Scorched

by Sharon Ashwood

  And he looked so handsome. Like the men in the magazines but better because it was him, Conall Macmillan, dressed like a prince but with a devil’s twinkle in his eyes.

  He took her out of the Castle in a cloud of dust. The first sensation on becoming solid again was the wash of rainfresh space around her. The next was Mac sliding her arm over his, as if she was worthy of the finest courtesy. For that night, she would believe she was. He had promised to look after her. To make this night her own.

  Her memory of his promise quieted the butterflies in her stomach. She felt awestruck, intimidated and giddily happy—but no hint of monstrous hunger.

  Oh, the bliss! There were lights everywhere as they strolled around the corner and a street or two away to a building with BABA YAGA’S hung in bright, glowing pink letters above the door. She tried not to stare open-mouthed at the fiery sign—so strange and pretty!—just as she tried not to gape at the cars or the tall buildings or the other people striding so confidently past. She didn’t want to look like a baby bird stretching its beak for worms. She had to look like she belonged on Mac’s arm. Oh, the bliss!

  Once they had passed beneath the pink sign, a man dressed in black and white, his clothes every bit as fine and formal as Mac’s, greeted them with, “This way, please.” He shepherded them through a maze of tables draped in white. Constance allowed herself one look around, telling herself not to stare.

  “What do you think?” Mac whispered in her ear.

  The high-ceilinged room was filled with people in fine clothes, and there were flowers and candles everywhere. Serving men and women hovered nearby, just as they had in her day in houses of the rich. Or so she’d been told. What did she know? She’d lived her life in the barn with the cows. “It’s beautiful.”

  He smiled down at her, giving her hand a squeeze. She would have died of joy if she wasn’t dead already. They settled at a table by the far wall, and the servant disappeared. Constance glanced around again. Some of the other diners were human, some weren’t. She could smell werewolf.

  Her attention settled on Mac. His hair was freshly trimmed. Every other female was turning to stare at him, and so they should. He was good to look at but, more than that, he had a dark, electric presence that turned heads.

  And his gaze was on her, his eyes both hungry and soft. His expression promised, well, everything. Constance was eager to see where that slight curve of his lips might lead.

  Another servant arrived and asked about wine. Mac gave his order and turned back to her, his focus like a physical weight.

  They had barely spoken a word. It was as if they were both tongue-tied, talking only with glances and the occasional squeeze of the hand. None of the magazine articles—not even the new, modern magazines—had made a date sound this good. None of those silly writers had ever been with Mac—though they had invaluable advice about many things, like how to shave her legs. It was a good thing she healed fast.

  The man came back with the wine. At the end of the ritual of tasting and label reading, he poured some into Constance’s glass and left. She looked at the straw-colored liquid doubtfully.

  “Can I drink that?” she whispered.

  “Vampires seem to like a little bit of wine,” Mac said. “I wouldn’t drink too much all at once.”

  She tried it. It tasted odd, but then, she’d only ever drunk ale. Of course, after a few hundred years of nothing to eat or drink, her memory might be off.

  “There are humans eating with nonhumans,” she said in an undertone. “Is that usual?”

  Mac picked a stick of bread out of a napkin-covered basket. “Here it is. Some humans like to be near supernaturals. Some don’t. Some think it’s, uh, trendy. Kind of a walk on the wild side.”

  “Wild side? What do they think will happen?”

  “Who knows? Most of the supernaturals here just want to get on with their lives.”

  Constance took another glance around, amazed at the number of nonhumans casually chatting over their meals. She could run away from the Castle. She could find work and make a life for herself.

  The possibilities, and perhaps the unfamiliar wine, were making her giddy. Licking her lips, she tasted the perfumed flavor of her lipstick. Mac’s gifts had included a tiny pot of bright red gloss. Blood red. Another detail that made her feel wanton and just a little bit dangerous. Had that been Mac’s idea?

  She smiled at Mac, who was systematically demolishing the bread. “Tell me about this lady friend who helped you find my clothes.”

  “Holly is a good friend. She enchanted your new clothes so that they would be sure to fit, and then she enchanted my old clothes so that I could still wear them. A practical woman.”

  “She’s a sorceress?”

  “A witch.” Mac smiled back. “And she’s very much in love with a vampire.”

  “Oh.”That made Constance feel much better, both because Holly was spoken for—and also that vampires were loved.

  “Say,” Mac said, sliding his thumb over the back of her hand. The gesture of gentle possession sent a thrill to her core. “We need to pick which movie to go to. What kind do you want to see?”

  Constance felt a wave of confusion. She’d read about movies and knew they were a pleasurable entertainment, but only had a tenuous understanding of what they actually involved. She grabbed at the only title she could remember. “I want to see Gone with the Wind.”

  Mac’s face went carefully blank. “I think that one might have left town already. We can rent it later, but let’s try for something else tonight.”

  “Perhaps we should see something you like,” she suggested, hoping to appear gracious rather than hopelessly out of touch.

  “Hmm, well, there are what they call girl movies and boy movies. If we went to something I picked, you probably wouldn’t like it.”

  Constance let herself be distracted by one of the servants setting a dish of food alight. “Now why would they burn their food like that? Didn’t they leave the meat on the spit long enough?” She turned back to Mac. He looked like he was trying not to laugh, which irritated her. “What do you mean, I wouldn’t like your choice? Why wouldn’t I like what you like?”

  “I could be wrong. I look forward to sitting with you over a long, relaxing evening and finding out. But first, maybe we should try for a romantic comedy.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Something funny with a happy ending.”

  Constance was mollified. “I think I’d like that.”

  “See? I know something about these things.”

  “What’s to say I wouldn’t like something weighty and serious?”

  “You probably would, but then I’d fall asleep. I’m not good with that sort of film.”

  “Not even to improve your soul?”

  “My soul is warped beyond what a movie can fix.”

  “I believe it. The last book you brought me has things in it my mother wouldn’t approve of.”

  “Do you disapprove?” He gave her a quick grin.

  Constance struggled not to smile. “I don’t know. I’d have to try them out before I could make up my mind. You’re corrupting me, Conall Macmillan.”

  “I am a demon.”

  “That’s no excuse not to live right.”

  The servant sailed by, took Mac’s food order, and refilled their glasses. It seemed like a good signal to change the subject. Constance asked questions about the food she saw pass by, the clothes of the other patrons, the buildings on the street outside, and anything else that caught her eye. Mac answered each one so patiently she began to feel sorry for him. She worked the subject around to a topic he might find more interesting.

  “Did you find anything out from Atreus?” Constance had eventually heard about Mac’s rescue of the woman named Ashe, but he hadn’t said much more than that.

  Mac shook his head, putting one hand over hers again, slowly caressing it with his thumb. The feel of it sent shivers all the way up her shamefully bare arm. “I wasn’t sure what wa
s real.”

  “What did he say?”

  Constance leaned closer to the table, careful to keep her shoulders back. The dress, with so little fabric to keep it in place, kept inching toward full disclosure. Mac’s gaze slid toward the fall of black silk over her breasts, as if will alone could nudge it aside. She glimpsed the hot, red glitter in his eyes that seemed to surface when Mac was aroused. The demon was stirring just below his skin, bringing an almost scalding heat to his hand.

  She tingled with the anticipation of what might come later that night.

  “What do you know about the Avatar?” he asked.

  “Ah,” she said. “I know some of the story.”

  “Tell me.”

  Mac’s food came, forcing their hands apart. The rich smell steaming off Mac’s plate made her vampire stomach queasy. As she sat back, he selected a knife and fork from the vast array spread across the table and began eating. Constance was relieved she didn’t have to cope with picking the right silverware—that would surely show how much of a peasant she truly was.

  She turned her mind to Mac’s question. “There may be truth and lies mixed together.”

  “Just tell me what you know.” The look he gave her came from another side of him—direct, precise, and unrelenting—that had nothing to do with dresses and dates.

  She cleared her throat. “The Avatar belonged to the Castle. She was its spirit. She made the wind and the sun and the forests.”

  “Not the prison for monsters we have now?”

  “Yes and no. The version of the story I know is this: Once upon a time, nine sorcerer kings decided they should be the only ones to have magical powers. So with a mighty spell they made a prison for all the other supernatural beings and called it the Castle. Then the common people began to distrust the sorcerers and no longer wanted them to rule their lands. After a long battle, the sorcerers retreated into the Castle. But now, because it was their new home, they created the Avatar to make sun and wind and forests, and she turned the Castle into a beautiful haven.”

  Mac cut into his steak. Pink juice pooled around the cut. “So originally it was nice?”

  Constance’s eyes were drawn to the juice. The bones behind her eye teeth began to hurt, aching to bite. She drank more wine, denying a sudden stab of worry. He’ll be through with the meat soon, and then it will be all right. “Yes, but the magic of the Avatar failed long ago and the Castle became what you see now.”

  “Why did it fail?”

  “Atreus used his sorcery to turn the Avatar into a living woman. It took hundreds and hundreds of years, but as he did, her power over the Castle faded. All her magic went to flesh and blood, and the Castle gradually became the dungeon you see now.”

  His fork drooped in his hand. “So you knew this all along? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  Constance felt the tiniest stab of irritation. “You never asked about it. I had no idea you wanted to know.”

  But he was already onto the next point. “Atreus said he killed the Avatar. He said she was the mother of his child.”

  Constance took a quick breath of surprise. “A child? I hadn’t heard that. As to killing her—everyone thinks she simply died! Legend has it he kept her in the Summer Room. That’s why it’s special.”

  “She lived in the Summer Room? Do you think that’s true?”

  “I don’t know. I only first found it a little while ago. It’s all but forgotten.”

  Mac took a bite, chewed. “I wonder why he killed her. If he did it. Or when.”

  Nausea bumped at her stomach. “Who knows? Nobody can remember ever seeing her. Or maybe he’s making it up. He’s mad.”

  Mac stopped, his fork raised halfway to his mouth. “I’m sorry. This is lousy dinner conversation.”

  She turned the salt shaker around in her hand, trying not to look at the bloody steak. “Don’t apologize. You like solving puzzles. I do, too.”

  He put his fork down, reached across the table, and squeezed her fingers. His touch was hot, making the skin over her entire body flare with interest. “Thank you.”

  That made her smile. “I think the reason men and women date is all about anticipation.”

  His smile was very male. “I’ll skip dessert.”

  “Don’t you want the anticipation to last?”

  “I’m only human.” A confused look came over his face. “Or not.”

  She grinned. “Come now, love is like a ballad. It has to have plenty of verses.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. I know those old Celtic songs. Everyone always dies horribly at the end, usually at a wedding feast. I’ll have no part of those.”

  Connie pouted. “But the dance tunes always come after.”

  “Celts. A bunch of manic-depressive maniacs with bagpipes.”

  “That’s unkind.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “That’s my relations. I’m descended from sheep thieves who backed the wrong king.”

  Constance looked down. “My family—we just were. We had no land of our own.”

  “Hardly anybody does anymore.”

  She met his eyes. They looked soft, and a little amused. “Why not?”

  “It’s different now. There’s lots of ways to make a living besides farming. Anyone can go to school, men or women. That means you, if you wanted to.”

  “But Atreus taught me to read and write.”

  “That’s just opening the door. There’s an entire world over that threshold.”

  The statement should have been electrifying, but Constance barely heard it. She was dizzy with wonderment and wine—and something else. The bones behind her teeth ached, jagged stabs of pain where her venom was supposed to be stored. This doesn’t feel right. Common sense said she should go back to the Castle immediately, but she was damned if she was going to end this evening now. It had barely begun. She raised her eyes to see Mac giving her a curious look.

  She used a line she’d read in one of the magazines. “Excuse me, I need to freshen up.”

  Picking up her tiny black clutch, she made her way toward the ladies’ room, careful of her high heels.

  Moving helped. So did getting away from the smell of Mac’s dinner. There was enough beef on his plate to feed a family for a week. Who knew even a demon could eat that much!

  Mac was so different. He wasn’t a lord’s son or a farmer. He was nothing like the vampire who had tried to Turn her. That one had been an English soldier, or at least someone who wore a soldier’s uniform. Lieutenant Clarendon. He’d given her pretty gifts—a silver thimble, a wooden case for her needles—until she’d agreed to meet him by the brook one moonlit night.

  Constance found the door with the outline of a woman stenciled on it. She pushed it open.

  Looking back, she wondered how long Clarendon had been a vampire himself. He’d been charming, but not like any of the older vampires she’d come across in the Castle. To think she’d been caught by a fledgling. It was all rather embarrassing now.

  She set her handbag on the counter and stared at the sink. She wanted to cool herself off with water, but now she was flummoxed. There were traces of water in the sink, but no sign of where it had come from.

  Irritability swamped her. She clenched her fists, sharp nails digging into her palms. The pain felt good, like an itch scratched.

  Taps. Faucet. She’d seen pictures. Constance grabbed the tap and wrenched it, water gushing in a sudden spray. It splashed her dress.

  “Damn!” She wrenched it off just as quickly. She looked back at herself from the mirror, ethereally pale. Her eyes were too dark, her lips too red. Death.

  The door swung open, another woman walking in. The blonde wore a suit of champagne silk. Long hair piled on top of her head, ringlets falling at her temples. She smelled of iris and thick human blood. Mac’s scent had tempted her, but this aroma was almost unbearably delicious.

  Constance started to tremble, suddenly very, very hungry. Oh, no!

  “Are you all right?” the woman asked. “Oh, look
, you’re all wet.”

  She grabbed a fluffy hand towel out of the basket on the counter and held it out to Constance. Constance took it, careful not to touch her. “Thank you. I had an accident with the tap,” she said softly.

  “It’ll dry,” the woman said cheerily, pulling out a tube of lipstick and leaning into the mirror. She’d been drinking. The lipstick application wasn’t going well.

  Constance looked down at herself, numbly blotting at the water stains. Strength ebbed from her limbs, leaving a strange rubbery sensation behind. The towel slipped from her fingers, dropping on her toes. Her mind was fading to a white haze, forgetting everything. Her name. Her will. Everything but the imperative to survive.

  “Oh, dear. Let me.” The woman bent to rescue the towel.

  Constance pounced, wrenching the woman’s head aside just as she started to rise, towel in hand. It happened so fast, even Constance had trouble following the speed of her own movements. The woman tried to wrench away, but that excited the hunter inside Constance. She snatched her tight with the quick efficiency of a mouser.

  Somewhere deep down beneath the white haze, Constance was horrified, but couldn’t do a thing about what her body was doing. She licked the skin just beneath the woman’s ear, tracing the clean arch of her jaw and down the warm hollow where the pulse beat like the frantic flight of a bird. There was a gagging taste of perfumed lotion, beneath that a burst of hot, salty, succulent human. The taste flirted with Constance’s tongue like nothing else—it was better than the wine. Better than cool water on a hot, dusty day. It was life itself, dark and earthy.

  An odd, almost painful pressure in her sinuses told Constance her fangs ached to release their venom—but there was nothing to come. No poison waited, ready to give ecstasy. She wasn’t a full vampire. Not yet.

  The woman whimpered, dread freezing her, making her pliant from sheer terror. She raised a hand to Constance’s hair, her fight for freedom now no more than a pleading embrace.

  The dance of death.

  Constance felt her meal’s pulse speed under her lips, quick and fast, titillating the dark hole gnawing in Constance’s gut. This one woman wouldn’t fill that hole. There would have to be others.