The woman was whimpering. “Please, please, please,” over and over, her voice that of a frightened child.
Mother of God, what am I doing?
At some point, they’d sunk to the cold tile, a dizzying pattern of black and white hexagons. Constance closed her eyes. She wanted to throw up, retch, tear herself away, but she clung to her victim. Survival instinct had taken over, her body doing what it had to over her mind’s objections.
Her teeth pressed into the woman’s neck, denting the skin, but she couldn’t find the courage to drive them home. She didn’t want to cause pain. Or tear. She wanted to be neat, as if in some crazy way that would make things all right.
The woman was crying. Her hand lay limp against the stark tiles, graceful in defeat.
Constance started to cry, too, every bit as frightened.
I can’t stop. I can’t do it.
The woman writhed, a sudden buck against Constance’s grip. She bit down, a predator gripping its struggling prey. Red splattered the floor.
Holy mother! Blood welled into her mouth, a surprising, hot burst.
Constance shuddered, her body close to a swoon as centuries of denial suddenly ended. She had been starving and had not even known it.
She heard the door open, almost physically felt the intruder’s shock. The newcomer’s scream sawed through her, giving Constance the impetus to raise her head. She snarled, baring her fangs, jealous of her prey.
“Vampire!” the intruding woman screamed just before she scrambled away.
I’ve finally done it. I’m the real thing now.
Cold fear—of herself, of the humans who would come after her—drove Constance to her feet.
Chapter 21
Mac saw Connie shoot out of the washroom at warp speed, glasses and flowers flying from the tables as she dashed for the door. “Vampire attack!” someone screamed. “Somebody call an ambulance!”
Oh, shit. Connie was running for her life. She had slipped.
He had broken his promise to make sure she wouldn’t get into trouble.
But she’d seemed okay.
Mac was after her in an instant, vaulting over the half wall that blocked his table from a clear path to the exit. There were a couple of others running, too, including one of the werewolf diners. There was always rough justice for a rogue vamp. Mac couldn’t let that happen.
Time to cheat. Mac dusted, materializing ahead of Connie. She ran straight into him, knocking them both to the pavement. The light fabric of his dress slacks did nothing to buffer the smack of the gritty road.
“Let me go!” she snarled, her blood-smeared face contorted with pain. “I need to get away!”
She tried to stand, but fell to her hands and knees and curled up, her forehead touching the ruined skirt of her dress.
Mac took her by the shoulders, feeling her body tremble. He couldn’t tell if she was sick or in shock, and there was no time to figure it out. One of the werewolves had changed and was bolting ahead of the others, still in his necktie and howling for blood.
Shit! Mac grabbed Connie and dusted.
It was one thing to carry someone out of the Castle. It was another to take a passenger any distance. He made it as far as he could, a churchyard about eight blocks east, and materialized on one of the iron park benches. The cold metal felt good, like a makeshift ice pack. Everything ached as if he’d run a marathon.
Connie was dead weight, her strength utterly gone. She slumped over, resting her head on his knees, skin cold and clammy. Vampires had a lower body temperature, but this felt like she’d been refrigerated. Mac stripped off his jacket and draped it over her, wondering whether she could even feel the cold at this point. Her eyelids flickered open. Even in the darkness, he could see they were clouded.
“Connie,” he said, bending to her ear. Her old-fashioned perfume wafted up to him, mixing with the scent of blood and shampoo. She didn’t respond. She didn’t even blink.
Mac’s stomach turned to a cold, hard lump. Something had gone wrong. He’d seen death before. It looked a lot like this. No, no, no!
“Connie?”
He had no idea how to help her. Hot, impotent anger flared. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to smack himself for not watching her every second.
There was no emergency room that would deal with a Turning vampire, healthy or sick. He needed another vamp—one he could trust. Mac flipped open his cell phone and dialed Holly’s house, praying Caravelli was home.
One thing went right that night. The T-Bird screeched to a halt in front of the church ten minutes later. Mac heard the door slam and Caravelli ran into view. The vampire was muttering something in Italian—a prayer or a curse, Mac couldn’t tell.
The vampire paused long enough to take in Mac’s altered form, and then bent over Connie. He carefully turned her face so that he could look at her.
“She’s unconscious,” Mac said.
Caravelli felt her skin, lifted one eyelid, looked at her teeth. “She’s barely Turned. Whoever made her knew nothing.”
“What does she need?” Mac demanded, cradling her head with one hand. “Whatever it is, I’ll get it.”
Caravelli looked at him for a long moment. “You realize she’s harmed an innocent.”
Don’t you dare! But Caravelli did dare. It was his job to keep the monsters in line.
Mac swore. “It was my fault. She tried to tell me. I didn’t listen and took her out of the Castle, anyway.”
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t understand. I thought I could handle anything that came up.”
Caravelli swore again, using words Mac didn’t know. But the vampire’s tone said it all.
Mac smoothed back her hair. It had fallen out of its pins and was strewn across his lap like swatches of dark silk. His skin was growing hot, the demon inside him suffering as much as the man. “Do something, for God’s sake!”
A beat passed. Something in Caravelli’s posture softened. “All right. She needs strong blood. Vampire blood. Her first sire wasn’t old enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“Not enough power to successfully Turn her, for one thing.” Caravelli was stripping off his leather jacket. He wore a faded Grateful Dead T-shirt underneath. “Making a vampire isn’t easy, but some idiot always thinks he can do it on the sly.”
“And if an amateur job goes wrong?”
“If they’re both lucky, the victim dies.” He nodded at Connie. “From what you said to Holly, the guardsmen took your girl straight to the Castle as soon as she rose. That’s what kept her functioning all these years. The magic of the place acted like life support.”
“And I put her in danger,” Mac said bitterly.
Caravelli made a rude noise. “She should have known better than to date a demon. Sit her up.”
Mac did. The vampire pulled a boot knife. Mac tensed.
“Relax. It’s for me,” Caravelli said with a flicker of a smile. “I get the fun part.”
With a grimace, he slashed a six-inch gash on the inside of his left forearm. Sluggish blood welled up, thicker than a human’s. He held the wound under Connie’s nose. It revived her as quickly as old-fashioned smelling salts.
Caravelli fell to one knee before her, guiding her head to the open vein. “Drink,” he said, sounding suspiciously like the cape-swishing villain of a bad movie.
Constance gripped Mac’s knee, her long fingernails digging into his flesh. He could see her neck muscles straining, the impulse to drink, and not drink, equally strong.
“Vampires don’t taste like humans,” Caravelli explained. “We’re not normally food for each other.”
Mac took her hand, prying it loose so he could hold it. “Go ahead. Do it. It’s okay.”
She made a noise of disgusted protest, but obeyed. After a moment, she pulled her hand away so that she could grip Caravelli’s arm to her lips. He jerked in pain as she bit down.
Mac felt relieved, but uns
ettled. Bad enough he let her fall into this mess. The fact that he couldn’t help her was worse—not even with his blood.
“I called the hospital on the way here,” Caravelli said quietly. “The victim was more frightened than injured. I doubt there will be repercussions from the humans.”
“Venom?” Mac asked automatically.
“No.”
It was the first thing a cop who handles supernatural crimes asked. Presence of venom in the bloodstream was the legal standard for proof of a vampire attack. Caravelli was right. Without that, there wasn’t much a victim could do.
“Constance is lucky,” the vampire said darkly.
“That won’t do her much good if she . . .” Mac trailed off, anger and frustration choking him.
“She’ll be all right, but you need to go,” said Caravelli, wincing as she lapped and worried at his wound.
Really not a sight Mac had imagined as a first-date memory. “But . . .”
“I’ll take her home.” Caravelli fixed him with his amber eyes. They flashed in the distant light of a passing car, setting the hairs on Mac’s neck on end. “She’s not herself right now. She won’t be until she sleeps this off and feeds again. There’s no point in seeing her like this. She won’t thank you for it.”
“My place is with her.”
“Trust me. I’ll make sure she gets what she needs.”
Mac knew what he meant. More blood. Human blood—this time from a willing donor.
“Come to our house late tomorrow night. She’ll be ready to see you by then.”
Mac nodded, feeling awkward. Every cell in his body wanted to keep her for his own, to push Caravelli aside and drag her away. Yeah, that would be really useful. Grow up, demon boy.
Caravelli stroked Constance’s head with a fatherly gesture. Mac stifled a possessive growl.
“It’s all right, Macmillan. She’ll be safe with me.”
Mac sighed inwardly. Take a girl out, and she ends up drinking some other guy’s blood. The important thing was that she had the help she needed. This wasn’t about his needs.
He still wanted to throw a tantrum. He’d given Constance a dress. Caravelli was giving her life.
Real life makes more life, Atreus had said. My creations can only hold the limited strength of my sorcery.
And then, like random lightning, what Connie had said struck him: Atreus had made a woman from the Castle’s Avatar, robbing its magic.
Mac had heard Atreus claim to have killed her. The sorcerer also said that the Castle had been crumbling for sixteen years. Atreus had taken in a foundling sixteen years ago.
Holy bat-boy! Sylvius was the Avatar’s child. Atreus hadn’t killed her—she’d died in childbirth. My creations can only hold the limited strength of my sorcery. Once the baby was born, there was no life left for her.
The Castle was failing because Sylvius lived.
What does that mean?
It meant he finally had an insight into the whole insane Castle puzzle. It had taken the sight of Caravelli doing the vampire sire biz—giving some of his Undead life to save Connie—to make the connection. Like it or not, Mac had work to do.
Feeling dismal, Mac got up, touching Connie’s shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Caravelli nodded, but didn’t reply. Connie didn’t respond at all.
Mac had barely gone a dozen paces before he looked back to see the two vampires huddled together in the small, urban graveyard. The headstones were a wash of grays under the streetlights, graffiti like sprawling spiderwebs across the granite humps.
He turned away, walked a little. He passed one that read: LOVE SUX!
Got that one right.
Chapter 22
October 9, 7:00 p.m.
101.5 FM
“Good evening to all you children of the night out there in radio land. This is Errata, your hostess from CSUP, the FM station that denies and defies the normal in paranormal. Tonight our special guest is Dr. Gaylen Hooper, Executive Director of Harvest House, a transitional facility for those who have, for one reason or another, moved from one species to another.”
“Good evening, Errata.”
“Now, Dr. Hooper, there are those who insist that transitioning is impossible and that denying your original form is at best wishful thinking and at worst an immoral act. How do you respond to that?”
“You mean those people who say that if you really, really try hard, you’ll suck in those fangs and go back to being a good little human?”
“Why, Dr. Hooper, don’t you buy into the power of positive thinking?”
Mac eyed the big purple and yellow Victorian with a cautious eye. The last time I was here, the house sucked me out like a spider up a vacuum cleaner hose. Then the garden tried to kill me. Of course, I was trying to eat Holly’s soul at the time.
He wondered whether the house would notice—or care—that he wasn’t a soul eater anymore. He was still a demon.
Mac unfolded himself from his car, an old black two-door Mustang he’d finally gotten back on the road that afternoon. He reached into the backseat, picked up the bouquet of roses and carnations he’d brought, then slammed the door, enjoying its solid sound. He’d missed his car.
He climbed the stairs to the porch and rang the bell. His shoulders hunched, feeling the house watching him.
Caravelli answered. “Come in.”
Mac stepped over the threshold. The door closed behind him of its own accord. He had an irrational urge to shoot it.
“It took me a long time to get used to that,” Caravelli said.
It was the first time since Mac had gotten back to Fairview that he’d seen Caravelli in decent lighting. For a vampire, he looked pretty healthy these days—more pale than pasty. He also seemed to be doing more breathing than most vamps. Interesting.
He’d heard about Holly putting some magical whammy on him, bringing to life the legend of the Chosen that gave a vampire the power to exist on sexual energy rather than blood. Forced to have sex on a regular basis. Doctor’s orders. Lucky bastard. “How’s Connie doing?”
Caravelli waved him into the living room. “She’s well. Holly is with her.”
“Isn’t that risky? For Holly, I mean?”
“Holly has enough magic to control a newly made fledgling. Sit down a moment.” He caught Mac’s expression. “This won’t take long.”
Mac complied, setting his flowers on the coffee table. The living room was old-fashioned, with shelves of books reaching the ceiling and dark brass floor lamps with silk shades. “What’s up?”
“Lore came to see me. He told me why the hellhounds have been so lax about their duties. I could have broken his neck for not speaking to me sooner, but I understand his motivation.”
Mac smirked. “You tore him a new one?”
“Only verbally. Once I ran out of breath, he asked for my help with the council as coolly as if I’d been giving a weather report. He said he also asked you.”
“He did. I think we—you—need to convene a council meeting. I’ll be there to speak for him.”
Caravelli leaned back, stretching out his long legs. “Gathering the leaders is something I would only do in a dire emergency. I wonder if there’s an easier way to address this.”
“It’s not just the hellhounds we have to worry about. The Castle as a whole is failing.” Mac told him what he had found out about the Avatar and Sylvius.
“Sylvius,” Caravelli mused. “The name fits for a creature born from the natural world of the Castle. The same root word as ‘sylvan’—something that comes from the woods.”
“An incubus born of a love slave. Sounds like soft porn.”
Caravelli snorted. “Sounds perverted. We all want to possess our lovers, but it’s quite another thing to actually force one into being and then lock her up.”
Mac sat forward. “There’s more. I talked to Lore after I left you last night. He’s been trying to tell me all about this hellhound prophecy for days. He took me to one of their
elders.”
“Really? Nobody speaks to them.”
“Well, he talked to Lore and Lore talked to me.”
“What did he say?”
“They think I have something to do with this prophecy. Mumbo-jumbo aside, here’s the facts. There’s a ritual to return the blood of the Avatar to the Castle. The guardsmen have somehow put their hands on the instructions.”
“What does returning the blood to the Castle involve?”
“Sacrifice.” Mac went stone cold as he said it. “Of the Avatar’s son.”
Caravelli looked stunned. “What? Is that what the guardsmen really wanted with Sylvius in the first place?”
“I think that’s what Bran and his supporters want. Others simply want a hit of incubus blood. They’ve been there so long they don’t care if the Castle falls down.”
“And the prophecy?”
“The Castle made me a demon so that I can put everything back to the way it was before Atreus started messing around.”
The vampire’s face was growing more and more drawn. “Do you think that’s true?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think or how I feel. People are going to die if the prison collapses.”
“Where does that leave the boy?”
“I know. Kill Sylvius, or let the Castle fall.”
Caravelli was silent a moment. “Merda.”
Mac grimaced. “I’m not killing the kid.”
The vampire lifted a brow. “I’d say that was a given.”
“I tried talking him into leaving—I mean, I had to tell him. He had a right to know. But he won’t budge. He’s afraid if he goes, the Castle goes.”
“Is that so bad? How many residents could we rescue?”
“Even if we rescued every last hellhound, thousands of people live in there, and most of them aren’t safe to let out.”
Caravelli sighed. “Yes, it’s time we gathered the council.”
Mac felt a sudden pang of doubt. “They never agree on anything. Think a big old group hug will work?”
“We’ll find out.” Caravelli stood. “I still have Queen Omara’s ear, and the fact I have a fledgling—that there is now a Clan Caravelli—will help my standing among the Undead.”
Scorched Page 26
