Scorched tdf-2

by Sharon Ashwood

  Holly leaned forward, her words pounding like a nail gun. “You don’t get to stake my boyfriend and don’t ever tell me how to live my life. You have no right.”

  Alessandro forced himself not to grin. Ashe looked down at the table, her face like stone.

  “Why a vampire slayer?” Holly asked. “What the hell are you trying to prove?”

  Ashe answered without emotion. “I’m good at it. It’s something even a broken witch can do.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I had to support my kid. Roberto was a bullfighter, and that’s not steady work.”

  “Bullfighter?” It slipped out before Alessandro could stop himself. “Your—husband, I assume—is a toreador?”

  Ashe kept her eyes on the table, but her reply had an edge. “Was. Beefburger one, Roberto zero. So much for hot Latin romance.”

  She looked up, but at Holly. Alessandro might have been invisible. “My kid’s in boarding school. It’s monster-proofed. Highest anti-magic tech money can buy. It’s the best way to be safe these days.”

  Holly looked at her sister coldly. “For Goddessakes, Ashe.”

  Alessandro shifted back in his chair, an uncomfortable prickle running up his spine. He felt the air in the house grow heavy, as if the place itself was roused by the growing tension in the room. But is it for me, or against me? I’m not one of the Carver family. Ashe is.

  Ashe folded her arms, mirroring Holly. “I didn’t come here to look at home movies of our childhood. I’ve work to do here whether you like it or not. My concession to your relationship is that I’m giving fair warning. If fang-boy packs his bags, I’ll let him leave in peace.”

  He’d had enough. Alessandro got up, reaching for the heaviest textbook to use as a blunt object. One whack with Introduction to Business Law would subdue most humans.

  The moment he moved, Holly stood up, taking a step toward Ashe. “Alessandro, I’m sorry, but please go out for a while. My sister and I have to talk.”

  Their eyes met. Hers were apologetic, but resolute. Alessandro set the book down, silent and seething. A foul, acidic taste lay heavy on his tongue and coiled, burning hot, all the way down to his gut.

  “Give us an hour,” Holly said softly.

  He was too angry to reply. Why would they need an hour? It had taken Ashe all of five minutes to get him out of the house.

  He grabbed the sword, but the weight of it gave him no comfort.

  Alessandro hated problems he couldn’t kill.

  Mac dragged himself through the door of his condominium. He closed the door, locked it, and listened, his eyes searching the near-blackness of the front hall. Nothing. He was alone. No vampires with swords. He might even be safe. At least, safe from things outside himself.

  Dark, gritty panic backed up like the current in a storm drain. He swore, but no words were equal to the sick feeling in his gut.

  I demoned out.

  Twice.

  Once he’d made the choice to grab at his demon powers, they had come back as naturally as reaching for a bottle opener. That was bad. That wasn’t human. That had to make him less of a man and more of what he feared.

  I’m backsliding.

  Getting out of the Castle was important, but he’d done it by putting what was left of his humanity at risk. He’d tempted fate. What if choosing to do the dust thing had pushed me over the edge? Suddenly being a half-and-half freak in denial didn’t sound so bad.

  Mac didn’t bother hitting the light switch. Time ticked by as he leaned against the door, too stunned to move. Something should happen—divine thunderbolts, perhaps—but nothing came. Just the queasiness of having made a wrong and irrevocable choice.

  Hello, dark side. Where’s Yoda when you need him?

  He was still holding the sword. Slowly, he set it in the umbrella stand by the door and made his way to the living room. His condo was a corner suite, with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. Light from nearby buildings reflected from the white walls, washing everything in pale hues.

  Like everything else, his condo—an inheritance from his investment-savvy mother—was in jeopardy. He’d been away for a year. Automatic withdrawals for utilities and all the other day-to-day expenses of keeping a residence had drained Mac’s bank account. Now that he was unemployed, it would be a challenge to make ends meet.

  Losing the place would be the last straw, the final break with his human life. I can’t let that happen. I’m not that guy who couldn’t keep it together and ended up living out of a cardboard box.

  Suddenly conscious of his messy housekeeping, he picked up a newspaper that he had tossed on the floor earlier, then threw it onto the coffee table. It slid off again. Damn. Mac gave up and fell onto the couch, stretching out and draping his arm over his eyes. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth, but the pain kept him centered. How do I pull the plug on this nightmare?

  Mac moved his arm and opened his eyes to the dark room. The low haze of the city lights brushed the edges of wall and chair, shelf and lamp. The room was silent but for the distant rush of water through the building’s pipes. There was nothing to distract him from the one fact he didn’t want to face.

  Holly’s magic turned me back—almost—into a human. Now it’s wearing off.

  The evidence was in front of him, bagged and tagged. No other entity but one of the demon species could poof into dust. Cold fear seemed to seep out of the couch cushions, chilling him through. Mac sat up and stared out the tall windows at the winking lights of the harbor, too shaken to absorb the sight.

  All this because a demon kissed me once. It’s worse than herpes.

  Unbidden, the memory of Geneva’s naked body rose like Venus from the sea of his memories. The ride to perdition had almost been worth it. The souls she had fed him from her lips had been intoxicating. She had been terrifying. Insane. Cataclysmic. Sex, murder, power, and hunger had drowned his humanity in one murderous brew. The thought of it made him grow hard. Made his hunger rise, yearning for the taste of souls.

  He yanked his mind away. Fantasizing about his demon mistress was like hankering for a shot glass of pure poison. Unfortunately, she’d set the erotic bar to Olympic heights.

  He hadn’t touched another woman until today.

  Constance had been similar and yet different. She had looked so innocent, like the maiden from some fairy tale waiting for rescue. His inner caveman had approved. Still did. Caveman was not a great thinker.

  Oh, yeah, Constance had roused every red-blooded yearning he had, and then some. His mouth would never forget the angle, the texture, the resisting, melting feel of hers. Deadly fruit was always the sweetest.

  Remember the fangs. Unfortunately, they were kind of erotic, too.

  God, I’m perverse. What is it with me and bad girls?

  He wanted Constance even more than he’d ever wanted Geneva. Not good. Constance was far more dangerous because, once safe from her teeth, he wanted to know why she was alone, why she hadn’t bitten anyone before, and why she’d picked him as her first. Curiosity meant getting involved.

  Oh, right, as if I have time to get emotionally invested in a hungry vampire.

  At moments, she’d seemed so heartbreakingly sad. And then there was that smile. That melancholy smile could slide under any guy’s tough, manly man shell and go straight for the marshmallow center. Once he was vulnerable, he’d lose the edge of cool logic that made him a good detective. Then he’d make mistakes. Like getting his soul sucked out.

  Forget it. The job came first. Dead bodies and paperwork...

  But that wouldn’t fly as an excuse this time.

  I’m not a cop anymore.

  The realization hit him afresh.

  They’d fired him because he was a freak. Because he’d made that thinking-with-his-dick mistake once already.

  Mac buried his face in his hands, an unruly mix of emotions digging a hot ache in his chest. Shame. Despair. Anger. Regret. Disgust. Demons destroy. I used to be the guy with the badge w
ho saved people.

  As his emotions raced, he could feel a restless throb of power growing inside him, pounding with every beat of his pulse. He lifted his head, instinctively bracing his hands on the edge of the couch. Heat swept through his body, a sudden, scorching fever. Sweat stung the cuts and scrapes Bran had left on his flesh.

  Strong emotion made the demon infection flare up, as if it fed off the extra energy. He lifted one hand and examined it in the dim light. He was solid, not crumbling to demon dust. That was a good sign. It sucked when that happened at random moments, like standing in a supermarket checkout line.

  Mac closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, fighting for calm. The throb spread through his blood, following the nerves like a tide. Not painful, not nauseous like it had been during his first infection. Now it was a flush of excitement, as if someone were running through the hallways of his body, flicking on all the lights as they went. As if all his cells were standing at attention.

  Why is there no pain?

  Last year, when Geneva had Turned him, every organ had hurt like hell. This felt completely different. Mac didn’t know if that was good or bad. He sprang to his feet, pacing the room.

  Maybe it’s not the demon at all. Maybe you picked up a whole new monster flu in the Castle. For all he knew, he had giant squid disease and would start sprouting tentacles at any moment.

  Crap. He needed a better supernatural immune system.

  Geneva and her demon cooties should have been enough to inoculate him against anything else out there. So then what is this? You’re a detective. Detect, already.

  The problem was that he’d barely been able to think since the whole demon trip started. It was like his mind was a puddle, and some giant’s boot had stomped in it, scattering his thoughts to the four winds. Pathetic. Think like you’re solving a case.

  That meant backing up, starting again from the basics and looking at the evidence with a cool, unemotional eye. A little hard, considering what was at stake. If his demon side got the upper hand, he’d be looking for someone’s life and soul to eat. Many someones. He’d be his own worst nightmare, and he wouldn’t care one little bit.

  Grimly, Mac got up and went into the small second bedroom that served as his office. The desk was buried in paper, but he yanked open the drawer and rummaged until he found his notebook and a pen. He missed his partner. He missed the labs and computers and camaraderie that solved cases. He’d been reduced to the simplest tools: paper, pen, and brain. Then make do.

  The notebook was black and hinged at the top, the same kind he’d used when he was working a case. Just holding it made him feel better. He walked back into the living room, now turning on a light. He sat on the couch again, flipping the notebook open to a fresh page. He started writing.

  1. Return of demon symptoms when in company of hot vampire chick.

  2. First instance of dusting was involuntary, under duress.

  3. Castle a factor?

  4. Not all symptoms same as previous. No pain. Much heat.

  It was a halting, stumbling start, but it was something. As he wrote, the throbbing energy running through him sharpened his mind, seemed to help him take control of his ideas. For a moment, he felt like his old self.

  5. Not enough data to conclusively determine cause and effect.

  He didn’t like the fifth item. It made the whole line of reasoning grind to a halt. Perversely, just because he’d been a demon, that didn’t mean he was an expert—but he refused to believe that Destination: Demonville was inevitable. Time to put on the research shoes.

  There was only one person who’d ever tried to help. She had books, resources, and a boatload of magical power. Feeling suddenly hopeful, Mac wrote:

  6. Go see Holly Carver.

  Then he frowned. It looked good on paper, but that idea sucked. Mac flipped the notebook shut. His stomach felt like a bag of nightcrawlers, writhing with uncertainty. Holly’s stupid magic house had tried to bash him to pulp the last time he’d dropped by. And he really wished he hadn’t tried to eat Holly’s soul the last time they’d met. That made things so awkward. Damn, damn, damn. Bad dates always come back to bite you in the ass.

  He sucked in a breath, clenching his teeth again. Once, there had been sparks between him and Holly. A sudden twinge of mirth disrupted his brooding. Caravelli will absolutely hate it if she agrees to help me. Serves him right for chucking me in the Castle.

  He pictured the vampire’s unhappy face. Now there was an upside to this whole fiasco.

  Hey, if life hands you giant squid disease, make calamari.

  Chapter 8

  Ashe Carver scowled as the tall, fair-haired vampire stalked away. Slowly, her eyebrows lifted. The view was noteworthy. She could see why Holly was physically attracted, especially from the rear view. What she didn’t get was how her own sister could be so stupid.

  Ashe tore herself away from where she had no business looking and studied Holly instead. She hadn’t been home for over fifteen years, and Holly wasn’t a kid anymore. Ashe had been expecting someone weak, in the thrall of a vampire’s venom. Instead, Holly was a perfect Carver: powerful, smart, and in charge.

  Something, truth be told, Ashe was still working on. They were two sides of the family genetic coin. Holly took after their mother: short and dark, with delicate features. Ashe was tall, fair, and athletic, like their father’s family.

  Holly would know that mostly from photographs. Ashe remembered her parents all too well. Dad standing right where Holly was now, talking to Mom, who’d be working at the counter, making sandwiches ... the memory sunk into Ashe like the fangs of a steel trap. Or a vampire. For a moment, she wished she’d stayed away.

  “You don’t know a thing about Alessandro,” Holly snapped the moment the front door banged shut.

  Ashe jerked back to the present. “Fang-boy. What’s there to know?”

  “Alessandro’s different.” Holly held up her hand as Ashe drew a breath to protest. “He’s my Chosen. It’s an old legend. When a human loves a vampire completely and with free will, that vampire is freed from the blood thirst.”

  Oh, please. “Then what does he eat? Doughnuts?”

  “Chosen vampires can feed energetically. From the bond with their human.”

  Nausea skewered Ashe. “They feed on hot sex?”

  Holly blushed.

  “Oh, ick.” For a moment Ashe knew she sounded like the teenager she’d once been. Weird how a person reverted the moment they went back to the family home. “Gah!”

  “We’re...” Holly sat down again, clearly struggling for words. “We’re happy. It’s working. Alessandro’s more human than other vampires. Humanish.”

  “Do you know how messed up that sounds?”

  Holly’s look turned sharp. “I’m trying to explain. You don’t have to like it.”

  Ashe had heard enough. “Give your head a shake. Get real. Get rid of him.”

  “No.”

  “I’m speaking for Mom and Dad.”

  Holly stared at her for a long, hard moment. “They’re dead. They don’t get a vote.”

  The words were meant to be brutal. “I know,” Ashe said quietly. “I killed them. I owe it to them to make sure you’re all right.”

  Holly looked away, backing down. “They died in an accident.”

  “I cast an egotistical, idiotic spell to give Mom and Dad car trouble so that they didn’t come home to find out I’d left you alone that night.”

  “You were sixteen. You wanted to go to a concert. That’s normal teenage crap.”

  Surprise rung through Ashe, clear as the strike of a bell.

  Holly had forgiven her. She shouldn’t. Maybe she was too young to really get what I did.

  Ashe hammered home her point. “I used powerful magic I had no business touching. I made their car crash. The aftermath nearly destroyed your powers.”

  “And it destroyed yours. You took off. I know the story. That’s history. We both have to move on.”

  As
he had been over and over this moment in her head. The one where she tried to make things right. She leaned forward, her mouth dry with the soot of burned-out emotion. “I screwed up back then. I’m sure as hell not going to screw up now. You’re in trouble. I can do something about it.”

  The clock ticked. Ashe could hear the small house noises—pings in the radiator, a creak of the floorboards as the cat chased shadows. Those should have been comforting sounds, but they somehow wound the tension in the room even tighter.

  “I’m not in trouble,” said Holly. “And I’m not your redemption.”

  Ashe took a deep breath. She wanted to snatch Holly from her chair and shake sense into her, but this wasn’t a problem she could solve with force. For starters, Holly was a powerful witch, whereas she was a husk with no active magic.

  Ashe changed tactics. “What about a family? Surely you’ll want kids?”

  “Who knows?” Holly shrugged.

  Oh, Goddess. “Surely you’re not thinking of adopting?”

  “Down the road, maybe.”

  “Crap, you’re serious. A vampire baby daddy?”

  Holly shrugged again. “Why not?”

  Ashe felt a surge of panic, but stomped on it. Vampires couldn’t father children, and no vampire male would tolerate someone else’s young. Holly was tragically deluded. Delusions like that could destroy a woman. He might kill the kid.

  “Damn it, Holly! “That was what Ashe hated most about the monsters. They always looked like something familiar, until the mask slipped and showed the evil beneath.

  As in the case of a sixteen-year-old girl who murdered her parents with a spell. She saw one of those masks in the mirror every day.

  Brooding was an occupational hazard for a creature of the night. Alessandro disliked indulging the vampire stereotype, but there he was. He leaned against the T-Bird, smoked, and scowled into the darkness. At least he was wearing battle leathers and weapons. That gave the moment some cachet.

  Ashe was still inside the house, talking to Holly. Sharp though his hearing was, Alessandro could only hear the rise and fall of voices—sometimes angry, sometimes not. A glance at his watch told him that almost an hour had passed.