Scorched

by Sharon Ashwood

  But he was talking to himself. There wasn’t a separate being inside anymore. He was it. All there was. The realization startled him, but he shoved it aside. He could think about that later.

  He could feel his skin burning, demon heat washing over his limbs. The smell of hot fabric hovered, like his clothes were going to ignite. That could be embarrassing and painful.

  Finally, movement. His finger twitched. You’re going to have to do better than that.

  Atreus was ranting. “First Viktor turned on me, retreating to his beast form. Then Josef stole away. Even my little girl has left me.”

  Mac’s mind raced. Okay. Back to saving the hostage. If he went to his demon form holding an object, it traveled with him. Would that work with another living creature? Or would it go horribly wrong?

  Atreus thumped him in the back again. “What did you come to steal from me? What?”

  Mac stayed in his facedown position, doing his best to look cowed and helpless. He had come seeking his humanity. Now his priority was saving Ashe. Still, he might grab something from this fiasco. He moved a foot and an arm. The paralysis was wearing off. Thank God.

  “I came to ask questions.”

  Atreus’s zigzagging path stopped in front of Mac, mere inches from his face. Mac could see the sorcerer’s embroidered shoes, the threadbare toes padded and curled upward to gentle points. There were stray threads on both points, as if some of the glass beads that dotted the design had fallen off.

  “What did you come here to ask?” Atreus demanded. “I will only grant one question. I am busy with matters of state.”

  One question. There were so many, and they all led back to the Castle.

  “Who was the Avatar?”

  Atreus went utterly still. “She was the mother of my child. I made her from the sun and the rain, and then I killed her.” The regret in his voice was gray and cold as the winter ocean.

  Huh?

  Was that madness, metaphor, or domestic homicide?

  Atreus turned and walked to the throne, and mounted it. He settled, spreading the skirts of his robes over his knees so that the folds hung perfectly. He rested his hands on the heavily carved arms of the throne, and looked down on the room as if it were crowded with his subjects begging for favors. He nodded, gesturing graciously to people who weren’t there.

  “Alas,” he mumbled. “Only real life makes more life. My creations can but hold the limited strength of my sorcery.”

  A forensic psychologist would have a field day with this one. If Atreus hadn’t been so bloody dangerous, Mac would have felt pity.

  There wasn’t time for that. Ashe’s breathing was getting raspy. Mac tried to estimate if he and Ashe were in the sorcerer’s peripheral vision. He couldn’t tell. He would have to gamble. His skin prickled with heat as he gathered strength.

  He dusted, re-forming almost on top of her. Ashe’s eyes were huge, staring into his with blind panic. She was trying to push him off, but all the strength had left her limbs. “What happened to you? You’re burning hot!”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “You’re a demon!”

  “And a Sagittarius. It’s your lucky day.”

  Atreus was wheeling out of his throne, arms raised like Zeus about to chuck a thunderbolt. Mac wrapped his arms around Ashe, and willed them both to dust.

  It was a weirdly intimate sensation. He felt them dissolve, felt the crack of force as power snapped against the stones where they’d been. Just in time.

  Mac slithered ponderously through the Castle, mere inches from the ground. It was hard to carry another person, achingly difficult. Mac didn’t bother with following any proper path. He cut through floors and walls in a beeline for the door.

  Once outside, he let his passenger materialize first, carefully re-forming all things that were Ashe into Ashe before he solidified himself. The last thing he wanted was to end up as Mashe.

  They were sitting on the cedar-block surface of the alley, Ashe’s back against the old, stained bricks of the wall. Mac was kneeling, facing her, his jeans soaking up moisture from the ragged grass poking through the blocks. It had rained while they were inside.

  “Oh, Goddess.” Ashe clutched her side, her face pulling into a rictus of pain.

  The hellhounds were back and crowding around, one talking on his cell.

  “Call an ambulance,” Mac ordered the one with the phone. Mac grabbed Ashe’s shoulders. She was slowly falling over, slumping to the ground. He helped her down, cushioning her head on his hand until one of the hounds offered his jacket as a pillow.

  Ashe watched him with pain-hazed eyes. “You saved my ass in there,” she said.

  “Please tell me I didn’t waste my time,” he replied.

  “You gonna lecture me now?”

  “Your sister would like me to.” He didn’t really have the energy.

  Ashe pulled her mouth in what might have been a grin. “Holly doesn’t get a vote. She’s in bed with a monster.”

  Mac sighed wearily. “So who likes their brother-in-law? Get over it.”

  “She’s my baby sister,” Ashe whispered.

  He could already hear sirens. Help was on the way.

  Mac gently turned Ashe’s chin so he could look into her eyes. She was fading in and out of consciousness, but he had to get his point across. “Let me tell you about Alessandro Caravelli. He gave up everything—his queen, his job, his rank—to be with her. He nearly gave his life to rescue her. He’s a special guy. Holly’s a special woman. Don’t mess with them.”

  Ashe closed her eyes.

  “Just think about this,” Mac said more gently. “I don’t have a problem with you being a hunter and taking out the real villains, but don’t turn into the thing you hate.”

  “Or you’ll kick my ass.”

  “Damned straight.”

  The ambulance pulled up at the mouth of the alley, the doors flinging open. The hellhounds were just as rapidly making themselves scarce. Great. Leave me with the mess.

  Two paramedics were pounding down the alley, a tall blond man in the front. “What happened?” the leader asked.

  Mac’s mind went blank for an instant. “Uh—she was hit by a motorcycle.”

  He heard a small noise from Ashe. He fixed her with a glare. “A Ducati. Came whizzing right down the alley. Could’ve killed her.”

  Standing back, he let the ambulance guys do their thing. One started back to the ambulance almost immediately, calling for the stretcher.

  “Sir, are you a relative?” asked the other.

  “No. You tell me where you’re taking her and I’ll call her family. They’ll meet you there.”

  “Are you sure it was a motorcycle accident?”

  “Yeah,” muttered Ashe, her voice gone thready. “Didn’t catch the license.”

  The stretcher was rattling down the alley on wheels, pushed by the second attendant. She’d be gone soon, taken away and patched up to fight another day. That was the problem.

  Mac knelt beside her one last time. “Ashe. Behave yourself. Don’t come back here.”

  The paramedic gave him a curious look. Ashe took in a couple of short breaths, saving up enough air to speak. She grabbed Mac’s hand.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I won’t forget it.”

  Mac got out of the way while they loaded Ashe onto the stretcher. He watched them go as he took out his phone to call Holly. All he could see of Ashe now were the soles of her boots.

  She was brave. He had to give her that.

  Unfortunately, now his slim hope of learning anything from Atreus was lost.

  Chapter 19

  October 7, 1:00 p.m.

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  I’m revoltingly smitten.

  Constance sat in the hall with the black lake, curled up on one of the hard stone benches with her arms wrapped around her knees.

  Mac! The name brought a sweet tightness to her stomach, like she was about to leap down, down from a dizzying height. Girlish emotions to go with her girlish form.

  Revoltingly, hopelessly smitten. For shame, Constance! You’re not a child anymore.

  But why not indulge? She was imagining herself opening the door of her dream house, wearing one of the elegant dresses from her magazines—the later ones, when skirts shamefully revealed the knees. She imagined the shoes, too. They had beautiful thin, tall heels that proved the woman who wore them never worked a day in her life. Truly, no one wearing those blade-thin stilts could lift a pail or scrub a floor.

  She would be opening the door to well-dressed guests, who would all tell her she was beautiful. Mac would be at her side, looking on, proud of her and the way she kept their home.

  What a glorious life. Nothing like mine.

  If she walked into the world of beautiful houses and pretty shoes, she would become a killing nightmare. Nothing was worth that—not unless it was a crisis of life and death.

  And Sylvius was safe now. She had no moral right to hunt. Even if the guardsmen stole her child away again, Mac was ready to help her. Why would she need full vampire powers? Now she could remain as she was with no blood on her conscience.

  She’d faced that truth when she’d let the female warrior go—and, as if to prove that the decision had been right, that strange woman had stood guard as Constance led her family out of harm’s way.

  No, Constance did not need to change.

  Ever.

  She could stay as she was, eternally.

  She was beginning to feel like a jar of preserves slowly going off. She wanted to taste the magazine world—Mac’s world—with him. Maybe standing at night in some city scene, the artificial lights winking like earthbound stars, and she would be wearing pretty shoes.

  Since when did the world hand you what you wanted? Remember what Lore said: Be careful how you barter with destiny.

  That had to be wrong. She was tired of living like a ghost, of relying on other people to order her life for her—be it the lord of her childhood home, or Atreus, or even Mac. Even if he wanted the best for her, it seemed unwise to rely on him completely for the safety of herself and her son. Shouldn’t a vampire, even half a vampire, have some power of her own?

  Those were rebellious thoughts for a peasant girl who had started out milking cows and then spent centuries as Atreus’s servant, but they wouldn’t leave her alone. She could feel her life changing, and her courage waxed and waned like the moon—now strong and bright, now all but disappearing. That change felt out of control, like a horse gone wild. There was no telling what path it would take.

  Wishing had to count for something, and Constance wished with all her might for that moment with Mac, the romance of the city streets all around her. Romance in their hearts. That beautiful scene. If she could will her life one way, that was it.

  Sylvius sat down on the bench beside her, quiet as falling snow. “You’re thinking of him,” he said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  With one finger, he touched the pendant she wore, and which he had made. “Macmillan makes you happy. That’s good.”

  She looked into Sylvius’s face. The time he had spent in the demon box had left its mark. His black eyes, so startling against his pale complexion, seemed older in ways she couldn’t name.

  “Should I worry that Mac is a demon now?”

  “So am I,” Sylvius said calmly. His smile was teasing.

  How he’s growing up. He’s truly not a child anymore. “You’re an incubus. Your strength is love, not violence.”

  “Your Macmillan is a protector. The world needs both. And besides, you like him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m not blind.”

  “Children shouldn’t think of their mothers that way.”

  “I’m not stupid, either. And besides, I’m old enough now to find my own way. You’ll need a new project.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m a young incubus about town.”

  He’d been reading her magazines. “So your mother is that easy to shrug off?”

  He laughed. “Never. You’ll always be my mother, but I can’t always be a boy.”

  Sylvius folded his wings tight against his back, making them all but invisible. He nonetheless looked no more human. Though strong and lean as any handsome youth, there was no mistaking him for one of the farm lads back home. It would be like comparing a fledgling eagle to a flock of geese.

  I raised this beautiful, wise young creature. Fancy that. “I don’t know what I would have done if Mac hadn’t brought you back.” She felt the tingle of tears.

  “You would have come for me.” He kissed her forehead. “You’re as much a warrior as your man.”

  She looked away. “I’m not Turned.”

  “You could be.”

  “Lore says if I leave the Castle, I will turn into some savage beast.”

  Sylvius laughed. “I can’t see that.”

  She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Lore’s people have the gift of prophecy.”

  “And sometimes Lore lives like he is holding a broken cup in his two hands, afraid to let go in case the pieces fall.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Maybe the pieces need to fall, so that our hands can be free.”

  Constance leaned against him. “It’s not that simple, and you just like to argue.”

  He squeezed her. “Leap toward happiness.”

  Easy for a love demon to say. Constance laughed softly, afraid of the temptations brewing in her soul. Whether he knew it or not, Sylvius was telling her what she wanted to hear.

  “I gave you this to open your heart.” He touched the pendant again. “It worked. Don’t undo the good it’s brought you. You can live in fear or be the person you dream yourself to be.”

  “The good it brought me? Sylvius, is this really a love charm?” She clutched the pendant. “I raised you better than that!”

  “It can’t make you fall in love. It just shows you possibilities. Apparently, you liked the possibility you saw.”

  Constance was speechless; then she swallowed hard. “That’s . . . that’s . . .”

  Sylvius looked smug. “Your Mac is here to see you.”

  “Here? Now?” she rose, rounding the edge of the stone bench, more than ready to go.

  Sylvius got to his feet, jumped to the top of the bench, then off again, spreading his wings to float down beside her. “He made Lore come and put wards of protection all over the Summer Room door. He did the rooms next door, too, so I can sleep there.”

  Sylvius looked a little defiant, but Constance said nothing. It was only right he had a private space of his own, even if she was still fretting whenever he was out of sight. It was going to take her a while to get over their recent scare. To come up with a better plan than hiding behind locked doors, whatever wards the hellhounds put on them.

  She wished she could leave the Castle. Maybe Sylvius should.

  He watched her expression carefully. “Nothing stays the same forever, little mother. All things change. It’s up to us to make them better.”

  Constance found a smile and forced it to her lips. He touched her cheek. His hand was warm, the gesture full of the soft, gentle magic of the incubus. Soft as the sunlight she’d almost forgotten. Soothing. Calming.

  Her smile started to bloom of its own accord. Mac was waiting for her. Everything was going to be wonderful.

  She wished it with all her heart.

  Sylvius took Viktor to his newly warded chambers, leaving Constance and Mac alone in the Summer Room.

  She looked up, falling into the rich brown of Mac’s gaze. He looked tired, b
ut happy to see her. They kissed, and she felt the inevitable need to draw him closer, search the kiss for more secrets and pleasures. To give him comfort.

  “Did you talk to Atreus?” she asked when they broke apart. There was a lingering grimness about him. She wanted to know why.

  Mac brushed the hair back from her forehead. “I did. Sort of. It’s a long story. Let’s talk about that later. I need something else right now. Just for a few minutes.”

  “What would that be?”

  “You. I need you to make me forget the day.”

  He kissed her again, letting his hands slide up her ribs, caressing her waist, her breasts, finally cupping her face with exquisite tenderness.

  “Do women in the outside world kiss the same way?” Constance asked when they finally allowed air to come between them. Part of her was afraid to ask. The rest of her couldn’t resist.

  “Not nearly so well,” he said with a quick grin. “But d’you know what men and women do, when they want to get to know each other better?”

  “What might that be?” Constance twined her arms around his neck, allowing him to sit on the massive, heavy sofa and draw her onto his knee. His strong, broad chest made the best cushion in the world.

  “They go out someplace nice and spend time with each other.”

  “On a date?” She’d seen the word in the magazines.

  “Yeah. A date.”

  “In my time we called it courting.”

  “Remember I said you should come see my world sometime?”

  Constance felt her stomach drop like a bucket down a well. She remembered. He’d said it in the haze after lovemaking. She didn’t think he’d remember. “I remember.”

  Mac gave another grin. “Miss Moore, would you go on a date with me tomorrow night?”

  She opened her mouth to say no, but he looked too hopeful. He wasn’t like Lore, telling her she’d turn to a ravening, murderous beast the moment she set foot outside the Castle door. Which is the truth?

  She looked away in confusion, her gaze dropping to the shining, lovely magazines he had brought. New ones, still smelling of fresh ink. They were better than jewels. They were filled with fuel for a thousand dreams. “I don’t have anything to wear.”