Scorched

by Sharon Ashwood

  Memories made Constance edgy. Her fingers brushed the knife she wore at her belt, the bone and steel hilt worn smooth with time. It was useful for a thousand daily tasks, but she’d fought with it, too. She passionately hated violence, but in the Castle weakness was an invitation to worse than death.

  She had been trapped in this world between worlds as soon as she had been Turned—or at least mostly Turned—when she was barely seventeen. She’d been an ordinary servant girl on an Irish farm who had played with the dogs and her brothers and sisters and had gone to work as soon as she was strong enough to carry a pail of milk. So long ago. So much change.

  But parts of her hadn’t changed. She still played with dogs. Constance grabbed the leg of the doll, wrestling with it. Viktor whined, hanging on as she made a show of struggling. Finally, he wrenched it free and galloped into the darkness.

  “Stop!” she called after him, breaking into a run again. “Get back here, you sorry lump of fur!”

  Viktor ignored her, pausing midlope to chase his tail. He understood her well enough, but had lost the ability to return to human form. His brother, Josef, had escaped to the world outside. That desertion was hard to forgive, but still Constance loved them all: Viktor, Josef, and young Sylvius. They are everything I have.

  That was true now more than ever since they had followed their master to this deserted corner of the Castle. Atreus of Muria, sorcerer and king, had been exiled. Constance had been his maidservant since she came to the Castle, so now she was in exile, too.

  It was a relief. Finally, Constance had time to do more than dodge backstabbing courtiers eager for favor and power. She could dream. To her, exile was another word for peace, a calm that allowed for fantasies of her own home, with a big kitchen table and loved ones gathered around, telling stories, making music, sharing plenty. Happiness.

  How she yearned for that home to be real.

  Constance whistled around her fingers. Viktor came trotting on paws the size of platters. The toy drooped from his jowls, stuffing leaking like entrails.

  “There’s a good lad.” She thumped his shoulder.

  He wagged his tail all the way to his haunches, sporting the idiot grin of a happy dog.

  Then Constance heard footsteps.

  She froze.

  Boots. Several pairs. Crossing the corridor up ahead. Viktor gave a low whuff, dropping the doll. She shrank against the wall, just in case the owner of one of those pairs of boots would turn and see her. Oh, bollocks.

  Every prison has its jailers. The Castle, dungeon for all creatures possessed of magic, had the guardsmen. Once ordinary men, they had been taken from their homes and forced into service. The Castle gave them strength and immortality but took away the kernel of whatever made them human.

  The guardsmen had snatched Constance, just risen from her grave, and put her in this terrible place. If Atreus hadn’t taken her in as his serving girl, they would have broken her as they had so many others, one indignity at a time.

  Her gut twisted at the memory, a sick feeling welling into her throat. She threw the doll again, farther this time, to trick Viktor into running safely out of sight of the marching men. For once doing what he was supposed to, the beast bounded after it.

  Constance began walking backward, too nervous to take her eyes from the guardsmen for more than a moment. As she retreated, her fingers trailed along the stone wall, whispering over cold, rough stone punctuated by grit-filled seams. The solid feel of it reassured her.

  A change in the air currents behind her said she was backing toward another hallway, somewhere she could vanish from sight. Then she would circle around and find out where the guards were going. What could they want in this deserted corner of the Castle? There was no one here but her family.

  She spun on her heel, and then sprang back with a hiss. A dozen steps away stood the guardsmen’s officer, his feet planted apart, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Captain Reynard!” Her hand was on the hilt of her knife.

  “Constance,” he replied. “Did I startle you? If so, I do apologize.”

  His accent spoke of wealth and education—all the advantages she’d never had. She pressed her lips together, saying nothing. Why are you here? she wondered.

  “I thought a vampire’s hearing would detect my approach,” he went on. “You must have been distracted.”

  He walked toward her, tall, aristocratic, and darkly handsome. His captain’s uniform—a faded remnant from his human life—was neatly mended, every bit of gold braid shining in its proper place. He might have been whisked out of his old life centuries ago and put in charge of this slice of hell, but he still had the discipline of a British officer.

  He paused a few feet away, looking down at her. Next to him, she felt small as a child, pinned by his pale gray eyes. She swallowed, nervous. Reynard wasn’t as brutal as his men, but he still held the keys to the jail. He might be friendly, but never a friend.

  “You shouldn’t wander alone, pretty Constance,” he said. “That little knife of yours just isn’t enough.”

  “Viktor’s with me, sir.”

  Reynard folded his arms and looked around. “That would be more effective if he was actually visible. He comes to anyone’s call, you know, even mine. He’s too daft to know his own master.”

  “That doesn’t worry me, Captain, sir. I have teeth of my own.”

  “Like a tiny little tabby cat, and about as fearsome.” His mouth quirked, a hint of a sad smile.

  There was no flirtation in it, but still she looked away, flustered by an involuntary twinge of interest. She liked a different kind of man, but the captain was a fine specimen nonetheless. It reminded her that hundreds of years past, she’d been a young woman. Now she was a monster that existed only because the magic of the Castle kept her alive.

  Reynard reached out, one fingertip touching the pendant that rested just below her collarbone. The slight pressure made her shiver.

  “A skilled piece of work. Bronze, is it?”

  “Yes, sir. Sylvius made it from an arrowhead. He said it is a reminder to see the possibilities in what’s around us.” She avoided the captain’s eyes, instead watching the torchlight dance on the gold braid of his coat. “He’s taken to working with his hands.”

  “Not a natural warrior, then.”

  “He’s just a boy, sir,” she replied, her tone stiff.

  Reynard retreated a little under the sting of her words. “How is Atreus? Is his mind still wandering?”

  “He is the same.” It was a lie. Her master was failing, but she wouldn’t betray his dignity.

  “Poor Constance. I’m sure the burden of his care falls on you.”

  “There is little to do, sir, and it is my place to serve him.”

  “But what about visitors?”

  “No one bothers to come to this part of the Castle.” Except you. Why are you here? Why are your men here?

  “Isolation doesn’t bring safety, especially when fear is in the air.”

  She gave a sour laugh. “There’s always fear, Captain. There are always wars between the vampires and the werebeasts, or between one warlord and the next. To tell you the plain truth, sir, I’m tired of worrying about it.”

  “This is different.”

  “How, sir?”

  His shrug tried to be casual, but it showed tension. “There are stories running like roaches through the halls. Whispers and murmurs claim that in the darkest corners of the Castle, the corridors have collapsed. Rooms are vanishing. Creatures have been driven from the deeps and wander the halls at will.”

  Constance leaned against the cold stone wall, now a little amused. “But, sir, surely no one believes this? There’re plenty of monsters here without adding fairy tales.”

  But the shadows in his eyes grew deeper.

  Holy Mother, there’s something to this. Her stomach grew hard and chill.

  “Myths grow with the telling,” he said. “Both guardsmen and prisoners teeter on the edge of p
anic. It gives new fuel to the wars, and you know the guards aren’t invincible. No new recruits have come since my time. There aren’t enough of us anymore to stop every skirmish.”

  Constance frowned, her mind scrambling to sort through the conversation. “Captain Reynard, why are you here? Why are you telling me this? Were you with the patrol? What has any of this to do with my family?”

  “That was no patrol.” Reynard lowered his eyes from her face. In that instant, he seemed to age a decade, the lines around his mouth and eyes falling into bitter grooves. “We’re on a different errand. You know I will do what I can to keep peace here.”

  She nodded, not liking his tone.

  “There is something they all desire—Prince Miru-kai, Shoshann, and all the other warlords and sorcerers of the Castle. This thing is a danger to both the prisoners and my men, and it is left carelessly unguarded. For a time, the warlords lost all knowledge of its location, but now their spies have found it. Precious secrets don’t lie hidden forever.”

  His harsh expression, even more than his words, fanned her anxiety. “Then you must lock it safely away!”

  He lifted his chin. “That’s my intent.”

  “Why are you telling me this? What is it?”

  “I want you—of all people—to understand.” He said it quickly, the words clipped, and turned away.

  Constance grabbed his sleeve. “Captain, wait! Why does it matter what I think? I’m no one.”

  He pulled himself free, his touch nearly as cold as her own. His eyes had gone flat, all sympathy between them ended. “You’re still an innocent, Constance, despite all that you’ve seen. Maybe I’m looking for absolution for doing my duty.”

  Constance let her hand fall away. “What is this thing that everyone wants?” she demanded.

  But Reynard strode away from her instead, stiff and silent. He moved as if the uniform alone kept him from crumbling to ash.

  She slumped against the wall, bewildered. She didn’t have patience for this sort of riddle. Captain Reynard should have just spit out what he had to say. Now he’d made her afraid.

  Deeply afraid.

  Up ahead, she could hear boots on the stone floor. Reynard had joined his men. Now four guardsmen were marching toward the part of the Castle where her family lived, and she had no idea what they wanted. Their mysterious treasure? Why are they looking for it here?

  She whistled for Viktor. After a long moment, he came bounding out of the shadows with his doll. She dug her fingers into his heavy coat, grateful for his reassuring warmth.

  “Come on, boyo,” she whispered into his ear. “We have to go home. I don’t know what we’re going to do about our visitors, but Atreus isn’t himself and Sylvius is too young to help him. You and I have to be the level heads.”

  Viktor looked doubtful.

  “Best leave the talking to me,” said Constance.

  He woofed agreement, drooling around the doll.

  With one hand clutching the werebeast’s fur, she followed the guardsmen, keeping a long way back. Viktor padded at her side, possessively close. What do they want with us? she wondered. We’ve already lost everything we had. Constance turned hot, and then cold as anger and apprehension chased each other through her blood.

  There were no gates or fences to define the borders of her family’s home, but everyone in the Castle knew where their neighbor’s territory lay. Atreus’s corner of the dungeon was a handful of chambers clustered around a square hall.

  The guardsmen strode directly into the hall and formed a semicircle, standing an equal distance apart. Constance lingered in the doorway like a half-remembered ghost, Viktor still at her side.

  Despite the four visitors, the room felt bare. There was furniture, but it was plain wood pitted with centuries of use. At one end of the room was a high-backed armchair, sculpted like the throne of an ancient king. No subjects waited at its feet.

  Atreus sat on it, one finger tapping his lips, watching but saying nothing. That stillness meant the calm before a storm of temper. Either Captain Reynard didn’t know, or didn’t care.

  “Sorcerer,” Reynard said, with the merest sliver of a bow—a show of courtesy, not subservience.

  “Captain.” Atreus nodded. He shifted on the great chair, light playing over the soft folds of his jeweled blue robe. A sleek circlet of gold bound his mass of ink-black hair. His face was strong, rough-hewn and swarthy, the visage of a prince. “You trespass here, you and your guardsmen. This is my place now.”

  Reynard gave the specter of a smile. “You cannot bar the door from us. You have no army.”

  “I have followers.”

  “You have a dog.” Reynard’s eyes slid toward the door, where Constance hovered. “And a vampire who’s never tasted blood. Almost a human. Lovely to look at, but weak.”

  Constance felt hot shame crawling up her cheeks. A look of surprise flickered in Reynard’s eyes, as if he hadn’t expected his words to sting. He looked quickly away. “You must negotiate with us, Atreus of Muria, if you expect to live here in peace.”

  Atreus rose, taller than even the largest of the guardsmen. “I ruled a kingdom within this Castle. I kept order over the demons and werebeasts when you could not. Who are you to give or take permission? You are merely turnkeys, lackeys of the prison.”

  Reynard locked gazes. “It’s no secret your magic has rotted away to nothing.”

  “Lies and rumors.”

  “Truth. Your subjects chose a new king and left you to scrape an existence out of dust. You’re finished. A ghost with barely a chain to rattle.”

  As Reynard spoke, Atreus’s face flushed dark with rage. He fingered the hem of his wide, draping cuff, kneading it as angry tension soaked the air.

  “I speak the truth,” Reynard repeated softly, almost in apology. “Think of the loyal few who stay with you. For the sake of their welfare, you must listen to what I have to say.”

  Atreus looked over Reynard’s head, as if the guardsman were beneath notice. The seam of the cuff was starting to give, the ancient silk shredding between his hands. “I ruled. I held the power and wealth of the Castle’s vampire clans, the prides and the packs, between my hands. I took tribute from those who came to me for refuge from your beatings and your shackles. Do not speak to me of sacrifice for the sake of my subjects. I have sheltered them for a hundred of your lifetimes.”

  Among the guardsmen, there were impatient shuffles of feet and shared glances. Constance heard tearing cloth, and winced. She was running out of thread to mend her master’s robes.

  Reynard shook his head. “Prince Miru-kai sends spies deep into your territory. Soon his warriors will take what little you have left. You need our help.”

  “You would help me as a jackal helps a wounded lion.”

  Constance slipped from the doorway into the room, past Reynard, and took her place at her master’s side. She gave the guardsman a hot glare.

  Atreus glanced down, dark eyes barely focusing on her face before he turned back to Reynard. She put her hand over her master’s, stilling his fingers, smoothing the hem of his sleeve.

  The Captain rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “We will keep you from harm, but first there is something that you must surrender. It tempts others.”

  “But you said yourself that I have nothing.”

  “You still hold one object of great value,” said Reynard.

  “Do I?” Atreus returned.

  “Something others will try and take.” Reynard gave Constance another of his sad looks.

  “Oh!” She suddenly understood. Holy Bridget, no. She should have guessed. Should have known. Reynard had tried to prepare her—as if that were even possible.

  Constance felt suddenly light-headed, as if a void had opened where her stomach should have been. Reynard, you cold bastard. This is what you consider your duty?

  She looked up at her master. “No, don’t let them!”

  Atreus gave her a quelling glance, his fingers working at his robe aga
in. “Whatever I have, I can defend.”

  Reynard narrowed his eyes. “I think not.”

  “Don’t let them!”

  “Be silent, girl!” Atreus warned, his voice sharp and dark as an obsidian blade. “You’re not a fishwife bickering at the market. The wrong word at the wrong time is as fatal as a plague.”

  Constance nearly bit her tongue in her haste to close her mouth. Part of her wanted to die and turn to dust. The rest—the bigger part—wanted to explode with fury.

  Atreus put one hand on her shoulder, gripping it tight. “Silence.”

  Constance squirmed, until he squeezed all the harder.

  Reynard took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Give us what we want, and we’ll keep your enemies away.”

  “And if we do not?”

  “If I were in your position that is a chance I would not care to take.”

  Atreus dropped his hand from Constance’s shoulder. “What do you want?” he asked. “A spell book? A jewel?”

  Reynard’s eyes grew hard, skating past Constance as if she weren’t there. “The incubus you call Sylvius.”

  My son.

  Chapter 4

  Outrage jolted Constance so hard that she gripped the arm of Atreus’s chair to keep from staggering. Her one instinct was to stay upright. If she was standing, she could defend her child.

  Something moved behind the guardsmen, gliding through the shadows.

  Not something. Someone. Oh, no.

  As if he had come at the mention of his name, Sylvius paused in the arch of the doorway, the gray stone framing him against the eternal dark beyond. He was as tall as Atreus, but pale as moonlight. He wore only loose trews of dark silk. Muscles rippled under his fair skin, but his was the lean body of a youth, not a seasoned warrior. Silver hair fell thick and straight to his hips. Startling dark eyes dominated a long, angular face that was softened only by a wide, expressive mouth.

  Just sixteen, Sylvius had never set foot outside the Castle. A foundling, Constance had raised him from a babe.