She stared at him, obviously unsettled by his casual air. “You’ll be riding to my rescue like Sir Galahad?”
“Nah, I’m not that good with horses. I’m better with dogs.”
“My dog ran away.”
“Is that why you’ve been crying?”
She blew out her breath, the sound bloated with sarcasm. “What are you doing here, half demon? What brings you back to a place you were so desperate to leave? Surely it’s not just to make me feel better.”
He hesitated, then decided to get to the point. “I have a problem. I need to speak to someone who’s been in the Castle for a long time. Someone who knows its history and how it works.”
The question caught her off guard, as if she hadn’t expected him to say anything serious. Her lips parted slightly, reminding him how soft they were. Being so close to Constance was reminding him why he couldn’t banish her from his mind. She was the type of woman you couldn’t kiss just once.
“Let’s make a deal,” he said. “I help you, you help me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why should I trust you?”
“You’re the one who tried to bite me, sweetheart.”
After giving him a speculative look, Constance ducked her head, hiding her face behind her long, dark hair. “All right. Atreus has been here longer than anyone else that I know of, but I don’t know how much help he would be.”
“Why not?” Mac knew Atreus’s name from his previous stay in the Castle—one of the thugs who had muscled his way to a position of dominance. Gang leaders who called themselves kings. “He rules a lot of the prison, doesn’t he?”
“Once.” Constance pursed those full lips. “Not anymore. He’s gone quite mad.”
Mac looked around at the stone walls and lugubrious torchlight. “Yeah, this place could get to somebody after a while. How long has he been here?”
“He was here long before Viktor and Josef came. They were here before I came.”
“When did, uh, Viktor and Josef arrive?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Can we ask?”
“Josef is gone. Viktor can’t tell you. He’s gone mad, too.”
Mac swore.
“It was Viktor’s beast that made him that way. Eventually he gave in to his animal side.” Constance hugged her knees with her slender arms. “It was too hard for him to stay human.”
That sounded unpleasantly like Mac’s first demon transformation. “What kind of creature is Viktor?”
“Viktor is my dog.”
Mac stared.
“He’s mostly wolf,” Constance amended. “Part vampire. Human to begin with. It was a curse. They’re not real werewolves. Atreus made Viktor and Josef into his personal guard back when he still walked the world.”
“Before he came to the Castle?”
“Atreus had keys. He came and went at will. I think Atreus might be as old as the Castle.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “Then I need to speak to him.”
“I said, he’s mad.” Constance made an impatient gesture, flicking his words out of the air. The sudden movement made Mac jump and grab for his gun. Constance froze.
“Nervous?” she asked, dryly amused.
“Cautious.”
“Good.” She smiled grimly, an expression that looked wrong on her elfin face. “Be afraid. Atreus doesn’t give anything without a price.”
“What kind of price?”
“I don’t know. It could be anything. But I might convince him to help you.”
“Who are you to him?”
“He took me in when I got here. I was his servant for hundreds of years. I kept a home for him and those close to the throne. He was my protector.”
That made sense to Mac. Centuries ago, a person was either lord or servant without many options in between. A small, young female, vampire or not, would seek out someone powerful enough to keep her safe. Politically incorrect by modern standards, but a good survival policy in a hellhole like the Castle. That didn’t mean Mac liked it. There was plenty of room for abuse in a system that traded service for safety.
“Before I take you to him, I need you to help me,” she said.
“What do you want?” he said, more because he was curious than anything else. “And don’t say blood.”
“The saints above only know what sort of indigestion a half demon would give me,” she said flatly, but there was still a flicker of speculation in her eyes.
She paused, a strand of her dark hair stirring in an air current. She smoothed her hair down, its dark length part of the shadows. The Castle felt even emptier and more cavernous than usual, the torchlight seeming to fade before it fully touched her features.
“You should realize that Atreus might kill you.” She closed her eyes for a long moment. “But I’m the only one he has now. Maybe I can still make him listen. Maybe.”
Her voice held a world of devastation. Mac fell into the spell of her soft lilt, past the fangs and the quick tongue and the pretty face, and wondered where all that unhappiness came from. I really can’t afford to get emotionally invested in a vampire.
Mac ignored the warning. There was too much he needed to know. “I thought Atreus had a big court with lots of soldiers and retainers. At least that’s what I heard.”
“That was long ago. As he lost his wits, he lost those who followed him. Now there is only me.”
“King Lear and Cordelia,” Mac said softly.
“Who are they?”
Things must be bad if I’m thinking Shakespeare. “Characters from a play.”
“Ah.” She lifted her chin, huffy. “I wasn’t a fine lady, to go spending my time at the theater. There was always work to be done.”
Mac couldn’t stop a smile.
“What’s so amusing?”
“Nothing. So, to get back to what we’ve agreed to so far, you will help me with Atreus. What do you want from me?”
She nodded, looking even more pale than the usual vampire white-on-white. He wasn’t sure why, but interceding with Atreus wasn’t going to be easy for her.
She pressed her lips into a flat line, her gaze shifting away. “First let me say I’m sorry I tried to bite you. I thought you were human. I need to bite a human to get my—well, like you, there is still a bit of human in me.”
A faint flush rose to her cheeks.
A bashful vampire. Who’da thunk. Mac helped her out. “You need to hunt to fully Turn.”
She nodded, averting her face from him. “Yes. I’ve escaped that fate for a long time. I can’t any longer.” She looked like she was about to start crying again, her lower lip tucking in.
Mac put his hand on her shoulder, the cloth of her dress soft from long wear. He could feel the bones beneath. “Why not?”
Her head jerked, her tear-starred gaze going from his hand to his face, but she didn’t shake him off. “The guardsmen took my son by force—I mean the foundling child I raised. I have no one to help me get him back.”
Mac caught his breath. He was suddenly and unexpectedly on familiar ground. A crime had been committed, and he had a witness. “They kidnapped him.”
The skin around her eyes tightened, as if she were pulling him into focus for the first time. “Yes, you could call it that.”
“How old is he?”
She touched a bronze pendant that hung at her throat. “Sixteen.”
He had to make a mental shift to envision her child as a young adult. She looked so young. “What do the guardsmen want with your son?”
“Sylvius is an incubus.”
“Oh, shit.”
Mac dropped his hand from her shoulder, his fingers unconsciously seeking the shape of his weapon beneath his coat. An incubus added a whole new layer of complication. They were the so-called angels of lust, sought after like a drug.
“Atreus protected my son until now, but he’s lost too much of his power, and Sylvius is just coming into his. The guardsmen said taking him was for the safety of everyone in the Castl
e, but I think it was for their own pleasure. I trust the captain to keep his word, but not the rest.”
Angels of lust, Mac thought again. This one was going to be angel puree. Incubi were not fighters. The guardsmen would make mincemeat out of the kid. What a train wreck.
“Was there a demand for ransom?”
“No. They have Sylvius, and that’s what they wanted.”
Constance studied his every expression, as if she were trying to find hope. “They put him in a demon trap. The only good part is that Captain Reynard led the guardsmen. He is not as cruel as the others.”
Mac knew who Reynard was. “But Bran is his second-in-command.”
Constance bit her lip. “I—”
“Sh!” Mac held up a hand. He could hear the distant sound of voices and tramping feet, the clank of weapons against armor.
Constance lifted her head, suddenly alert. “It’s the patrol. We have to leave here. We can’t be caught near the door.”
Swiftly, they got to their feet. Then Mac caught a glimpse of the approaching men. It was dark and they were distant, but their shapes looked wrong. Not human. He pushed Constance further into the shadows. “That’s not the patrol.”
“Come this way,” she said, grabbing his hand. Her fingers were so cool that Mac felt like he had a fever. “Reynard said Miru-kai’s spies are in these parts. The warlords want Sylvius, too, and they probably don’t know he’s gone.”
“Oh, great.”
She started to run, a quick, effortless glide through the shadows. He followed her down the corridor, sliding the Sig Sauer out of its holster as they moved. The cop in him was on high. For the first time in ages, he felt completely alive. Useful.
Her touch alerted every male cell in his body.
She was beautiful and in trouble. A double threat. Oh, baby.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“I know a secret place.”
An arrow hummed by his head, the wind brushing his ear. Crap!
It skittered harmlessly to the stone floor, but Mac and Constance jolted into a sprint. Someone shouted. It wasn’t any language Mac knew, but the guttural, angry tone was clear.
If she’s not fully a vampire, how badly could an arrow hurt her?
Constance darted around a corner, leading them into a nearly identical hall. Mac risked a glance at their pursuers. They were closer now. He could see four. All wore what looked to him like medieval battle gear. One had tusks.
Mac had a fleeting thought about werebacon.
He turned and scrambled after Constance. She led him through the maze, going deep into an area where Mac hadn’t been before. Except for their pursuers, this part of the Castle looked deserted. This was not at all like the busy, thronging territories Mac had been in before, each with its own ruling bully. This was a wasteland.
Someone could make a fortune with a GPS system in here.
“Hurry!” Constance waved him forward, heading for a path that inclined gently downward. The rigid crisscross of corridors was breaking into longer, curving paths, the stonework ragged and natural. Drips of stone hung from the ceiling, frozen in time. It was like the masons of old had gone for coffee and never returned to finish the job.
For a moment, Mac could feel the magic of the Castle like a breathing presence, watching, considering. Then it was gone, the random bump of a shoulder in a crowd, but the vastness of that consciousness was enough to make Mac stumble, grab the wall for support.
What the hell was that for?
No time to think about it. Constance flitted down the path, pulling a small but efficient-looking knife out of a belt sheath. Mac trailed after her, listening for their pursuers. They were getting closer, heavy footfalls echoing in the gloom. The air was cold and damp. Mist clung to the floor, long fingers swirling over Mac’s feet as he moved.
Then the ceiling rose, the corridor widening until it formed a huge cavern ringed with torches. It could have held a gymnasium with room to spare. Ropes of fog floated in the air, twisting like something alive.
Mac stopped cold, grabbing Constance’s arm. “There’s no cover here. We can’t cross open ground. They’ll shoot us.” He could dust and float across, but that wouldn’t do her any good. Crap!
“We have to get over there.” Constance pointed. Ahead was a stairway. The light barely touched it, showing only a few horizontal edges highlighted against the prevailing murk.
Another arrow whirred over their heads, slicing into the mist. In a single motion, Mac crouched, pulling Constance down with him, turned, and fired two shots in the direction of their pursuers.
Someone—something—screamed. A hit.
Mac’s heart hammered, adrenaline raging through his veins. His demon flared, sharpening sight and hearing, burning through muscle and nerve.
Was that it? Were they gone?
Darkness. Footfalls.
The thing with tusks burst out of the darkness with a feral roar, brandishing a spear over its head. Shit!
Images flew at Mac, sharp and lurid. Torchlight lit the creature’s metal-studded tunic. Tiny eyes under a massive brow. Tusks jutting from the lower jaw, ringed with heavy bands of gold. It was huge, twice as big as a man, looming like a truck.
The spear left its hand, flying with ferocious speed toward Mac’s chest.
Training kicked in. Mac dove to the side, rolled, and emptied three roaring blasts into the thing’s chest. It flew backward, chest shattering to gore, spraying the darkness with a ruddy mist. The spear smashed into the stone where Mac had been a moment before, showering a fountain of sparks into the air.
Constance yelped, scrambling backward, knife ready to stab.
“You okay?” Mac bellowed.
“Bloody Bridgit’s toenails!”
If she could curse, she was okay. Mac scrambled to his feet and down the tunnel, weapon at the ready. Hot demon rage warred with a cooler demand for caution. Damned if another one of those things is going to get the drop on us.
He stepped around the creature he’d shot, feet skidding on things he didn’t want to name. It reeked, an unfamiliar putrid stench worse even than a dead werewolf. Mac held his breath as long as he could. The passageway flickered with torchlight, the irregular stonework casting gnarled shadows.
I shot this one. I hit another. There should at least be blood.
Mac slowed. A second body sprawled on the ground, limbs at random angles. The body was melting to a puddle of slime, rotting in fast-forward. He’d seen that before.
Changelings—the twisted, malformed children of the vampire world. Those that hadn’t Turned right. They made the Hollywood nosferatu look cuddly.
It wasn’t easy to kill a vamp, but he’d hit it in the head.
Mac looked around. There was no sign of the other two. He finally took a deep breath but instantly gagged at the stink of foul blood. Goddamned Lord of the Rings wannabes.
Mac wiped the sweat from his palms, then his face. A tremor passed through him as the adrenaline left his system, leaving him hot and queasy. The Castle offered far too many chances to die.
He turned, looking again at the body of the first creature he’d shot. What the hell is that thing? He tried to remember if he’d seen anything like it the last time he was in the Castle.
“They were Prince Miru-kai’s followers. I’m sure of it.”
He looked up. Constance was standing nearby, the knife still in her hand.
“It was a goblin,” she said. “They’re fierce, but they’re not very brave if you put up a fight.”
“The others were changelings.”
“I know. Turned wrong. Like me, but I was luckier.” She held out a hand. “Come. They won’t be back today.”
Mac stared at her. She was solemn, but far from terrified. “You sure we’re safe?”
Some of her poise faded. “What they really wanted was Sylvius, and we don’t have him.”
“Right.” He still kept his grip on the Sig Sauer. He wasn’t putting it away quite yet. �
�Attacks like this happen much around here?”
“Not here. There are many in the courts, of course.”
“Were there many goblins in the courts?” He didn’t really care, but it was something to distract them from what had just happened.
She lifted one shoulder. “A few. I spent plenty of time hiding behind the throne. It was good, sturdy oak.”
Mac met her gaze. Her eyes were steady, but he thought he caught a slight curve of the lower lip.
“The werecats were the worst. If they got in a temper, you could say goodbye to the upholstery.” She turned and beckoned him to follow.
Mac complied, his heartbeat almost back to normal. They were out of the corridor before she slid the knife back into its sheath. Mac watched her. “You’re a vampire. Surely you’re strong enough to use a sword?”
“And what would I do with a great blade, like a Highland clansman? I’m too small. Besides, it’s hardly ladylike.”
“Even a small sword would give you greater reach.”
“Stealth and accuracy are just as important. You men are all about size. Sadly predictable creatures.”
“Guilty.”
She smirked, then took a glance at the Sig Sauer. “Mind you, something like that would come in handy.”
“Women always like the big explosions. Delightfully predictable creatures.”
She tossed her head. “Now you sound like you’re boasting.”
“I’m flattered that you think I have cause to boast.”
“I think you have a smooth tongue.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I wonder how often you’ve whispered that in a maiden’s ear?”
“I’m not sure I’ve known that many maidens.”
“And next you’ll tell me that was your doing.”
As they retraced their steps, Mac couldn’t help but look down at the goblin he had shot, or the spear that lay across their path. Constance skirted the carnage, lifting her skirts to keep them clean. How can she live in this place, with so much violence, and still seem so innocent?
Because she’s not. She’s a vampire. You’re playing with fire.
As they crossed the cavern, the ropes of fog clung like spiderwebs, dewing Constance’s hair like a mantilla of jewels. Then they started up the uneven steps, ascending into a mass of shadows that billowed where the ceiling should have been. The soles of Mac’s ankle boots slid on someting slippery.
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