Scorched

by Sharon Ashwood

  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, he 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, onearmed 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 demon—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.”

  The Castle had turned off his need for food, and now the hunger came stampeding back. He carried the bags to the kitchen and set them on the table. “I’m going to wash up. There’s plates in the cupboard and silverware in the drawer.”

  Lore watched him with dark, cautious eyes. “You’re asking me to eat with you?”

  Mac scratched the back of his neck, a dozen smart remarks making a log jam in his head. “Do hellhounds eat Chinese?”

  The hound seemed to consider his response far too long. “Yes. The food they prepare, that is.”

  Riiight. “Then grab a fork.”

  Abandoning Lore in the kitchen, Mac took off his weapons and washed his hands and face. When he got back to the table, Lore was arranging a mountain of cardboard containers.

  Mac had an urge to laugh. He had a nice dining room. He was a first-class cook with a drawerful of gourmet recipes. Yet, here he was, sharing a greasy takeout meal in his dirty kitchen with a hellhound—and loving the fact that he had a guest.

  “I’ve got beer,” he said. “That’s about it.”

  Lore looked up from wrestling the top off a Styrofoam container of rice. “That’s okay. I’m happy with water.”

  Mac settled himself and picked up a serving spoon. Almond chicken. Mm.

  Mac observed as Lore followed his example. The hound watched every move Mac made, mimicking until he caught on to the routine of dishing and eating and what to do with the soy sauce. He’s not had takeout before. But he’s picking it up damned quick.

  And apparently enjoying it. Lore had a good appetite. Mac noticed his own hunger was calming down as he ate, a normal, healthy need for food being restored. That was a relief.

  Remembering his manners, Mac got up and filled glasses with water. “So, this is great but, uh, what brings you here?” He set a glass in front of Lore.

  “I thought if your stomach was full, you would listen to what I need to say.”

  “Okay.” That’s kind of embarrassing.

  “I want to explain to you about the hounds.”

  “Okay.” Mac tore off some paper towels to use as napkins, and sat back down.

  “Of all the species, we are the only ones to age and die, mate and have families within the Castle walls. The love of our pack gives us the strength to survive, but it also makes us vulnerable. When we escaped a year ago, we had to leave many of our number behind.”

  Mac put down his fork, giving Lore his full attention.

  The hound looked up, examining Mac all over again from head to toe and gauging his reaction. “As I said before, now that I am free, I can use magic to come and go from the Castle. I smuggle goods to buy back those of my people who have been captured for slaves.”

  “What?” Then Mac connected the dots, veering around the fact that what Lore did was insanely dangerous on many levels. “Is that why the hounds aren’t on guard duty half the time? You’re running your operation at the same time you’re supposed to be guarding the Castle door?”

  “Yes.”

  Mac just shook his head, the security-minded cop in him scandalized in about six different ways, but he was beginning to see a bigger picture.

  Lore went on. “The Vampire Caravelli has also hired wolves for guard duty. Many have helped us, but some have complained to their leaders. They do not agree with releasing more prisoners from the Castle. Soon, the council will meet, and it will punish me. I need your help.”

  “My help?” Mac said.

  “I need an advocate with the council of supernatural leaders.”

  Mac busied himself with more fried rice. He needed a moment to think. “I’m no lawyer. Plus, the council hates me. I was a bad guy, remember?”

  Lore leaned forward, his body language saying now that he had come to the point he wanted to make. “The hellhounds rank very low among the supernatural species. We survive however we can by staying humble, keeping to ourselves. We have not made powerful friends.”

  That was true.

  “So I brought Chinese food. You need to help.”

  So Mac’s estimated street price was an extra-large order of fast food. Good to know. “Why me?”

  “You are—blessed. The gods have appointed you. But you don’t want to hear that.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then you must find your own reasons.”

  “And if the task is mine, I’ll already know what those are,” Mac said, remembering Lore’s line from their earlier conversation.

  “Exactly.” The hellhound looked down at his plate. “Convince the council to give me permission to set my people free. And there are others trapped there, too, not just us. In times when all magic was considered evil, anyone with power was shut up in there—even beasts and birds. The Castle holds many who shouldn’t be imprisoned.”

  Like Constance.

  “You must make those in power understand that the Castle is the responsibility of all the paranormal species. We will only survive in a human world if we work together. That is why I sit and eat with you. Someone must begin bringing us together. It may as well start with me.”

  Mac had a vision of Count Dracula leading a rousing chorus of “We Shall Overcome.”

  The hound stopped, looking exhausted by the effort of speaking for so long. Shadows from the overhead light showed the strong bones in his face. “Will you help me?”

  How the heck he was going to pull this one off? But the job needed doing, and Mac couldn’t think of anyone else who’d seen the side of the Castle he had—the part with innocent people who would like nothing better than to lead ordinary lives. Someone had to speak for the everyday main-street monsters, and he’d been hardwired to help folks in need.

  “Sure.”

  October 6, 11:00 p.m.

  The Castle

  Ashe crept down yet another Castle corridor, a stake clutched in one hand, her boot knife in the other. Not nearly weapons enough, but she’d run out of bullets a thousand susurrating caverns ago.

  She’d never seen anything like it—corridor after corridor, each gaping entrance like the last. Magic hung like a fog, sending the tattered remains of her witch-born senses into dust devils. When the spell she’d cast as a teenager blew up in her face, Ashe had lost the ability to manipulate energy—but she could feel power. Here, it pounded in her head like a migraine.

  The flickering torches didn’t help. For a while they’d seemed kind of funky, like being sucked into a bad horror film. Now she’d had more than enough of the mood lighting, and—ugh!—the Goddess-knew-what creatures she’d blown to smithereens. Four of them, so far. Ashe had seen a lot of monsters in her day, and she wasn’t sure these even had a species—just bad tempers and worse breath.

  She’d needed her gun and her hand-to-hand fighting skills to get rid of them. Tough beggars, with tusks. She’d pulled a muscle in the back of one knee.

  It was a good fight, though. She’d liked that part. The rush never got old.

  Needing to rest a moment, Ashe stopped at a corner. Every route away from this spot looked the same. She was lost. Time and direction had lost meaning back when . . . well, she had no idea. How long did it take to get chased away from the door, bag your pursuers, and then figure out you were completely turned around? But after that, time had passed. How much, she couldn’t say. She wasn’t hungry or thirsty, but she was getting incredibly tired.

  How on earth was she going to find her way out?

  I’ll get out. I always land on my feet.

  And when I get out, I’m going to kill Caravelli for sure.

  When I get out.

  Doubt sloshed in her stomach like bad plonk. She started to think about her daughter and stopped. Eden was her joy and her weakness, and she couldn’t afford either right then. Now was time for the hard-assed attitude, because that would get her home.

  This shouldn’t be happening. I’m a
good person. I kill monsters to make the world a better place. It’s a valuable job.

  She savagely clung to her last shreds of calm. Raiding a house full of bad guys was so different. For one thing, there were doors. Where the hell is that door?

  Something howled. Ashe jolted in fright. The sound echoed, pounding off the walls with ululations of such poignant despair that her knees turned to water. The cry rang in the stones, wave after wave, the aftershocks humming even when the sound itself had died away.

  She hauled in her breath, sweat trickling down her ribs. Then she heard the scrape of nails on stone, the drag-flop of enormous paws, and panting like the bellows of hell’s own blacksmith. Worse, there was wet, thick snuffling.

  An animal of some kind.

  Close.

  Just around the corner.

  No doubt she stunk of fear, like a nice, juicy, PreyBurger. And if I run, I’ll be a fun-filled meal. She barely worked up enough spit to swallow. Ashe was no coward, but she was no fool, either. Gripping her weapons, she prayed whatever it was would just go away.

  A nose came around the corner, wet, black, and huge. It was followed by a head caked in matted brown fur. Drool trailed from its jowls in strings of slimy pearls. Oh. My. Goddess. It looked like a mastiff had mated with a prehistoric bear. And the mother of all dust bunnies.

  “Viktor!” cried a young man’s voice.

  The rest of the mountainous beast came around the corner, nearly brushing Ashe with its reeking fur. Reflexively, Ashe ducked. The beast gave a deep whuff and thumped her on the shoulder with a whack from its tail. Nerves tingled from the force of the blow, nearly making her drop the stake. Ashe danced to the side, taking up a defensive crouch, prepared to sell her life dearly.