Scorched tdf-2

by Sharon Ashwood

  The middle box was red lacquer, exactly matching Connie’s description of the demon-catcher. Instinctively, Mac’s fingers sought out Holly’s charm. It was still there, safe beneath his shirt. With every sense peeled, he reached out, sweeping the air above the boxes.

  C’mon, demon, if you’re listening, how about some help here? It answered instantly. There were indeed sentient beings inside those tiny cubes.

  Yes! Mac snatched the red one and stuffed it into the pocket of his plaid shirt. The fit was tight, but at least that would keep it from falling out.

  “Helping yourself?”

  Mac wheeled. Reynard stood in the doorway. Whoops!

  Wasting no time, Mac willed himself to dust. Nothing happend. He tried again. He was trapped.

  Inside, the demon yowled in panic, but Mac’s will held on, doggedly trying to put two and two together. Why won’t it work?

  He tried yet again with the same result.

  Calmly, Reynard struck a match and lit the candle lantern. The whiff of sulphur seemed almost comically appropriate. The candle flared up, highlighting the captain’s face from below. “Macmillan, isn’t it?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Yeah.”

  Reynard turned, closing the door. Despite the heat in this part of the Castle, his dark hair was neatly tied back, his uniform buttoned, boots polished, and neck cloth perfectly tied. He was either crazy or had steely self-discipline.

  “You were a soul eater, if memory serves.” Reynard’s voice didn’t stray from the pleasant, gentleman-to-gentleman tone. “You’ve changed your appearance. Interesting. Well, you’ll find your demon powers don’t work in this room. You can enter in any form you please, but I’m afraid the only way out is on your own two feet.”

  “A trap.” Damn. If his dust-engines were down, Mac would try to talk his way out of this. If that failed, he’d just have to fight all forty-odd guardsmen and hoof it back to Connie with the box.

  “A trap?” Reynard shrugged. “A precaution, though I have to say you’re the first to ever dare enter here.”

  “Call me precocious.”

  “I’ll call you prodigal. I thought you had escaped us. But you’re back, I see, and it seems your demon symbiont finally got the upper hand. Opportunistic creatures.”

  Mac felt a flicker of something like embarrassment. His muscular body was evidence of how much ground the demon had gained. “Can you tell me how it happened?”

  “Ah, took you by surprise, did it?” Reynard clasped his hands behind his back, a faint smile on his lips. “Demon infections are infinitely adaptable. If you encounter strong magic, one strain can mutate to another, taking advantage of the forces around it. You change to better serve your demon’s needs. You grow into its strengths, if you like.”

  Mac leaped at the scrap of information. This wasn’t the time to play twenty questions, but he’d take what info he could get. Plus, he needed time to think about an escape.

  “I thought the Castle did this,” he said.

  Reynard’s smile faded. “Perhaps. The Castle has grown unpredictable, though what it would want with a fire demon is beyond me.”

  “Fire demon?”

  “I can feel your heat from here.”

  “But why ... ?”

  “You won’t have a pretty end, I’m afraid. Its appetites— fed by your emotions—will eventually get the upper hand. Then, whatever you touch will be scorched to ashes.”

  “Bullshit!” Mac growled. That can’t be true. I’m not that out of control. But fear and anger blazed inside, bringing his skin to a slippery sweat.

  The captain watched him, his expression neutral. “I don’t need to argue the point. I’ll wager you already know the truth of it.”

  As he spoke, Reynard reached beside the door, picking up a long, wicked-looking firearm at least as old as Reynard himself. You gotta be kidding me. A musket?

  Mac reached for his Sig Sauer just as the muzzle of Reynard’s weapon swung his way. Reynard beat him to the draw. “I’m using silver shot.”

  Mac paused, his hand hovering above his holster, eyeing the big, ugly bore aimed at his head. Those old firearms were never as accurate as a modern weapon, but at this range it was impossible not to blow Mac to smithereens.

  Mac feinted, grabbing another one of the demon boxes.

  “No!” Reynard barked. “Don’t touch that one!”

  “Why not?” Mac said, suddenly feeling his chances improve. “Was this one a bad boy? How about this one?” He picked up the last box and tapped the two together just hard enough to make a clacking sound. He felt vaguely foolish, but Reynard looked terrified.

  “Why don’t you put down the musket and we’ll talk.”

  Clearly reluctant, Reynard lowered the weapon, his eyes deadly. “You fool. Either one of those two demons would tear us all apart. The incubus is a temptation. The creatures in the other two boxes are holocausts.”

  Mac looked from one box to the other. “Just the thing to keep around as paperweights. Buy a safe, dumb ass.”

  “They need to be seen by the men. They need to be reminded of our victories.”

  “Right. Good thinking. Whatever. All I want is the incubus.”

  “He’s dangerous.”

  “He’s a kid.”

  Reynard gave a dry smile. “He’s a monster, just like you. Worse, he’ll make monsters of the rest of us with his seductive powers. The Castle’s hold over our base instincts is slipping already. The influence of an incubus is all that would be needed to turn us into a den of savages.”

  The guardsman had been holding his musket in one hand, but the other had reached to the desk behind him, pressing a catch beside one of the drawers. A compartment sprang open.

  Mac held up one of the boxes, a black cube of heavy, dense wood. “Don’t try anything stupid. You know, monster that I am, I could crush this in one hand.”

  “You would die as quickly as I.”

  “So what? If what you say about my future is true, I’m already as good as dead.”

  Reynard had withdrawn another box from his desk, this one painted green. He pressed a catch, and the lid sprang open. “It’s a little hard to threaten me from inside here.”

  Mac’s heart cartwheeled in alarm.

  “I command you to enter!” Reynard barked, just like he would to a wayward private.

  Crap!

  Mac felt a yank of gravity, as if a dozen vacuums were sucking at his skin. The air around the box flared with cold, brilliant light, vibrations humming just beyond what Mac could truly hear. It rattled his teeth, crushed his temples like someone grinding their knuckles into his skull. He squeezed his watering eyes shut against the light and leaned away from the fierce pull, roaring a protest. Where it lay against his bare chest, the charm bag burned like acid.

  But Holly’s magic held. Mac felt the light wink out before he even opened his eyes. Gradually, the pull on his flesh faded. He stumbled a little, adjusting as he no longer needed to dig in his heels.

  Reynard had one arm lifted to shield his eyes. As he lowered it, his jaw dropped a little as he saw Mac still standing there, a box in either hand and the red one in his pocket.

  “Surprise, Merlin. The mojo ain’t working,” Mac said in a low, warning voice. “Now stop fooling around and let me go. That incubus has someone waiting for him at home.”

  “Did Atreus send you?” Reynard hissed.

  “No way. I sent me, because it was the right thing to do. But let’s not get sidetracked.”

  The door flung open. Bran hulked in the doorway. “You!”

  “Don’t come any closer. I’m armed,” Mac waggled one of the little boxes, and felt ridiculous.

  “Obey him, Bran,” said Reynard, not taking his eyes off Mac. “He’s taken hostages.”

  Great. I’m in an armed standoff with demonic gift boxes. He held the black box in the palm of his hand, curling his fingers around it. “What’s the magic password out of here?”

  Bran looked at his captain sharply
. Reynard’s eyes were on the box.

  “Don’t make me do this, Reynard. I just want to correct a mistake.”

  “Demons lie,” said Reynard. “So do humans.”

  “Demons have no honor.”

  “You broke a heart when you took this boy. I’m setting that right.”

  Reynard gave him a long look. “You won’t smash those boxes.”

  “So you’re willing to gamble that I’m a good monster? You can’t have it both ways. I’m evil or I’m not.”

  “You argue like an attorney.”

  “Low blow, Captain, but I’ll tell you one thing. I’m no coward. Call my bluff and I’ll play my cards.” A beat passed.

  Reynard said a word in a strange tongue. Mac felt the atmosphere in the room lift, as if someone had thrown open a window. Whatever spell had kept him from dusting away was gone.

  “Captain!” Bran roared, and launched himself at Mac.

  The guardsman was too quick. Mac went sprawling, the boxes flying from his hands. His head cracked against the bookcase, but he rolled Bran over, smashing a fist into Bran’s jaw. Roaring to the surface, his demon flooded his mind with a need for scalding, red violence. Mac’s skin flared, fiery-hot. Seizing Bran like an overpacked gym bag, he tossed him across the room with a snarl.

  Reynard’s musket went off with a boom. Mac twisted, dancing away from the silver shot that slammed into the filing cabinet. A plume of acrid smoke clogged the air. Reckless with rage, Mac grabbed the musket by the barrel, ripping it from Reynard’s hand and flinging it behind him. Then he grabbed the captain by the arm, wrenching him closer.

  Reynard was a strong man in his own right, but his feet left the floor with the force of Mac’s one-handed tug. Mac slammed him against the bookcase, holding him by the throat, forcing him to teeter on his toes. The buttons on the captain’s coat had come undone, and his shirt gaped open to reveal the blue tattoos beneath. The mark of the guardsmen. It looked incongruous against the oh-so-civilized officer’s skin.

  Anger was as surf in Mac’s ears, and he rode it, savoring the power of his muscles, the giddy sensation of his own strength. These men were as feeble as toys.

  He’d taken what he came for. He hadn’t even drawn a weapon. Why should he? With his brain, brawn, and the willing violence of the demon, he was the perfect weapon.

  Reynard was choking, his breath coming in rasping gasps. His skin was turning red from the heat of Mac’s hand.

  With all his force of spirit, Mac fought for control. As good as it felt, he would not surrender to his darker side. Slowly, let Reynard ease back to the ground.

  He heard Bran rushing him from behind. Just as the guardsman leaped, Mac dusted out.

  The last thing he heard was the two men smacking together.

  He’d always liked Wile E. Coyote cartoons.

  Chapter 17

  Mac materialized without a sound, bypassing the heavy bolts that kept the Summer Room safe. Or should keep it safe. Once again, he worried whether those bolts would be enough to keep the place secure. What if Reynard made a return trip to retrieve Sylvius?

  More locks. There should be warding spells, too. Doorway magic sounded like Lore’s department. If the hounds were willing to help him, this was something they could do besides making useless prophecies. Stop fretting.

  He looked around. It’s good to be back. He couldn’t help thinking it, even if he had only been gone a few hours. Constance was curled up in an armchair, her feet tucked under her. She was deep into the pirate book, chewing one thumbnail as she read.

  Everything about her was at once innocent and unabashedly sensual. Mac’s thoughts were stalled by a hot flood of memory, of the night they’d spent together. Oh, yeah.

  “Connie,” he said.

  She started violently, snapping the paperback shut. “Mac!”

  “Sorry!”

  She ran to him, giving a little bound so that she could reach to fling her arms around his neck. “I woke up and you were gone!”

  For a moment, he was lost in the soft feel of her—the silky hair, the strong, lithe arms, the soft scent of her perfume. He held her tightly to his chest, not even wanting to release her long enough to kiss her. “You knew where I was going.”

  “I was worried.”

  That was nice. Nobody had done that for him for a long time.

  “Hey,” he said. “It’s all right. I’m back.” He kissed her, long and thoroughly, and then summoned the discipline to let her go.

  “Did you find the guardsmen?” she asked.

  “Yup.” He pulled the red box from his shirt pocket with some effort. He’d really jammed it in there. The empty pocket gaped oddly; the soft flannel had stretched.

  When he looked up, Constance’s expression was marvelous to see. Her eyes had gone wide, her mouth open. Her hands reached forward in slow motion, taking the box from his fingers and cradling it against her breast.

  “You brought him home,” she said in a hushed voice. “You brought him back!”

  It wasn’t the first time Mac had returned a lost child, but it was definitely the strangest. He grinned. “Sweetheart, I keep my promises.”

  Still holding the box, she gave him a wordless, one-armed embrace. After a moment, he realized she was crying, sobbing silently against him. A relieved mother thing. It was normal. He’d seen it before. He’d tried to take it in stride, not let it touch him too much, but, oh, it was always wonderful.

  “Shh.” He stroked her hair. “It’s all good.”

  God, she smells great. He could feel heat rising to his skin, prickling like electricity. Reynard was right. Emotion drives the heat.

  “Did the captain have him?” she said at last, pulling away.

  “Uh-huh. Y’know, I don’t think he likes me much.”

  She smiled, her eyes shining with fresh tears. “But he kept him safe from the other guardsmen. He did that much.”

  That was true. And I nearly strangled Reynard. Or the demon had. Gotta watch that.

  Mac sobered, his mood plummeting. The adventure had taught him much, some stuff he didn’t want to face. He’d come within a hairbreadth of carnage. Worse, he’d liked it. The violence had been a whole new high.

  His gaze caressed Constance, who was setting the box on the floor.

  I’m in danger of turning into a killing machine. Again.

  Constance was probing the box, her slim fingers stroking every surface.

  That can’t be me. I’m the guy who does what needs doing. I fix things. I save people. I can’t lose that. It’s all that’s left of me. Not even a demon can take that away.

  I hope.

  The box clicked, the lid springing open. Constance stepped back. Mac watched, curious despite himself. He’d heard of incubi, but he’d never seen one.

  Soft light fountained from the box, coalescing into an iridescent haze that shone from within—dust, but different from the smoky black of Mac’s incorporeal form. This cloud was beautiful, neither sparkling nor dull but gleaming with the sheen of pearls.

  Mac watched as it grew and blossomed into a solid form of a tall young male. He was pale, his skin almost truly white, with dark eyes and long silver hair that fell to his hips. But what caught Mac’s attention were the wings, beautifully arched, shot with delicate pink veins.

  Holy crap. The kid has bat wings. And to think parents complain about piercings.

  What happened next was a silent dance. The young demons—Sylvius—reached for Connie, grasping her hand in his. She turned into him, clutching him to her in a movement made smooth by long years of practice. There was no doubt that, in every way that counted, this was her child.

  “It’s so good to see you,” said the incubus, and folded his wings around her. It was the oddest and most tender gesture Mac had ever seen. The two, mother and child, were still for a long moment, the candlelight fluttering against the shadows that draped around the pair. A profound silence thickened, making Mac’s breath come loud in his ears.

  Let
them have their moment.

  He was an outsider. This was Connie’s time. Connie’s and her son’s.

  Like a dark dream, Mac willed himself away.

  October 6, 7:05 p.m. 101.5 FM

  “In more news, Fairview’s ad-hoc council of supernatural leaders raised the question of unauthorized immigration, requesting that any undocumented supernatural residents of the area be brought to their attention immediately.”

  All right. In the last forty-eight hours, I’ve been transformed to a bloodthirsty barbarian, had hot sex with a vampire, and rescued a bat-winged junior sex demon from a nasty little box. Time for a beer.

  As Mac re-formed from dust to demon in his condo, the answering machine was flashing. After weeks with barely a phone call, he had a half dozen messages. Mac ignored them for a moment, pausing to look at the city lights outside his balcony door. The moon’s reflection pooled in the waters of the harbor, a golden, shimmering disk. After watching Connie’s reunion with her son, he felt content. Sated. Masterful.

  There were problems, but he’d saved the day and gotten the girl. In the wrong order, but heck, eat dessert first.

  A plane flew over, adding its blinking lights to the bejeweled skyline. Connie’s never seen any of this. She hadn’t seen anything except that gloom-fest Castle for centuries. He would do something about that. There had to be a way for her to escape.

  The answering machine’s insistent light finally triggered his curiosity. But, when he reached down to push the playback button, there was a knock on the door.

  Can’t a guy even take his sword off before somebody wants something?

  Mac opened the door. It was Lore.

  “A nice old lady let me in the building,” said the hellhound, barging in. Then he looked closely at Mac. “You’re bigger. Again.”

  “And you’re still creepy.”

  Lore handed him two huge brown bags. “I hope you like chow mein.”

  The smell hit Mac like a hockey stick between the eyes, but in a good way. It drove the question of what Lore was doing there into the boards. “Oh, yeah.”