Mac looked around the cave. There were piles of old armor, shields, and breastplates emblazoned with the six-pointed sun that was the guardsman’s symbol. A rough wooden rack held ranks of spears. A trunk with no top overflowed with dusty uniforms. The place smelled like leather and oil.
Mac thought about changing into some of the clothes, but decided it was pointless. After hundreds of years of serving together, these guys all knew each other too well to count on a disguise. Besides, his plans were too vague. He had no idea what he needed yet.
On the other hand, he did poke around until he found a scabbard and shoulder belt for his sword. His hand was getting stiff from carrying it around. He’d even considered ditching it now that he had his Sig Sauer with him, but there were some critters a bullet wouldn’t stop.
It took a while until he found a rig that didn’t interfere with the gun holster, but finally he found something that did the job. Surveillance was the next step.
Mac settled near the mouth of the cave, burying himself in shadow and pulling the dark plaid shirt closed over the white of his T-shirt. From this angle, he could watch the tops of the heads of people coming and going from the busy room below. A dozen feet from the doorway, four guardsmen sprawled around a table. One, he saw with a flicker of annoyance, was Bran. He didn’t know the other three, but he could see the round, ruddy face of the man sitting next to Bran. There was enough firelight that it was almost bright.
Idly, he calculated the position and angle of each man, estimating their vulnerabilities and strengths. If he jumped from here to there, landing in the center of the table, he could probably take all four in eight sword thrusts or less.
That’s the demon talking, and it’s an optimist. There were at least forty other guardsmen to consider, and a major bloodletting got him no closer to finding Connie’s boy. Mac gave a quiet sigh, resigned to pursuing his mission the hard, dull, smart way.
The fair-haired man sitting across from Bran was talking. “. . . got there and the passageway was collapsed. We’re cut off from the north quadrant. It’s bad. We’ve lost communication with Captain O’Shea, and he’s got the trolls on his hands. We can’t send reinforcements. He’ll have to battle it out for himself.”
“What about Sharp?” Bran asked.
“He can’t get through, either. The bridge is down.”
Bran swore. “This whole damned place is coming apart. I’d hoped it was nothing but tall tales.”
Mac stiffened in surprise. So it was true. Something was wrong with the Castle.
The red-faced guardsman spoke up. “O’Shea said that’s why the trolls were coming up from down below. The places they made their dens are gone.”
“Fine for the trolls,” said blondie. “We’re stuck here. We can’t leave. We’re cursed.”
“We know what we have to do,” said red face. “It’s not pretty but it’s the only way.”
“Enough,” growled Bran.
“You said so yourself!”
“The captain doesn’t want to hear that kind of talk.”
But I do. Mac leaned forward a little, taking a better look at the guardmen’s rooms. From here, he could see into a few. About half looked like dormitories, each with a number of beds. The others were empty. Had they once been filled? If so, what happened to the men who’d slept there?
The fourth guardsman spoke up. “You’re too young to remember, but once the Avatar brought rain and sun. Nothing’s the same now.”
Avatars again. Holly’d said the Avatar had been stolen.
The others groaned and shuffled, as if this was a story they’d heard a thousand times. Blondie stood. “I’m off to patrol. Coming, Hans? Edward?”
The two others got up and joined him, walking away to leave Bran on his own. In the distance, another group of three guardsmen were wrestling a huge, misshapen creature up one of the staircases carved into the stone wall. What the heck is that? A troll?
All Mac could see from that distance was that it wore a tunic of some kind and was bald. Shackles around its wrists, ankles, and waist made climbing the stairs awkward. It lurched, nearly falling. One of the guards poked it with the butt of his spear, saving it from tumbling down the cliff face, but clearly hurting it at the same time. Mac scowled. He hated guys who took advantage of their authority that way. It wasn’t like the prisoner had been trying to escape.
The guards opened the barred door to one of the caves and shoved the creature inside. Well, that answers that question. Some of these caves are indeed cells.
Fuming, Mac returned his attention to the table below. Bran sat like a disgruntled lump. The only thing lacking was a beer to cry in.
The Castle didn’t have beer. Or bratwurst sausages. It truly was hell.
Reynard appeared, walking out from the room below.
“I’m tired to death of writing up the log,” said the captain in his la-di-da accent. He’d always sounded to Mac like he’d just quit his job as an announcer for the BBC. All he needed was a Rolex and a polo pony to complete the GQ picture.
The captain slid onto the bench, his back to Mac. “There are times I’d give anything for another one of those perpetual pens. We need to catch another smuggler and confiscate his wares.”
Perpetual pens? Was he talking about a ballpoint?
“Why not simply do business with the rats?” Bran asked with what came close to a sneer. “Then you could have all the pens and log books you want.”
Reynard’s answer bit the air. “Because smugglers also bring in weapons for the warlords to use against us. I won’t tolerate their presence.”
Bran shrugged. “As you say.”
Mac’s mind skipped away from the conversation. If Reynard had been doing paperwork, the room below was the captain’s office. That would be well worth a look. There might be some indication of where Sylvius was being held— like in the log book. Most officers would record anything of significance, and capturing an incubus surely counted.
If Reynard was sitting outside, that meant the room was probably empty. It was a risk. There might be others there, or supernatural traps he couldn’t anticipate. Still, he’d walked into equally dangerous places as a mere human.
Mere human? His demon was getting carried away again. If there was the slightest chance, he would strive to be human again.
Was that the best thing?
This wasn’t the time to think about it.
Mac dusted and trickled down the rock face, stretching himself out to be as inconspicuous as possible. He reassembled in a crouching position, hiding in the corner.
He got an immediate case of the creeps. Nerves tightened his shoulders to the point of pain. I wish I had backup. Or a warrant. Standard operating procedures. A nice jail cell to pop the bad guy into when the day’s work was done. Dream on. Suck it up.
Staying perfectly still for a long moment, he listened, felt for any movement in the air. Nothing. He could find no reason for his sudden case of nerves, but he knew enough to trust his gut. Cautiously, an inch at a time, he rose from his crouch.
Again, he was in luck. He was alone. The room was dark, all the lights extinguished. Despite good night vision, Mac found himself straining to see detail.
The space was average, about the size of a large bedroom. Two walls were floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with thick, leather-bound tomes, each bearing a number. Were these old log books? For how many years? Were they all Reynard’s work? If so, the guy’d been in the Castle a long, long time.
Anxious, Mac turned to the other side of the room. A comfortable-looking armchair filled one corner, but it was the only sign of rest and relaxation. Beside it was a drab green metal filing cabinet, dinged and scraped in a way that said office surplus. More smuggler’s wares?
At last, his gaze lit on a desk that stood at a right angle to the door. Its surface was cluttered, a candle lamp and inkstand framing an open book the size of a jumbo cereal box. Yes!
Mac inched toward the desk, bracing his sword to his side.
It would be just his luck to knock something over and give himself away.
Then he froze. It was so dark, he’d almost missed them. On the bookshelf, poised like knickknacks, was a series of three boxes. He leaned closer, trying to see by the trickle of firelight that found its way through the open door.
The middle box was red lacquer, exactly matching Connie’s description of the demon-catcher. Instinctively, Mac’s fingers sought out Holly’s charm. It was still there, safe beneath his shirt. With every sense peeled, he reached out, sweeping the air above the boxes.
C’mon, demon, if you’re listening, how about some help here? It answered instantly. There were indeed sentient beings inside those tiny cubes.
Yes! Mac snatched the red one and stuffed it into the pocket of his plaid shirt. The fit was tight, but at least that would keep it from falling out.
“Helping yourself?”
Mac wheeled. Reynard stood in the doorway.
Whoops!
Wasting no time, Mac willed himself to dust.
Nothing happend.
He tried again.
He was trapped.
Inside, the demon yowled in panic, but Mac’s will held on, doggedly trying to put two and two together. Why won’t it work?
He tried yet again with the same result.
Calmly, Reynard struck a match and lit the candle lantern. The whiff of sulphur seemed almost comically appropriate. The candle flared up, highlighting the captain’s face from below. “Macmillan, isn’t it?” he asked pleasantly.
“Yeah.”
Reynard turned, closing the door. Despite the heat in this part of the Castle, his dark hair was neatly tied back, his uniform buttoned, boots polished, and neck cloth perfectly tied. He was either crazy or had steely self-discipline.
“You were a soul eater, if memory serves.” Reynard’s voice didn’t stray from the pleasant, gentleman-to-gentleman tone. “You’ve changed your appearance. Interesting. Well, you’ll find your demon powers don’t work in this room. You can enter in any form you please, but I’m afraid the only way out is on your own two feet.”
“A trap.” Damn. If his dust-engines were down, Mac would try to talk his way out of this. If that failed, he’d just have to fight all forty-odd guardsmen and hoof it back to Connie with the box.
“A trap?” Reynard shrugged. “A precaution, though I have to say you’re the first to ever dare enter here.”
“Call me precocious.”
“I’ll call you prodigal. I thought you had escaped us. But you’re back, I see, and it seems your demon symbiont finally got the upper hand. Opportunistic creatures.”
Mac felt a flicker of something like embarrassment. His muscular body was evidence of how much ground the demon had gained. “Can you tell me how it happened?”
“Ah, took you by surprise, did it?” Reynard clasped his hands behind his back, a faint smile on his lips. “Demon infections are infinitely adaptable. If you encounter strong magic, one strain can mutate to another, taking advantage of the forces around it. You change to better serve your demon’s needs. You grow into its strengths, if you like.”
Mac leaped at the scrap of information. This wasn’t the time to play twenty questions, but he’d take what info he could get. Plus, he needed time to think about an escape.
“I thought the Castle did this,” he said.
Reynard’s smile faded. “Perhaps. The Castle has grown unpredictable, though what it would want with a fire demon is beyond me.”
“Fire demon?”
“I can feel your heat from here.”
“But why . . . ?”
“You won’t have a pretty end, I’m afraid. Its appetites—fed by your emotions—will eventually get the upper hand. Then, whatever you touch will be scorched to ashes.”
“Bullshit!” Mac growled. That can’t be true. I’m not that out of control. But fear and anger blazed inside, bringing his skin to a slippery sweat.
The captain watched him, his expression neutral. “I don’t need to argue the point. I’ll wager you already know the truth of it.”
As he spoke, Reynard reached beside the door, picking up a long, wicked-looking firearm at least as old as Reynard himself. You gotta be kidding me. A musket?
Mac reached for his Sig Sauer just as the muzzle of Reynard’s weapon swung his way. Reynard beat him to the draw. “I’m using silver shot.”
Mac paused, his hand hovering above his holster, eyeing the big, ugly bore aimed at his head. Those old firearms were never as accurate as a modern weapon, but at this range it was impossible not to blow Mac to smithereens.
Mac feinted, grabbing another one of the demon boxes.
“No!” Reynard barked. “Don’t touch that one!”
“Why not?” Mac said, suddenly feeling his chances improve. “Was this one a bad boy? How about this one?” He picked up the last box and tapped the two together just hard enough to make a clacking sound. He felt vaguely foolish, but Reynard looked terrified.
“Why don’t you put down the musket and we’ll talk.”
Clearly reluctant, Reynard lowered the weapon, his eyes deadly. “You fool. Either one of those two demons would tear us all apart. The incubus is a temptation. The creatures in the other two boxes are holocausts.”
Mac looked from one box to the other. “Just the thing to keep around as paperweights. Buy a safe, dumb ass.”
“They need to be seen by the men. They need to be reminded of our victories.”
“Right. Good thinking. Whatever. All I want is the incubus.”
“He’s dangerous.”
“He’s a kid.”
Reynard gave a dry smile. “He’s a monster, just like you. Worse, he’ll make monsters of the rest of us with his seductive powers. The Castle’s hold over our base instincts is slipping already. The influence of an incubus is all that would be needed to turn us into a den of savages.”
The guardsman had been holding his musket in one hand, but the other had reached to the desk behind him, pressing a catch beside one of the drawers. A compartment sprang open.
Mac held up one of the boxes, a black cube of heavy, dense wood. “Don’t try anything stupid. You know, monster that I am, I could crush this in one hand.”
“You would die as quickly as I.”
“So what? If what you say about my future is true, I’m already as good as dead.”
Reynard had withdrawn another box from his desk, this one painted green. He pressed a catch, and the lid sprang open. “It’s a little hard to threaten me from inside here.”
Mac’s heart cartwheeled in alarm.
“I command you to enter!” Reynard barked, just like he would to a wayward private.
Crap!
Mac felt a yank of gravity, as if a dozen vacuums were sucking at his skin. The air around the box flared with cold, brilliant light, vibrations humming just beyond what Mac could truly hear. It rattled his teeth, crushed his temples like someone grinding their knuckles into his skull. He squeezed his watering eyes shut against the light and leaned away from the fierce pull, roaring a protest. Where it lay against his bare chest, the charm bag burned like acid.
But Holly’s magic held. Mac felt the light wink out before he even opened his eyes. Gradually, the pull on his flesh faded. He stumbled a little, adjusting as he no longer needed to dig in his heels.
Reynard had one arm lifted to shield his eyes. As he lowered it, his jaw dropped a little as he saw Mac still standing there, a box in either hand and the red one in his pocket.
“Surprise, Merlin. The mojo ain’t working,” Mac said in a low, warning voice. “Now stop fooling around and let me go. That incubus has someone waiting for him at home.”
“Did Atreus send you?” Reynard hissed.
“No way. I sent me, because it was the right thing to do. But let’s not get sidetracked.”
The door flung open. Bran hulked in the doorway. “You!”
“Don’t come any closer. I’m armed,” Mac waggled one of the lit
tle boxes, and felt ridiculous.
“Obey him, Bran,” said Reynard, not taking his eyes off Mac. “He’s taken hostages.”
Great. I’m in an armed standoff with demonic gift boxes. He held the black box in the palm of his hand, curling his fingers around it. “What’s the magic password out of here?”
Bran looked at his captain sharply. Reynard’s eyes were on the box.
“Don’t make me do this, Reynard. I just want to correct a mistake.”
“Demons lie,” said Reynard.
“So do humans.”
“Demons have no honor.”
“You broke a heart when you took this boy. I’m setting that right.”
Reynard gave him a long look. “You won’t smash those boxes.”
“So you’re willing to gamble that I’m a good monster? You can’t have it both ways. I’m evil or I’m not.”
“You argue like an attorney.”
“Low blow, Captain, but I’ll tell you one thing. I’m no coward. Call my bluff and I’ll play my cards.”
A beat passed.
Reynard said a word in a strange tongue. Mac felt the atmosphere in the room lift, as if someone had thrown open a window. Whatever spell had kept him from dusting away was gone.
“Captain!” Bran roared, and launched himself at Mac.
The guardsman was too quick. Mac went sprawling, the boxes flying from his hands. His head cracked against the bookcase, but he rolled Bran over, smashing a fist into Bran’s jaw. Roaring to the surface, his demon flooded his mind with a need for scalding, red violence. Mac’s skin flared, fiery-hot. Seizing Bran like an overpacked gym bag, he tossed him across the room with a snarl.
Reynard’s musket went off with a boom. Mac twisted, dancing away from the silver shot that slammed into the filing cabinet. A plume of acrid smoke clogged the air. Reckless with rage, Mac grabbed the musket by the barrel, ripping it from Reynard’s hand and flinging it behind him. Then he grabbed the captain by the arm, wrenching him closer.
Reynard was a strong man in his own right, but his feet left the floor with the force of Mac’s one-handed tug. Mac slammed him against the bookcase, holding him by the throat, forcing him to teeter on his toes. The buttons on the captain’s coat had come undone, and his shirt gaped open to reveal the blue tattoos beneath. The mark of the guardsmen. It looked incongruous against the oh-so-civilized officer’s skin.
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