“Come back to me,” she pleaded. “Promise.”
Mac stepped back. Not if I’m going to hurt you.
He didn’t speak, but somehow she understood. Tears stood in her eyes. Despite his silence, she could sense he was pulling away.
Mac ached. All of him. The feeling was too big to punish just his heart.
He loved her. It was up to him to make her world better, not worse.
Demons destroy. I’m not going to destroy her. Without a word, he faded to dust and went to save Connie’s son. It’s the only thing left I can do.
He materialized in the very back of the balcony that curved above the entrance. From here, he could see that the balconies circled the whole space, forming a small, round theater with a clear view of everything below. No bad seats for the sacrifice.
Guardsmen sat at the front of the balconies, but over to the side Mac noticed a handful of figures standing to the back, half hidden by the darkness. A jolt of anger ran through him. He recognized one of the figures, hawk-nosed, black-haired, garbed in robes heavy with gold embroidery. An exotic figure, like some tribal leader who’d fought Genghis Khan, or the Turks, or Vlad Teppes. It was the half-fey warlord and Atreus’s sorcerer rival, Prince Miru-kai.
So that’s how Bran pulled this off. The rogue guardsman had help.
But the how didn’t matter anymore. What counted was the drama below. Mac looked down.
Although he’d braced himself, momentary shock robbed him of breath. Beside the pool stood a wooden scaffold three times the height of a man. Sylvius hung from one side by his wrists, his white flesh scored by dozens of angry wounds. Beneath him, a wooden bucket collected the blood.
Directly across from him, a cage was suspended from the ceiling. In it was Atreus, captive and forced to witness his son’s execution. Silver chains bound him to the bars, the metal robbing him of all magical power. The sorcerer was crumpled in the bottom of the cage, his face clasped behind his hands.
Mac started to shake with anger, his skin searing hot, but he slammed the demon down, forcing his mind to take in every detail, any scrap of information that might be of use. Think. What do you see?
Lit by the fire from the four braziers that marked the corners of the space, the scaffold’s wood looked dark and stained with age. Wood wasn’t plentiful in the Castle. It had probably been saved for use time and again, stored away between atrocities like a macabre Christmas tree.
Half a dozen figures stood around the base of the scaffold, one reading from a grimoire. He looked like a sorcerer, complete with gray beard and staff. The others were guardsmen, including Bran. They were standing in a loose circle around the base of the scaffold, repeating lines from whatever spell the sorcerer was reading. The charred-toast smell of magic hung in the air.
The sorcerer dipped a goblet in the bucket, then raised it to his lips. He drank slowly, letting the blood linger for a moment on his lips before he licked them clean and passed the cup to Bran. The guardsman took it, drank more hastily. Took two swallows instead of one before passing it on. Mac watched Bran’s face flush. The guardsman shuddered, breathing deeply, and clenched his fists.
Blood of the incubus, bringing desire and appetite back to these ancient, trapped, frightened men. They were taking a last hit before sacrificing their high to save their Castle from annihilation. If it wasn’t all so insane, Mac might have sympathized.
The shackles at Sylvius’s wrists looked ordinary, both hands bound together directly above his head. The guardsmen had been cruel. He hung limp and broken, wings dangling like tattered rags, the broken shaft of an arrow still protruding from his side. From what Connie had said, Sylvius had been struck down before he could dust to safety. In too much pain, he had been unable to transform.
Demons—even the incubi—were often thought impossible to kill, but draining their energies did make them vulnerable. Last year, Holly had blasted Geneva’s powers away with magic, allowing the master demon’s own henchmen to tear out Geneva’s throat. Likewise, between the guardsmen’s magic-enhanced weapons and his wounds, Sylvius could be slaughtered as easily as a mortal.
Judging from the amount of blood in the bucket, the kid was barely still alive. Mac’s demon rose up again, searing with anger. Again, he yanked it back under control.
The first thing was to get Sylvius to safety.
He holstered his weapon. This was going to take more stealth than firepower. After studying the scaffold a moment, he dusted beneath the square of wooden slats that formed its top surface and re-formed clinging to its underside.
Remaining perfectly still a moment, he waited for a roar of protest from the guardsmen as he materialized. When there was none, Mac concluded he was hidden from the balconies by the top of the scaffold. He still had to worry about the half dozen men on the ground, but he had surprise on his side. Slowly, he slipped his hand into his pocket and slipped out Connie’s key. Then he put it in his mouth. Hope demon spit doesn’t mess up the magic.
The sorcerer chose that moment to gesture to two of the guardsmen participating in the spell. They picked up the bucket with Sylvius’s blood and emptied it on the dark water of the marble pool. The blood swirled, feathering the water with the motion of the splash, staining the hp of the pool with pink wavelets. The sorcerer said a word, and the surface of the pool bloomed with flame.
Mac took advantage of the distraction to crawl down the scaffolding, spit out the key, and press it to the lock of Sylvius’s shackles. The sudden flare of power jarred the incubus back to consciousness.
“Go!” the youth said, his voice raspy with pain. “You can’t save me!”
“If I leave here without you, Connie will kill me,” Mac said, wrestling with the lock. “I may as well go for the brass ring.”
“Stupid,” was all Sylvius could reply.
The shackles released. Using all his strength, Mac caught him in one arm.
“There!” roared Bran. “The demon!”
Gripping the scaffold in one arm and Sylvius in the other, with angry guardsmen all around, Mac had a sudden flashback to King Kong. Then an arrow pierced his thigh. Jolting pain loosened his grip and he fell, Sylvius with him, to the stone floor.
His shoulder took the brunt of the fall. Releasing the youth, Mac tried to stand, but his left leg was rubber. He drew his gun. Bran kicked him, a smash to the jaw that sent him tumbling over, the gun spinning away.
“You dare to interfere!” Bran roared.
Get over yourself, tattoo boy. Mac braced himself on one knee, his head throbbing. His demon was rising, flaring up with heat. Magic rolled off the burning pool like a fog, swamping his senses. Sylvius’s blood was boiling from the water, releasing something as it turned to steam. Whether it was the Avatar or not was anybody’s guess.
Mac tried to crawl to Sylvius, but Bran kicked him again, sending him sprawling on his back. Miracle of miracles, he landed with the gun only a few feet away.
Guardsmen were pouring down from the balconies, swarming to stop the invader bent on destroying their last hope. Mac groped for the gun, fired, kept firing until it was empty, but there were too many guardsmen coming.
Mac looked up to see another arrow just before it pierced his shoulder. The slither of a drawn sword whis-pered to his left.
Shit, they’re going to kill me. Mac’s vision went red with fury.
In a last, desperate move, he surrendered utterly to his demon.
Chapter 28
The instant Mac vanished, Constance grew scared and impatient, the empty, lonely darkness around her closing in like a wall of ice. She was so cold she shuddered, as if her bones had forgotten they had ever held heat—as if she had never been a living woman, just a shadow of hunger. You’d think all this shaking would keep me warm.
It wasn’t fear for herself that choked her, but for her loved ones. She had to know what was going on. Mac had gone for a quick look around, but she knew very well he meant to leave her in the safety of the shadows. Well, bollocks to that. Sh
e crept around the pillar and up the staircase to the right, crouching below the level of the solid stone balcony rail to stay out of sight. When she reached the top, she shrank into the corner. The nearest guardsmen were only a stone’s throw away, but their attention was firmly on the scene below. She turned her back to them, counting on her dark hair and clothes to melt her into the shadows. Just in case, she held the knife hidden in the folds of her skirt, the handle firm in her chill hand.
She closed her eyes a moment, steadying her courage. Her skin hurt where she had touched Mac, but she already missed his heat. She had seen the loss in his eyes before he left. He clearly didn’t understand how she felt.
There was a story of a fairy captive who could only be freed if his lover embraced him no matter what shape he took—be it bear or wolf or pillar of fire. Just like in the tale, Connie meant to hold on to Mac until he was hers.
Nothing said she couldn’t have her prince just because she had pointy teeth. And he would have his milkmaid, even if his touch burned like the forbidden sun. I’m not letting him go. She felt tears running down her face, some for Mac, some for herself. Some because she knew she had to face whatever was going on in the courtyard.
She had to do it. She had to look.
Silently, slowly, Constance raised herself up until she could see over the railing. The sight below struck her like a blow from Bran’s ax: Atreus, the scaffold, the bucket, and her son. Oh, God.
The need to scream was a physical pain, but there were guardsmen too close. One noise, and she would be dead. Or worse—helpless to erase the horrible events she saw. Accidentally, the point of the knife pricked her knee. She rode the sensation, letting it carry her away from the images before her. What can I do? What can I do?
“There!” she heard Bran roar. “The demon!”
Then the guardsmen on the balcony were up, scrambling so fast they tipped over the stone bench. It cracked as it fell, but they kept going, down the stairs at a frantic pace. Connie looked over the balcony again, and saw why.
Sylvius was free!
Her heart soared, until she saw an arrow fly, striking Sylvius and Mac to the ground. Then she stood, not caring who saw her.
“Constance!”
She looked up. Atreus was calling to her from the cage. His eyes burned with such anger, she fell back a step. “Constance, help me!”
He’s in a cage, chained with silver. There’s nothing he can do to me.
A cry came from the scene below. She lurched to the balcony, nearly toppling over in her haste. The battle was worse. Mac was surrounded.
“Constance!”
The command in Atreus’s voice jerked her head up again. Obedience was still a habit. Habits can be broken.
Atreus grasped the bars, staring at her through the gaps. “I can help them, if you will get me out of here!”
“Why would you help us now? You gave away my child—your child!”
He pointed to the ground. “Reynard should have been able to keep him safe!”
“Against all his guardsmen?”
“The past is gone. Sylvius needs help now. Constance, please! Open this cage!”
“I don’t trust you.”
He jerked the bars in wild frustration. “Can you fight all those men? I can! Get me out! We both love Sylvius. I will protect him!”
It was the one argument she couldn’t withstand. She would do anything for Sylvius. For Mac. She looked around wildly. “How can I get up there?”
“Fly! You are a vampire!”
Of course. Fly. I have my powers.
She’d paid dearly enough for them. She remembered the taste of blood in her mouth, and felt a jagged wrench of hunger. The cost of power is always more than we expect.
Doubt seized her. She was only newly Turned. But this is why I wanted these gifts—to protect those I love. Now is the moment when-everything I’ve endured will all make sense.
She sprang onto the stone railing. It took a moment to find her balance. The top of the rail was barely a handspan wide. Concentrating, she drew in a long breath. Atreus’s cage wasn’t far—about six feet up and about twenty feet away. Not far at all for someone like Alessandro to leap.
Then she made the mistake of looking down. Sylvius was lying in a bone-white heap. Bran kicked Mac in the face. She gave an involuntary jerk at the sight.
“Bloody hell!” She started to wobble. Her curse echoed in the high cavern.
Atreus cursed. “Look at me; don’t look down!”
An arrow shot by, skimming the hem of her skirt. She felt the rush of feathers pass her ankle. She began to lose her balance, slowly, almost gracefully. She fell forward while her arms windmilled backward, her feet trying to mold themselves to the rail through the soles of her shoes.
She slipped, trying to catch herself in empty air. Atreus was kneeling on the floor of his cage, reaching his hand as far as he could through the bars. It was useless. Until he was freed from the silver bonds, he had no power.
But still, he reached out his hand. The gesture was enough to give her courage. In the split second before she plummeted, Constance stretched her arm toward his, wishing she could catch those familiar fingers with her own.
And then she felt herself drawn upward, like a fish on a line.
I’m flying!
“Aaah!” She crashed into the bottom of the cage. It swung wildly, spinning on the chain that suspended it from the ceiling. She grabbed the bars, feet dangling, just as another arrow whistled by.
“Careful, girl!” Atreus roared, trying to steady himself against the violent rocking. “Now get this door open!”
Constance felt like a spider dangling from a broken web. She pulled herself up, doing her best to find a foothold but tilting the cage with her weight. Another arrow pinged against the bars and shattered.
“Make haste!” Atreus demanded.
The lock was old, but she still had to brace herself before even vampire strength could tear open the door. Finally, Constance slid one foot between the bars, grasped the bars of the door, and hauled with all her strength. She had possessed more than human strength before fully Turning, but now she could feel added power. On the other side, Atreus drove his shoulder against the lock.
The door flew off, nearly taking her with it. She let go, sending it spinning to the courtyard below. It landed on someone aiming his sword at Mac. Good.
Atreus grabbed her arm and dragged her inside the cage. The space was just large enough for them to crouch side by side. It felt weirdly familiar to be so close to her old master, surrounded by the scent of incense that always clung to him, hearing the rustle of his robes. Constance studied his face. His eyes were clearer than they had been for months. The madness seemed to have retreated like an outgoing tide—but Atreus could be convincing if there was something he wanted. She didn’t trust this sudden return of sanity.
“Why are you up here?” Constance asked.
“Bran is in league with Miru-kai.”
Constance caught her breath at the name of her master’s old enemy.
“They put me here so that I would be forced to watch them murder my boy. And they call me insane. But the jest is on them. Look.” Atreus pointed. “Your demon draws the guardsmen away from Sylvius. He is clever.”
Mac! “What are you going to do?”
Atreus held up his hands. The silver chains bound his wrists with thick cuffs, then wound around one of the bars of the cage. “I can do nothing chained here like a parrot to his perch. Ah, they tricked me with bowing and fine speeches, and like a fool I listened to their poisoned words.”
Constance grabbed the links, meaning to tear them apart.
“You can’t do that. They’re cast from silver. We’ll need the key.”
“The key?”
He placed one long finger on her chin. “You took it. You shed your blood on my box. It always tells me who steals my treasures.”
Constance met his eyes, shame flooding her body. “I confess I did it, but Mac has
the key. He used it to unlock Sylvius’s chains.”
Atreus let his hand drop. “The key is the only tool in the Castle that can circumvent silver chains. Then the guardsmen have it, I am trapped, and all is lost.”
I won’t believe that! Gritting her teeth, Constance reached over, grabbed the bar that held the chains, and yanked it from its moorings. “Then we cheat.”
Mac surrendered to his demon. He meant to turn to dust. Instead, he burst into flame.
Bran reeled back, shock blanking his expression. Mac levered himself up, grabbing the sword someone had dropped when the door to Atreus’s cage fell from the ceiling. Flames licked down the length of the blade, making it one with Mac’s hand.
Then his mind went empty. All his demon was meant for, designed for, was to fight.
He took a step forward, and it became a killing dance. Suddenly, his body was immune to pain, immune to the fatigue of carrying Reynard, to blood loss, to the knowledge that he was one against the entire force of guards.
With a sweep of the sword, Bran was dead, his reactions too slowed by the euphoria of Sylvius’s blood to even block Mac’s blow. And then the sorcerer leading the ritual. Wherever the sword touched, flames burrowed, their searing, intimate touch making sure no healing followed. Blood puddled where they fell. The others fell back.
Mac followed, and then flames followed as he scythed through his attackers. He was pure demon. He didn’t feel joy, revulsion, elation, or pity—just satisfaction, like a thirst finally quenched. It was the pure poetry of combat, violence stripped of excuses. No honor. No grudges. Just the killing act.
Perhaps this was what Reynard had meant when he said Mac’s demon would eventually get the upper hand. He was fire. Brutal. Cleansing. Mac gave the spell to restore the Avatar many deaths to feed on, fulfilling the words that he himself had spoken at the council.
Conscious only of cut and thrust, of the geometry of the sword, Mac moved around and around the pack of guardsmen. It seemed to swell only to have him mow through it again. That was fine with Mac. To the demon, one guard was much like the next.
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