Scorched tdf-2

by Sharon Ashwood

  He looked up. “Ah, I ordered a few things when I was chatting with the Avatar.”

  Constance rolled off the bed, staggering a little as her legs remembered how to walk. “How did it do this?”

  “Hey, if it can make whole caverns disappear, it can add a kitchen.”

  “Kitchen?”

  “I like to cook.” He opened the wardrobe and pulled out a fluffy white robe. “Put this on. You’ll find some other clothes, too. Just some basics, until you can go shopping.”

  Constance took the robe, her mind spinning. “You thought to ask for all this?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not a complete barbarian. I know how to pick out wall coverings.”

  The statement went oddly with the tattoos.

  Never mind. She pulled on the robe, luxuriating in its plush feel, and walked silently into the sitting room. Much was as she remembered from before. The door was fixed, of course. The books and the carpet were the same. Her piles of magazines, and the candles. Lamps now, as well.

  Mac followed her. He’d pulled on his jeans, but left his chest bare. He folded his arms, his feet planted apart, watching her admire their home.

  Constance looked again, and again, her curiosity carrying her from room to room and back again. There was too much new to see all at once. A kitchen with cupboards and dishes and knives and forks and ...

  “That’s a fridge,” Mac said. “Apparently electricity is possible here, if you think to ask.”

  ... and a beautiful dining area with eight chairs around a huge table and something he called a buffet but looked like a Welsh dresser to her. More dishes.

  A bathroom with a large, white tub.

  “And a Jacuzzi. I always wanted one of those. I mean, why not?”

  And more rooms running off a hallway to the left. She couldn’t even take those in yet.

  A lot of it looked modern—Mac’s idea of what a home should look like. It looked like the houses in her magazines, which made it all right with her. She was the mistress of this wonderful home. Constance Moore. The milkmaid.

  She had a sudden urge to start dancing.

  She kissed Mac until her head spun.

  “I suppose I should go talk to the others. Let them know I’m back,” he said, sounding a little regretful.

  By then her attention was captivated by a curious, flat thing dominating the sitting room wall. Was it a dark mirror? A strange painting? She understood that art was very different now—not that she knew a thing about it in the first place, but still, this was odd—

  She looked at Mac, puzzled by the amusement in his eyes.

  A quick grin. “Flat-screen TV.”

  Chapter 30

  Holly got into the T-Bird, leaning her head against the seat. “Take me home, James. I want a bath.” Alessandro felt the same way. He’d lost track of when he’d last slept. They’d gotten all the hounds out at last. Holly had insisted on staying until every last one was housed for at least the next few days. The Empire Hotel had taken quite a few at no charge. Of course, most of the place was badly in need of repair, so it wasn’t like they were losing income from paying guests. Good tax deduction there somewhere, he guessed.

  Holly was eating one of the pastries the waiter from the Empire’s pub had brought over, probably stale by now. “Y’know, this guy, Joe,” she said around a mouthful. “He said he was Viktor’s brother.”

  “The big weremutt?”

  “Yeah, Constance obviously knew him. I thought she’d go into hysterics, she was so happy to see him.”

  “Hmm.” Alessandro examined the parking ticket he’d just plucked out from under the windshield wiper. “Do you think city hall would take battling dragons as an excuse to waive a fine?”

  “Ha-ha.” Holly took another bite. “Joe—Josef—has quite the story. After what those two brothers have been through, I can see why the one decided to go doggie and not come back.”

  “Hmm.” Alessandro shoved the ticket onto the dash, not interested in another story until he had had a good day’s sleep. They’d been about to leave about an hour ago and then—surprise—the hero of the hour had strolled out of the Castle door looking like he’d eaten a canary, Constance on his arm.

  After that, everyone wanted to call it a wrap. The adventure was over, for now. What could top Mac’s death and resurrection? Show-off. Not that Alessandro wasn’t happy to see him alive. He was growing fond of Mac in a strange way.

  His mind jumped tracks, too tired to hold on to a thought. He glanced at Holly. “Did your sister talk to you? She was looking for you before she left for the night.”

  Holly barely managed to swallow before she yawned. “Yeah. We’re having lunch tomorrow before she goes back to Spain to see Eden. She seems really happy about that. Hey, you two seemed to be getting along all of a sudden.”

  He wasn’t going to jinx it by agreeing. “Good thing she’s leaving in time so you can write your exams in peace.”

  Holly made a strangled noise. “Exams. Hellhounds. Family stuff. Everything always happens at once.”

  “Hmm.”

  They drove in silence for a few minutes. “Holly.” Alessandro gripped the steering wheel a little harder.

  “Yeah?” She was still leaning against the seat, just rolling her head to look at him. The napkin from the pastry was crumpled tightly in her hand, the ends tucked carefully together. She knew crumbs in the car drove him crazy.

  “Do you regret...” He trailed off, then made himself finish the sentence. “Ashe being here made me think—do you regret not having a family?”

  Their house—her house—was coming into view.

  “What makes you say that?”

  Why do women always answer a question with a question? He pulled into the driveway and turned off the motor.

  “Just wondered.”

  “It was something Ashe said, wasn’t it?”

  “No. We fought a dragon together. There wasn’t exactly time to chat.” He stared out the windshield, feeling caught. Why did I bring this up?

  “She said I should come clean, so I figured she’d been talking.”

  “What do you mean by ‘come clean’?” He gave up staring and turned to look at her. Wind rustled in the hawthorn trees, the sound muffled by the car. “Alessandro, I’m pregnant.”

  The bottom fell out of his world, sheared off by the short statement. “Oh.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything to you until I was sure.”

  “Oh.” It seemed the only sound he was capable of making. Whose is it?

  He took a breath, feeling the slow, slow thud of his heart. Who knew words could hurt so much?

  Why am I still existing?

  She blinked. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “I know how women get pregnant, Holly.” The snarl in his voice scared him. Pure vampire. He got out of the car, his only thought to walk away.

  She scrambled out her side. “It’s yours. I know why you would wonder, but it is, I swear.”

  He froze, every muscle going still. “How?”

  “You’re my Chosen. That makes you, um, different in more ways than we expected.” She gave a faint, apologetic smile. “I hope you don’t mind. I wasn’t really expecting it, either. It’s not like we were, um, taking precautions.”

  Alessandro began to walk around the car toward her, giving himself the half dozen steps to process the information. Irrelevant thoughts flew through his head. There was rain in the wind. He’d left the upstairs light on. The cat would be hungry. His brain was ducking the issue.

  I’m going to be a father?

  Six centuries of existence, and he hadn’t seen that one coming. Trust Holly to come up with the impossible. He stopped in front of her, looking down into her eyes. She looked so uncertain, it broke his heart.

  She was still only a young woman. Vulnerable. She worked so hard, and now she was adding a family to her already-full plate. I’ll be there for you.

  “That’s the best news I’ve ever had,” he said,
and meant it.

  She took his hands, gripping them hard. “Thank you.”

  He raised her fingers to his lips. Grateful, but confused. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what...” I don’t know what to do.

  She smiled, heartbreakingly happy. “I’m just guessing, but it’s probably going to be a witch like me. I mean, your DNA is still basically human, right?”

  That made a nicer picture than a baby with fangs and a pint-sized sword. Still, that wasn’t what he’d meant to ask. What kind of a father will I make?

  She reached up, kissing him, giving herself entirely.

  He kept his question to himself. He would be the best father in the world.

  Because that’s what her eyes told him he would be.

  October 17, 11:00 p.m. 101.5 FM

  “This is Errata at CSUP at the University of Fairview with a quick public service notice. Are you interested in an exciting career in law enforcement with a difference? Are you stimulated by the opportunity to work with a variety of nonhuman species in a challenging teamwork environment? If so, please apply with resumé addressed to Conall Macmillan, care of the Empire Hotel.”

  Mac had guessed right about the new job. It kept him busier than a vampire at a blood drive, and he loved it.

  He sat at the kitchen table doodling on his notepad— making lists, crossing things out. Troll fences. New mattresses for the guardsmen. Grow lights for the garden some of the kobolds wanted. And signage—everything needed signs in this place!

  And that was just the caretaker stuff.

  There were also problems like Miru-kai. The Prince had vanished the moment the battle had begun. There had been very few sightings of him since. That didn’t mean they’d heard the last of old M.K. Top-notch villains didn’t give up that easily.

  Before Mac tackled the warlords—so far he’d counted eight that amounted to any real threat—he had to rebuild his forces. He was trying to recruit new guardsmen—with plenty of improvements to their conditions of employment—and find ways to help the old ones. There were discipline issues, policy and procedures, and that whole intangible element of institutional culture. It was a lot to fix, but he had to start somewhere. He’d start with the fence.

  Connie sat across from him, reading Wuthering Heights for the third time. Novels had become her new passion, second only to a celebrity dance show she’d discovered on TV. And shopping. Now that she had some control over her hunger, she loved trips to Spookytown’s boutiques with Holly. But every time she went out and no matter what else Connie bought, she came back with more books. He loved watching her discover all the possibilities the world held.

  Mac didn’t get the attraction of the literary brood fests like Wuthering, but whatever. He’d put up with her blow-by-blow analysis of Heathcliff and Cathy if she forgave him for introducing Sylvius to the joys of the outside world. Strictly supervised, of course.

  It was almost working.

  Most recently, Mac had bought Sylvius and Lore ticets to Sedona to see his old friends there. He was hoping Sylvius would stay for a while. He knew the New Agers wouldn’t lead a first-time human too far astray.

  Besides, they’d always wanted an angel. Sylvius had lost his win but he was still a better candidate than Mac.

  He hoped the kid liked tofu.

  “Mac,” Connie said, breaking his concentration.

  He looked up from his list. “Yeah?”

  “How do you feel about throwing a dinner party? It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. We could invite Holly and Alessandro and Reynard and that nice young werewolf Perry Baker and, well, whoever else you’d like.”

  “We can do that.”That meant he’d be doing the cooking, but that had always been a hobby of his, so that was okay.

  She reached across the table, touching his hand. “Thanks.”

  “Happy to oblige.” Mac smiled, turning back to his list. She went back to her book.

  “Not sure what to do about you vamps, though,” he said. “It always feels weird with half the guests not eating.”

  She blushed faintly. She was still shy about the whole feeding issue. A few times a week she had to head into Fair-view for a proper meal. All neatly arranged, of course, by her protective sire. “For us, it’s the company that matters.”

  “More for the rest of us, I guess.”

  She looked over the top of her book, one eyebrow raised. “Are you going to work all night?”

  He put down his pencil. “I’m done.”

  “What are you working on?”

  “Just some wishful thinking.”

  “What about?”

  He waved dismissively at the page. “Just goofing around.”

  “Let me see.” Vampire-quick, she snatched the notepad to her side of the table and set Emily Bronte aside. “What is this?”

  He chuckled. “Well, there’re so many rules in a place like this, it would be a lot easier if they could be boiled down into a few simple principles. Short and sweet.”

  She giggled, a girlish sound he liked. “Oh, this is good. One: Don’t frighten the humans. Two: Don’t annoy the dragon. Three: Don’t annoy Mac. Are you sure you don’t want to put the last one on top?”

  “Am I that hard to live with?”

  She leaned over the table, bracing herself on her elbows. He glanced down a moment, well aware of the drape of her V-necked shirt. Oh, yeah.

  “There should be a number four,” she said, giving him that Mona Lisa smile.

  He leaned forward, meeting her lips. “What’s that?”

  “Come to bed when I say so.”

  “Are you sure that one shouldn’t be on top?”

  “We can take turns being on top.”

  He felt the smile in her kiss, the laugh trembling on her tongue, and he knew who really ruled the Castle—or at least who really ruled him.

  Oh, Snow White, you’ve come a long way.

  Read on for a sneak peek of Sharon Ashwood’s next Dark Forgotten novel,

  UNCHAINED

  Coming from Signet Eclipse in July 2010

  Reynard fell to his knees in the dirt beside Ashe. He put a hand on her shoulder—a hot, firm touch. “Are you hurt?”

  “Get down!” she barked, dragging him to the ground by the collar of his fancy coat.

  The next shot missed his head by a whisker.

  She could smell his sweat, the dirt, and the tang of crushed plants. She’d landed in a herbaceous border, destroying the gardeners’ careful work. A mound of thyme was bleeding spice into the night air.

  She could hear the clock tower of the main building chiming eleven. She should have been home watching the late news, not chasing monsters around a botanical garden tourist trap. Wait, they’d bagged the monster. So why was someone still shooting at them?

  Reynard gripped her arm. “Are you hurt?” he repeated.

  “No.” She turned to look at him, careful not to raise her head too far. “How about you?”

  “No.”

  They lay still for a moment, breathing, listening to the dark spring night.

  “Anyone trying to kill you these days?” she asked. “Not outside the Castle.”

  His eyes glittered. It might have been humor. She couldn’t quite tell. He was too closed, too different, like a map with no street names or landmarks. Just a lot of really nice geography.

  Ashe swallowed hard, willing her jackhammer pulse to slow down. “Then the shooter must be after me.”

  “A common occurrence?”

  “Not since I moved to Fairview.” Shit. Shit. This was all supposed to be in the past. She had relocated, given up life on the road, scaled down the hunting to almost nothing— just the odd case. She’d let the word go out that she was retired. Sure, there’d always be some unhappy campers-friends and relatives of the supernatural monsters she’d exterminated—but even they’d grown quiet.

  Quiet enough that Ashe had taken the risk of sending for her daughter.

  Shit.

  Ashe c
rawled backward, a slithering motion that brought her to the shadow of a thick bush. She rose into a crouch, molding her body to the shape of the greenery, hiding in the dense leaves. She guessed at the angle the bullets had traveled. That put the shooter high up the tall column of rock that formed the lookout in the center of the sunken garden. She knew there was a nearly vertical staircase that led up to the platform at the top, but it wasn’t lit at night. All she could see was the dark spire of stone that blotted out the stars.

  Reynard moved around to her left, noiseless as a phantom. Wisps of dark hair framed his face. His neck cloth had come untied. Ashe couldn’t help notice that messy looked good on him.

  He rested on one knee, raising the long musket. “Stay down,” he said quietly. “I’ll take care of this.”

  A sour burn of impatience caught in Ashe’s throat. “There’s no way to make the shot at this distance.”

  “No?”

  “It’s dark.”

  “I live in a dungeon. I’ve adapted to the dark.” He sighted down the long barrel as confidently as if it had one of the supercalifragilistic nightscopes Ashe had seen in the latest mercenary’s mag.

  They were wasting time. Firing would give away their position. They’d be better off sneaking up on the sniper. “That thing has a range of two feet. A crooked two feet.”

  He sighed lightly and cranked back the hammer. It was at that moment she saw it had a real, honest-to-Goddess flint secured in the jaws of the mechanism. This thing relied on sparks and naked gunpowder. They’d be lucky if it didn’t blow up.

  “They won’t be expecting us to return fire,” he said evenly.

  “Because it’s not possible! I have a real gun, and I can’t make that shot.”

  Thoroughly ignoring her, Reynard pulled the trigger, jerking as the musket recoiled. It banged like a giant cap gun and smelled like a chemistry lab gone wrong. Ashe opened her mouth to protest and got a mouthful of foul-tasting smoke.

  And there was a distant, sharp cry of pain. Reynard had hit his mark.