section of missing wall was more than man-height, the thickness of the stones uneven and treacherous. He balanced there, looking into the darkness. A hot, sour wind seemed to rise from below, flowing up the chimneylike cavern. His hair floated away from his face, caught by the breeze. There were fires far, far below, flickering like the stars of an upside-down sky. They called to him, blinking like mysterious eyes. No one, Connie’d said, had ever ventured into those depths.

  Maybe he would someday, just to find out what or who lived there. Maybe dragons? A tingle of excitement rippled through him. That would be cool.

  He could almost feel the Castle agree. It wanted to be explored. Everything about it spoke of neglect, but who was to say it had to be that way?

  Connie had told him Reynard’s tales of collapsing corridors and disappearing rooms. Was there a specific cause, Mac wondered, or was the magic that made the place simply winding down? Were the rumors true at all? He knew how fast a lie could travel around a lockup. Who was to say the Castle was any different?

  Still, it was a good reminder to stay alert.

  Mac jumped down, landing easily, and kept on walking, following the left-hand corridor. Truth be told, he was enjoying this new body’s stamina. The more he used it, the better it felt. Plus, it seemed to be settling down. His clothes were too tight again, but the change was not as dramatic as before.

  Just as well. There was a limit to how much size was actually useful.

  He started to run, covering ground in a relaxed lope. The punched-out-wall phenomenon repeated itself a few more times, and then the wall between him and the cavern gave up altogether. Mac ran for about another half hour, barely breathing hard.

  In the distance, he could hear the sound of voices. Probably one of the settlements that drifted around the Castle, moving as the warlords claimed and lost territory, established their courts and then surrendered to rivals. Politics in the Castle was an endless chess game, one Mac had been too insignificant to play. Not that he’d wanted to. He’d just wanted out.

  The noise grew more distinct, coming from his left across a vast, wild space of crumbled granite. Curiosity tempted him to look. He climbed up an easy slope of rock, pushing higher and higher until he could see the source of the babble.

  Not a town, but an encampment. Campfires glimmered, backlighting figures who moved through a forest of tents. Most inhabitants of the Castle lived in its rooms, but a few preferred the open places, living like nomads. By their size and the way they moved, these were werecats. Lions or one of the more exotic species.

  Cats tended to roam on the fringes of the main populations, which meant the town proper would be just beyond what he could see. And it can stay there. He’d flown beneath the radar so far. He meant to keep things that way. If this Prince Miru-kai was setting up shop in the area, he had to be careful not to attract attention.

  So far he hadn’t run into any other wandering goblins or changelings. The area leading from the Summer Room was as deserted and secret as Connie had claimed. Still, he worried about leaving her alone. He added home security to his mental to-do list. Maybe once she had her son back, she would want to leave the Castle altogether.

  Mac resumed his course. Eventually, the Castle grew darker, the torches farther apart, the slope in the floor descending. At the same time, across the floor of the cavern to his right, he saw a honeycomb of caves emerge from the black rock. Scatters of torches appeared here and there, showing signs of habitation.

  Mac slowed to a walk. The air was warmer here, drying the light sweat on his body. There were no corridors to his left now, and the path he was on narrowed to a mere walkway, an iron rail guarding against the sheer drop into the cavern. The pit was still deep, but he could see the cavern.

  Mac allowed himself a wolfish grin. He’d found their headquarters, or at least their clubhouse. The large area directly below was scattered with tables and benches where guards lounged, read, diced, or talked. Rooms opened onto the area, guards coming and going. One in the far corner looked larger and had more traffic, as if it served an official purpose.

  Mac finished scanning the scene below, and began examining the rocky expanse higher up. Above the rooms, caves dotted the raw stone face of the wall. Some had bars or gates. Were those cages? Storerooms? From where he was, it was impossible to tell, but either explanation would make sense. Now that he looked closely, networks of open stairways were chipped into the rock, zigzagging up from the floor.

  And that was as much as he was going to find out from his present vantage point. He had to get closer.

  Mac picked an empty-looking cave that overlooked the busy room below. He took a deep breath and melted to dust, flowing through the shadows and down, down to land in the heart of the enemy’s home.

  What have I done? Constance wondered.

  It was a simple question. There should have been an easy answer, but like the lady in the song, her demon lover had carried her away with fine promises. The difference was, Mac used a bed rather than a ship.

  When they reached the shore again On the far side of the sea, Then she spied his cloven hoof And wept most plaintively. “What is that mountain yon,” she cried, “With fire and ice and snow?”

  “It is the peaks of hell,” he cried, “Where you and I must go.”

  Mac, however, didn’t seem the seafaring type, and he definitely didn’t have cloven hooves. They were already in hell. The only question that remained was whether he was a trickster.

  She had awakened alone, and that worried her. He had asked how to find the guardsmen, but how could she be sure he had gone to keep his promise to bring back her son?

  Candles bathed the room in a topaz glow. Constance stared at the ceiling, curling into the warmth left by Mac’s body. He could not have been gone long. His heat still bathed the sheets, and she nestled down like a chick in the nest. She was utterly, thoroughly satisfied in ways she hadn’t known existed. But being awake meant facing the future. Emotions crowded in like street hawkers, all shouting for attention. What should I feel?

  During her life, she would have known fear. Girls who. gambled their maidenheads away on love risked losing everything: their good name, their employment, their futures. No work meant no food. An unwanted baby all too often meant utter ruin. But that wouldn’t happen now. For one thing, she was Undead, already about as fallen as a woman could get.

  He’s a demon. Yes, but she was a vampire, more or less. They were on even footing there.

  He’s a stranger. That had more meaning. Some might accuse her of naivete, of falling prey to temptations of the Summer Room. Her appetites had been muted for far too long, only to burst forth like some unseasonal hothouse blossom.

  It was true, she had been quick to surrender, but it had felt perfect. It had been the right combination of gentleness and need, wild demon dominance and pleasure. Conall Macmillan suited her through and through, better than any romantic fantasy she had spun for her own amusement.

  But would he keep his promise to find Sylvius? Constance dangled one hand over the edge to pick up the Castle key tangled in the mess of garments she had tossed to the
floor. It felt cold, hard-edged, the opposite of the fine, soft sheets that still bore Mac’s imprint. She turned it over and over, watching the glint of gold in her palm.

  She could tell he was in trouble. His demon had taken hold, and there was no telling where that transformation would lead. What had been a mere streak of danger was now barely in check. He needed an anchor, a home. Something to tip the balance between beast and man. Someone with a claim on him.

  In the course of their lovemaking, she had made up her mind about one thing. Love was far more important than innocence. The bonds to her dear ones meant more than anything else.

  She prayed Mac felt the same. She’d surrendered to their mutual pleasures that night, falling under the spell of his expert caresses. In the most primal ways, he’d made a gift of the womanhood so long denied her. My demon lover.

  And yet, as much as she wanted to drown in the languorous haze of lust, her next thoughts had to be of her boy. Whatever Lore said, abandoning Sylvius would make her more of a monster than any blood hunger. If Mac failed her, she would have to find the courage to save her son all on her own. She wasn’t a servant anymore. She didn’t have the luxury of someone else’s protection, nor could she wait for someone to tell her what to do. It was up to her.

  She rolled onto her back, holding the key up to the candlelight. If she left the Castle, would she truly become the ravening beast Lore feared? She could not wait long to put her fate to the test.

  Please, oh, please, keep your promise.

  When Mac rematerialized, he whipped around, sword ready, but saw the cave he was standing in was a storeroom. He was alone.

  The first thing he noticed was that it was noisy, sound pouring up from the plateau below. After the silence of Connie’s corner of the Castle, the clamor felt like a physical blow. Most of it was male voices, booming and loud, and the occasional clank of weapons and armor. The context was different, but the mood was a lot like a busy squad room.

  Mac looked around the cave. There were piles of old armor, shields, and breastplates emblazoned with the six-pointed sun that was the guardsman’s symbol. A rough wooden rack held ranks of spears. A trunk with no top overflowed with dusty uniforms. The place smelled like leather and oil.

  Mac thought about changing into some of the clothes, but decided it was pointless. After hundreds of years of serving together, these guys all knew each other too well to count on a disguise. Besides, his plans were too vague. He had no idea what he needed yet.

  On the other hand, he did poke around until he found a scabbard and shoulder belt for his sword. His hand was getting stiff from carrying it around. He’d even considered ditching it now that he had his Sig Sauer with him, but there were some critters a bullet wouldn’t stop.

  It took a while until he found a rig that didn’t interfere with the gun holster, but finally he found something that did the job. Surveillance was the next step.

  Mac settled near the mouth of the cave, burying himself in shadow and pulling the dark plaid shirt closed over the white of his T-shirt. From this angle, he could watch the tops of the heads of people coming and going from the busy room below. A dozen feet from the doorway, four guardsmen sprawled around a table. One, he saw with a flicker of annoyance, was Bran. He didn’t know the other three, but he could see the round, ruddy face of the man sitting next to Bran. There was enough firelight that it was almost bright.

  Idly, he calculated the position and angle of each man, estimating their vulnerabilities and strengths. If he jumped from here to there, landing in the center of the table, he could probably take all four in eight sword thrusts or less.

  That’s the demon talking, and it’s an optimist. There were at least forty other guardsmen to consider, and a major bloodletting got him no closer to finding Connie’s boy. Mac gave a quiet sigh, resigned to pursuing his mission the hard, dull, smart way.

  The fair-haired man sitting across from Bran was talk ing.”... got there and the passageway was collapsed. We’re cut off from the north quadrant. It’s bad. We’ve lost communication with Captain O’Shea, and he’s got the trolls on his hands. We can’t send reinforcements. He’ll have to battle it out for himself.”

  “What about Sharp?” Bran asked.

  “He can’t get through, either. The bridge is down.”

  Bran swore. “This whole damned place is coming apart. I’d hoped it was nothing but tall tales.”

  Mac stiffened in surprise. So it was true. Something was wrong with the Castle.

  The red-faced guardsman spoke up. “O’Shea said that’s why the trolls were coming up from down below. The places they made their dens are gone.”

  “Fine for the trolls,” said blondie. “We’re stuck here. We can’t leave. We’re cursed.”

  “We know what we have to do,” said red face. “It’s not pretty but it’s the only way.”

  “Enough,” growled Bran.

  “You said so yourself!”

  “The captain doesn’t want to hear that kind of talk.”

  But I do. Mac leaned forward a little, taking a better look at the guardmen’s rooms. From here, he could see into a few. About half looked like dormitories, each with a number of beds. The others were empty. Had they once been filled? If so, what happened to the men who’d slept there?

  The fourth guardsman spoke up. “You’re too young to remember, but once the Avatar brought rain and sun. Nothing’s the same now.”

  Avatars again. Holly’d said the Avatar had been stolen.

  The others groaned and shuffled, as if this was a story they’d heard a thousand times. Blondie stood. “I’m off to patrol. Coming, Hans? Edward?”

  The two others got up and joined him, walking away to leave Bran on his own. In the distance, another group of three guardsmen were wrestling a huge, misshapen creature up one of the staircases carved into the stone wall. What the heck is that? A troll?

  All Mac could see from that distance was that it wore a tunic of some kind and was bald. Shackles around its wrists, ankles, and waist made climbing the stairs awkward. It lurched, nearly falling. One of the guards poked it with the butt of his spear, saving it from tumbling down the cliff face, but clearly hurting it at the same time. Mac scowled. He hated guys who took advantage of their authority that way. It wasn’t like the prisoner had been trying to escape.

  The guards opened the barred door to one of the caves and shoved the creature inside. Well, that answers that question. Some of these caves are indeed cells.

  Fuming, Mac returned his attention to the table below. Bran sat like a disgruntled lump. The only thing lacking was a beer to cry in.

  The Castle didn’t have beer. Or bratwurst sausages. It truly was hell.

  Reynard appeared, walking out from the room below.

  “I’m tired to death of writing up the log,” said the captain in his la-di-da accent. He’d always sounded to Mac like he’d just quit his job as an announcer for the BBC. All he needed was a Rolex and a polo pony to complete the GQ picture.

  The captain slid onto the bench, his back to Mac. “There are times I’d give anything for another one of those perpetual pens. We need to catch another smuggler and confiscate his wares.”

  Perpetual pens? Was he talking about a ballpoint?

  “Why not simply do business with the rats?” Bran asked with what came close to a sneer. “Then you could have all the pens and log books you want.”

  Reynard’s answer bit the air. “Because smugglers also bring in weapons for the warlords to use against us. I won’t tolerate their presence.”

  Bran shrugged. “As you say.”

  Mac’s mind skipped away from the conversation. If Reynard had been doing paperwork, the room below was the captain’s office. That would be well worth a look. There might be some indication of where Sylvius was being held— like in the log book. Most officers would record anything of significance, and capturing an incubus surely counted.

  If Reynard was sitting outside, that meant the room was probably empty.
It was a risk. There might be others there, or supernatural traps he couldn’t anticipate. Still, he’d walked into equally dangerous places as a mere human.

  Mere human? His demon was getting carried away again. If there was the slightest chance, he would strive to be human again.

  Was that the best thing?

  This wasn’t the time to think about it.

  Mac dusted and trickled down the rock face, stretching himself out to be as inconspicuous as possible. He reassembled in a crouching position, hiding in the corner.

  He got an immediate case of the creeps. Nerves tightened his shoulders to the point of pain. I wish I had backup. Or a warrant. Standard operating procedures. A nice jail cell to pop the bad guy into when the day’s work was done. Dream on. Suck it up.

  Staying perfectly still for a long moment, he listened, felt for any movement in the air. Nothing. He could find no reason for his sudden case of nerves, but he knew enough to trust his gut. Cautiously, an inch at a time, he rose from his crouch.

  Again, he was in luck. He was alone. The room was dark, all the lights extinguished. Despite good night vision, Mac found himself straining to see detail.

  The space was average, about the size of a large bedroom. Two walls were floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with thick, leather-bound tomes, each bearing a number. Were these old log books? For how many years? Were they all Reynard’s work? If so, the guy’d been in the Castle a long, long time.

  Anxious, Mac turned to the other side of the room. A comfortable-looking armchair filled one corner, but it was the only sign of rest and relaxation. Beside it was a drab green metal filing cabinet, dinged and scraped in a way that said office surplus. More smuggler’s wares?

  At last, his gaze lit on a desk that stood at a right angle to the door. Its surface was cluttered, a candle lamp and inkstand framing an open book the size of a jumbo cereal box. Yes!

  Mac inched toward the desk, bracing his sword to his side. It would be just his luck to knock something over and give himself away.

  Then he froze. It was so dark, he’d almost missed them. On the bookshelf, poised like knickknacks, was a series of three boxes. He leaned closer, trying to see by the trickle of firelight that found its way through the open door.