Scorched

Chapter 10

October 2, 2:00 p.m. 101.5 FM

“Greetings, Earthlings. It’s Oscar in the Afternoon, your program about where to go, what you need, and where the savvy supernatural shopper will buy it. I’m your host, Oscar Ottwell of the Silvertail Wolf Pack.

“First, we have Dr. Ruby Yaga here to give us the lowdown on safe sex and all that means for us supernatural types—plus, what products are on the market to make those moonlit nights a little less scary.

“We’ll get started with a word from our sponsor, the Wily Wolf Delicatessen.”

Mac seeped through the Castle door, pausing to spiral into a column before assuming his human shape. He had his eyes squeezed shut in concentration, so he didn’t notice Constance until a moment later when he looked around to get his bearings.

Constance gave him a gimlet stare. “How did you do that, demon?”

“I went poof,” he said, but wasn’t really thinking about his answer. He was staring at her, trying to decide whether he was delighted to see her or disconcerted by what he saw.

She was sitting slumped against the wall opposite the door, her knees drawn up under her chin. He didn’t need sensitive-guy training to see she’d been crying. She was a mess, her eyes red-rimmed and her hair mussed where she’d jammed her fingers through it.

Oh, crap. He could already feel the horns of a dilemma poking him in the backside. Beautiful, crying woman. Homicidal maniac who’d tried to bite him. Comfort or run like hell? His inner caveman was confused.

“Bitten anybody yet?” he asked.

She gave him a baleful glare. “It’s not a joking matter.”

“Um. No, I’d say not.”

She crammed her fingers back into her hair. “Oh, off with you. What would a demon know about it?”

“Off with you,” he mimicked, pinning the accent perfectly. “My gran used to say that. I’m too old to shoo away now.”

“Well, I’m bloody old enough to be your gran’s gran’s gran. And a bloody lot of good all those years have done me. Just call me the bloody vampire queen.”

Mac raised his eyebrows. That was a lot of bloody, even for a vamp. “I dunno. I met the queen once. She was a couple of millennia of bad-assed scary. I think you and I are still in the minor leagues.”

“What league?” she asked crossly.

Apparently there was no baseball in hell. Figured.

She looked up, loops of hair standing on end where she’d been kneading her scalp. There were fresh tears on her cheeks. Clear, like a human’s. Vampire tears were pink. She hadn’t tasted blood yet. He’d never seen her eyes flash gold or silver the way a vampire’s usually did, either. She was stuck in between two species. They were two of a kind.

Mac walked over to the wall where she was sitting. Despite her fangy performance the day before, he wasn’t too worried. His gun was loaded with silver ammo, plus he had three stakes, two knives, his demon talents, and a werepar tridge in a pear tree. Besides, he wanted to be close to her. Her presence gave him the same warm, smooth buzz as a good single malt. Careful—you think she’s way too cute.

And he had a copy of Pride and Prejudice in his pocket. Now he just had to make up his mind to give it to her. Not the move of a clinical, detached cop. It was straight from his eighth-grade-crush self, the uncool kid who loved his mom and wrote thank-you notes after Christmas.

But the little vampire was so clearly unhappy, she obviously needed cheering up. “You look like you’ve been sitting here a while.”

“I’ve come and gone.” She looked sullen. “Does it matter?”

“Something about a dusty piece of hallway keep bringing you back?”

She didn’t answer, but kept fiddling with a gold coin, turning it over and over, rubbing at the design. She saw him look at it, then dropped it down her front with a defiant glare.

He looked at her for a long time, considering that softly rounded hiding place. “Let’s keep this simple,” he finally said.

“Keep what simple? Who says I even want to talk to you?”

Her tone was hostile, with a go-away-I’m-feeling-sorry-for-myself chill. Mac’s fingers hovered near the holster of his weapon, relaxed but ready just in case she was really serious about the go-away part. One never could tell with vampires. So here I sit, gun in one hand, Mr. Darcy in my coat pocket. Romantic conflict, anyone?

He could smell that old-fashioned perfume. It beckoned, soft and sweet. Dangerous. “You seem like a nice girl. Something’s obviously bothering you. Maybe I can help.”

“What makes you say that?”

Mac paused for a moment, pondering that. He didn’t feel like explaining the whole cop-but-not story. Who knew if they even had police where she came from? “It’s what I do. I interfere in people’s lives for their own good.”

Constance furrowed her brow. “Aren’t you a demon?”

He shrugged. “Half. I’ve been this way for a while.”

“Impossible. Either you’re a demon or you’re not. There’s no two ways about it.”

“Women frequently tell me I’m impossible.” He slid down the wall until he was sitting next to her. He was still a head taller. “But I’m human enough to care about somebody in trouble.”

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 unexpect edly 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 Castle, 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 it’s 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.

“What is this crap?”

“Moss,” Constance replied. “Be careful.”

“I didn’t think anything grew in here.”

“The tales say once there were gardens.”

Mac gave her a disbelieving look.

She shrugged. “There are dead trees in one of the great halls. The stories might be true.”

He reserved judgment on that one.

When they reached the top of the stairs, they started down a corridor that looked different from the others, the walls polished to a dull sheen. It opened into a vast space ringed with balconies. In the center was a dark pool, the sparkling black surface rippled by a faint wind. White marble rimmed the water, the carved lip fluted and curving outward. The overall shape of the pool was geometric, squares overlapping squares, reminding Mac of a Chinese design. Rather than torches, fires burned in four braziers that ringed the space. Beautiful though it was, the hall echoed strangely, making Mac think of people and places he had lost.

“Where are we?” Mac asked, looking over his shoulder. Something about the open space put all his senses on alert, as if the lightless corners had eyes.

“This place doesn’t have a name that I know of,” she said. “Atreus used to come here to meditate.”

No wonder he’s nuts.

Constance looked around. “I was hoping Viktor would be here. He always finds his way home, but he likes this place. With Miru-kai’s soldiers around, I’d rest easier if I knew where he was.”

Mac started to follow her gaze, searching the inky shadows, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him along like a child. He allowed himself to be led, his eyes following the way her skirts swirled around her knees. All those layers of cloth made a swishing rhythm that had a seductive music all its own.

They crossed out of the open space of the hall and entered a long corridor mottled with patches of torchlight. The passageway angled, then branched into three. Constance went to the left. Finally she stopped at the entrance to a large room. Mac reached around her, opening the door. She nodded, accepting the courtesy, and walked in. Mac followed.

A waft of sweet-scented air greeted him. Mac looked around in wonder. It was like walking from Frankenstein’s castle into the Arabian Nights. “This is called the Summer Room,” she said. “I don’t think anyone knows it’s here.”

It didn’t look particularly summery, but it was extraordinary. The space was gently lit by a scatter of pillar candles. Tapestries hung on the walls, strange-looking birds and animals glittering with silver thread. Swaths of silk draped the high ceiling, giving the impression of a tent. There were couches and chairs and a canopied bed in the corner, piled with a mountain of gold and black velvet cushions. Books were scattered everywhere. A violin case on one shelf. A waterfall ran down one corner of the stone wall, splashing into an enormous marble basin that drained away below. Expectation hung in the air, like words formed but not yet spoken.

“This isn’t like anything else I’ve seen in the Castle,” Mac said, his voice hoarse. He turned around, and around again, trying to take it all in. “This is the opposite of the Castle. It’s beautiful.”

Then he remembered Holly’s description of the room she had found, and wondered whether this was the same place. The one place in the Castle where natural appetites were not repressed. This could be interesting.

Constance trailed her fingers down one of the tapestries, making the silver threads glitter in the candlelight. “There are a few havens like this. Remnants, I think, of another time. I found this place not long ago. It belonged to Atreus’s household once, but he doesn’t come here anymore. He left everything under a spell so that it wouldn’t decay.”

Mac touched the arm of one of the chairs, feeling a faint ants-over-the-skin vibration of magic. It went straight for the gut. Growing more and more curious, he looked around again, taking in additional details this time. A wardrobe, the door ajar to reveal feminine clothes hung on hooks. Soap, towels, a silver-backed hairbrush. Everything had a careful neatness.

“Do you live here?”

“I’ve always come here as much as I could, but now I... Yes, I live here now. I needed a new place to stay.” Her eyes seemed to go dark, as if she was retreating from him. Whatever Constance was thinking, it was painful.

Mac’s gaze fell on a stack of women’s magazines—Vogue and Chatelaine—that looked like they dated from between the two World Wars. A few were later, perhaps from the early sixties. “Do you read these?”

An inane question, but as he’d intended, it snapped her out of her thoughts.

Constance looked momentarily sheepish. “Oh, um. I found them. Sometimes people smuggle things into the Castle. I like to read them to see what people wear now. How they talk, what words they use. I don’t like to feel like I’m old-fashioned.”

Never mind her clothes look like they came from Colonial times. And her pronunciation was sometimes off—though some of that might have been the Irish lilt. It didn’t matter. He could understand her well enough.

Now she was busy as a model homemaker, straightening the ornaments on a dainty side table. There was a fleck of goblin on her skirt, which she cleaned off with a fussy little grumble. No, I can’t say I’ve met anyone quite like her before.

Mac picked up one of the magazines. It had been read so often it was nearly in shreds. “What do you think of the new styles?”

“Oh, they’re lovely, but clothes that fine would be wasted on this place. What I have is good enough for me.” Constance turned away and rearranged the cushions on the couch.

Mac set the magazine down. At least by his standards, Constance had been too young to begin living when she was trapped in the Castle. Now she was trying to catch up vicariously with magazines a good seventy years out of date. That was just wrong.

He slid the Jane Austen out of his jacket pocket and beneath the top Chatelaine. The gesture felt good, especially after blasting the goblin to chunky soup. Not that he had a big choice when Tusky came yodeling out of the shadows, but his karma still felt like a twelve-car pile-up.

Constance turned to face Mac, extending a hand to the chair where she’d just fluffed the cushions. “Please, sit.”

Mac sat down in the chair. The Castle’s magic felt thick in this room, almost touchable. Conscious. The vibes—or maybe it was the aftermath of the fight—were making him feel light-headed, as if he’d had one too many shots on an empty stomach. Which reminded him he’d skipped lunch.

Wait a minute. If he was hungry, that meant the lid was indeed coming off his appetites. This must be the same room Holly’d been talking about, the one that let a person’s natural desires run free. Keep an eye on your impulses. Keep an eye on the pretty little vampire.

His gaze traveled to Constance, who was pacing back and forth, her slim, straight back a fierce exclamation. Her hips swayed when she walked, twitching her skirts like a cat’s tail. Mac blinked, fascinated by her curves. It was getting hard to think.

Reynard. Incubus. Bran. Right.

At least where the guardsmen were concerned, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what would happen next. The captain might be an okay guy, but there was only one Reynard and a whole Castle full of Brans. With a prize like an incubus at stake, it was only a matter of time before the guardsmen’s already shaky discipline came tumbling down like a house of cards.

So not good.

Mac leaned his head against the back of the chair. Con stance took the seat facing him, her expression intense. “What can we do?” she asked, fingering her necklace again.

It was an odd moment, but in many ways the situation was familiar. He had a missing youth, a grieving mother, and a gang of bad guys. Not exactly a no-brainer, but he knew how this stuff worked. It was a problem he could wrap his head around and, with so much in his life that made no sense at all, that was good.

I’ll take kidnapping for two hundred.

“Tell me more about this demon trap. It will catch a demon in cloud form, right?”

“Yes. The traps are usually about this big,” she said, describing a small cube with her hands. “A demon can be forced to enter by a command, or they can enter of their own free will.”

“Sylvius?”

“He went in on his own.”

Mac heard her ragged, sawing drag of breath. He could almost feel her composure crumbling with the same inexorable collapse as his own body giving way to dust. He’d seen this with victims and witnesses so many times, and still it hurt him to watch.

No emotional investment. Keep a clear head. But that warning had lost all its teeth. He’d saved her from the bad guys. She’d offered him a case. There was mutual need.

Constance was still trying to talk. She gestured with her hands, but no words came out. She did it again, a strangled sound choking whatever it was she was going to say.

She covered her face with her hands.

Mac froze. “Constance, what happened?”

“Sylvius did it to protect me,” she said, pulling her hands away. She gulped back a sob. “He gave himself up to save me. And Atreus just watched.”

Fury hit Mac like a hook to the jaw.

Constance drew in another breath, the air dragging past the ache in her chest. Mac was kneeling by her chair now, looking at her with that worried expression men got, as if she were about to catch fire or foam at the mouth. In her experience, not one male could stand tears.

Mac was holding one of her hands in his. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her free hand. “So what should we do?” she asked. “Where do we start?”

The muscles in his jaw bunched, as if he were grinding his teeth. “You tell me everything again. Every detail.”

Bitter disappointment caked her tongue. She pulled her hand away from his. “I don’t want to talk anymore. I want to do something. They’ve got my boy.”

There was sympathy in the strong, square lines of his face. If it was sympathy for anyone else, it would have melted her heart. Because it was for her, she felt exposed.

He took her hand again, engulfing it in his own. “Slow down. No one thinks clearly when they’re upset.”

Upset? How could he describe the grief and fear she was feeling as upset? She nearly slapped him. “There’s no time to slow down!”

She knew that sounded childish, but his patient expression didn’t flicker.

“Stealth will count more than strength,” he said gently. “Stealth takes planning. Do you know where the guardsmen keep their prisoners?”

“I was following Bran when you interrupted and beat him to a pulp.”

He showed an instant of surprise, then chagrin that slid into humor. “Ah. My bad.” His momentary smile showed slightly crooked teeth.

“Indeed.” Constance pulled her hand from his and stood. She was too nervous to sit any more.

He stood, folding his arms. He was wearing a soft sweater the color of mulberries. It brought out the darker undertones in his skin. Next to him, her skin was as pale as bone.

These were details she shouldn’t have noticed. There wasn’t time except—oh, he smelled deliciously human. That had fooled her the first time they’d met. The demon scent was there, but right then the human overpowered it.

She could feel his heat like a lamp, drawing her in as if it could ease the furious pain of loss. She wanted him to hold her. No one ever held her. She remembered his salty skin, that delicious musk of man. Those thoughts had flitted past, dark butterflies of desire, when she got the idea to come to this room, where there was no spell to keep passion buried.

And the urgency of passion was exactly what she needed. Whether Mac was half demon or not, Constance was willing to gamble that his blood was still human enough to Turn her. She had led him to believe he was safe, but she hadn’t given up on the idea of taking his blood. The room, with all its sensuality, was her trap.

People believed she was so innocent, but up until now Constance had chosen to stay that way. That didn’t mean she was oblivious to the ways of deceit. She’d just never thought anything worth the sacrifice of her morals. Not until she’d lost her son.

Now she was faced with a choice of evils. Surely taking her first drink of human blood inside the Castle—even in the permissive confines of the Summer Room—meant that she could avoid turning into a ravening beast. Didn’t it? Wouldn’t that excuse deceiving Mac?

He had been wary earlier, but no man was all that careful in the throes of lovemaking. At least, that’s what other girls had said. Her own experience was woefully sparse. She had to play her hand with great care.

But was it right to bite him now, after he’d just saved her? Been so kind? Promised his aid? A sense of fair play shouldn’t hamper her, but it did. She was terrible at this biting business. Just get on with it, for heaven’s sake!

Mac was looking at her curiously, as if he’d caught her daydreaming. Constance realized she couldn’t remember what she’d been saying.

He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, an intimate familiarity. His skin felt rough and warm. “Our first task is reconnaissance. We can’t make any other choices until we know what we’re dealing with.”

He looked down, his pupils reflecting the image of her face. Constance felt a chill of need and dread course over her limbs.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Kidnapping is exactly the kind of thing I was trained to handle. This is going to be a bit different with, y’know, the monster factor, but I’m seeing the possibilities here.”

He gave a dry smile. “It’ll be fun. Really.”

Swept along by his magnetic warmth, Constance put one hand on each of Mac’s shoulders. Almost automati-cally, his hands grasped her waist. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling. Attraction? Certainly. Hunger? Yes, but many kinds. Drumming like thunder inside her veins, those hungers called to places deep in her belly.

Mac’s nostrils flared, his dark eyes growing darker. He was feeling it, too. She pushed against him, her body aching, itching to be free of the laces of her garments. They confined and teased, pressing against the soft flesh of her aching breasts. The throbbing beneath her teeth made her part her lips, easing the burning sensation that only feeding would cure.

Mac seemed to hesitate, teetering on some knife-edge of decision. She watched him fall, the surrender in his eyes and in the sudden quickening of his breath. He was aroused, hers for the taking. On shaking breath, Constance murmured a prayer to whatever saint guided untried lovers and beginning vampires.

Mac caressed her, a low growl rumbling through his chest and into her bones. His lips crushed hers, pricking against her fangs, a burst of blood radiating across her tongue. Constance stood on her toes, leaning into the hard, bruising grasp, lapping at the strange, demon-spiced blood. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, and it only sharpened her need.

Strong hands ran up her body, making her twitch as they pressed against a sore place left from Atreus’s pun-ishment. The scent of him was exotic, drawing her face to his skin. His hands were on her bodice, peeling away the thin scarf she wore. He bent, his lips, his tongue finding the arch of her collarbone and following the valley between her breasts. His breath was hot, electrifying, sizzling against the wet trails his tongue had left.

Mac’s dark, wavy hair brushed against her cheek, the springy texture of it begging to be touched. Her fingers fell against his neck, feeling the pulse that called to her through her belly, her nipples, through the painful clenching of her sex. Her knees quivered with it. She could feel the hard evidence of his desire pressing against her flesh.

Take him. Take him now.

But her senses were swimming. Her body wouldn’t obey, only react.

With a groan, he lifted his head. The irises of his eyes glittered with a scarlet fire. There was nothing there but pure, primitive possession. His scent was changing, the human smell fading as they stood there.

No. Oh, no.

What have I done? I’ve called forth his demon.

She’d missed her chance to feed, but here was something else. Fear and desire was a potent combination. Savage delight rose in her, ready to fight. Ready to grapple, however he chose to do it. This was even more exciting.

Demon or not, she still wanted him. Maybe she wanted him even more. She couldn’t really hurt a demon. They couldn’t be accidentally Turned. There would be no guilt.

Mac—or the thing that had been Mac—held her by the upper arms, his grip beyond even vampire-strong. He put his lips to her ear. “If I take you, I’ll hurt you.”

He pushed her away, leaving every nerve in her body shrieking with rage.

“No!” she said, grabbing the front of his sweater to reel him back in.

“I’m not human anymore,” he said, the mirror of her own emotions in his face. “I won’t play by the rules. I won’t be any good to eat, sweetheart.”

“I know that. I don’t care.” There were more needs than food. She pushed forward, her lips finding the hollow of his throat, salty-sweet with the taste of him. He was hot to the touch, almost burning. For the first time since she had been bitten, she felt truly warm.

He grabbed her arms, setting her back once more with that insane strength. “If you don’t back away, I won’t be able to stop myself.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Only if you’re willing to take a demon for a lover. I have no idea what my demon might do, but it wants you.”

And then she felt it, a pressing wave of need that rolled off him and sent her skittering backward. He took a step forward, the very proximity of his energy nearly bringing her to her knees. Her jaws burned with the need to taste him. Her body felt like it was breaking apart in its haste to surrender.

Constance panted, hugging herself, shivering with frustration. Now she wanted him for so much more than a first meal. A door had just cracked open, and there were all kinds of temptation on the other side. Everything she had missed since she was seventeen. Everything for herself.

But could she put her desires first, when there was a rescue at stake? Could she be that selfish?

He saw her hesitation. His jaws bunched, and the red light in his eyes flared, but he let her go. Damnation. She almost wished he wasn’t so honorable.

“The demon changes things, doesn’t it? It’s different when I don’t smell like dinner.” Mac gave her a long, narrow-eyed look, the burning glow lurking in his gaze. “I hope you didn’t bring me here thinking you could get your teeth into me.”

Constance drew herself up, trying to summon enough anger to wash away the lust burning up her body. It didn’t work. “What does it matter?”

“Sweetheart, if you have to ask that, you’ve been here too long.”

“Maybe.” She felt herself drooping, but pulled her head up again, refusing to look as defeated as she felt.

He gave her another look that said he was weighing and judging her soul.

Constance felt like she would burst into tears. “I’m sorry. Don’t walk away. Please don’t make Sylvius pay for my mistakes!”

She closed her eyes, wishing she could tell him about the kitchen table, the family she wanted, how he had blown into her existence and made that dream almost touchable because it was his face she saw there. Someone real.

All he could see was how she’d tried to trick him. Again.

“Please,” she said again, forcing herself to look at him.

He stared at her for a long time, thoughts chasing themselves across his face. The foremost was a sexual heat scorching in its frankness.

“Please,” she repeated, softer this time.

“There are some things I need to find out. Promise me you’ll stay here until I get back.”

“I can’t.”

“Promise me!” Mac grabbed her by her arms, his grip hard and hot through the fabric of her sleeves. He shook her a little, his strength lifting her to her toes.

She set her jaw. “Let go of me.” Her voice was quiet.

He flexed his arms, pulling her to him. She could feel his breath on her face, warm and urgent. “I need your word. I won’t help you if I’m going to come back to find you torn to pieces by the changelings or staked by the guards. I’m not that selfless.”

His demon’s energy was as palpable as rushing surf. His hands shook as he relaxed his fingers until he stopped crushing her. But he still held her, barely banked need alive in his touch.

Fear warred with the urge to cling to him, but she had her pride. “I’ve lived here for a long time, Conall Macmillan. I’m not easy prey.”

He swallowed, clearly forcing himself under control. “I don’t care.”

Constance thought about resisting, dragging out her surrender because something about it was delicious. This isn’t a game. This is serious.

She cursed inwardly, but did the reasonable thing. “Very well, but I won’t wait long.”

“Good enough.” Mac released her arms and folded his own, as if to keep them out of mischief.

The air in the room changed, taking on the same final feeling as the moment someone closes a book. The heat slipped away like water draining through a sieve. “Later, then.”

Cool. Businesslike. In charge.

He was holding back, being what Constance needed. The mother in her approved, but the young woman that never got to live began to silently weep. “No, wait...” He was already dust. Bollocks!