Scorched

Chapter 12

Mad humping disease. That’s what he had. Mac hadn’t felt the drive to own a female this way since he was a teenager. As an adult, other things came into play. Career choices. Mutual goals. Educational compatibility. Family dynamics. Certainly being the same species fit in there somewhere.

The driving, dirty, have-her-at-all-costs impulse might not exactly fade with maturity, but it got diluted. It got weighed in the balance. Cooler heads prevailed.

Then he’d met Constance and somehow all that rationality had turned to ash, just like a staked vampire. Great. Whoever said they wanted their teenage years back was lying or brain-damaged. For one thing, all that cooler-heads stuff was for safety’s sake. In a world populated with divorce lawyers and other monsters, impulse control was key.

Which only part of him cared about. The rest just wanted. It wanted Constance. Naked. It was as acute as the soul hunger, a killing thirst he simply had to slake.

Was this the demon talking? The room she’d taken him to? More of her pheromones at work? He didn’t care, and that’s what scared him.

He’d forced himself to be cautious. He’d spent the day doing research, trying to figure out how best to outwit the Castle guards. He’d kept an appointment to update his will, just in case. Mostly, he was counting on Holly to come up with anti-demon mojo—and waiting.

The Empire Hotel had been beautiful once, respectable for longer, and derelict for the past forty years. It was in the heart of Spookytown, right around the corner from the Castle door. Recently, it had reopened to serve the supernatural community. Human customers were giving it a wide berth. If the werebeast clientele didn’t finish off the patrons, the food certainly would.

Mac gave up on the hunter stew—possibly made from organic hunters, safety vests and all—and turned his attention to the beer. It came from a bottle, so it was presumably safe.

The pub area reminded Mac of an old Western saloon, with wooden floors, a double swinging door, and an enormous bar decked out with marble and brass rails. He wasn’t sure who had bought the old place, but there was plenty of work to be done before the hotel would be fully restored. The rooms upstairs were still under repair.

Despite the construction dust and the dangerous cuisine, the place was hopping. About forty patrons were scattered around the tables or leaning on the bar. Someone was playing an old piano in the back corner, pounding out upbeat jazz standards. The atmosphere was feel-good rather than a serious drinker’s bar.

Mac picked up his spoon and poked at the stew again, wishing it was nontoxic. He was hungry, but he still had internal organs to think of. Plus, he hadn’t felt well since coming back from the Castle. Achy, headachy, and running a bear of a fever. In any other circumstances—like being human—he’d say he was coming down with old-fashioned flu. As it was, he could only ignore the symptoms and hope for the best.

Work was the best antidote, and this business with the Castle was as absorbing as any case. Heck, there was even a complimentary kidnapping. When Holly had called to give a report, he’d had the old thrill-of-the-chase shivers down the back of his neck. Taking it as a sign from the universe, he’d asked to meet.

On cue, the doors swung inward and Holly walked in, Caravelli at her side. Mac felt an instant dump of adrenaline hit his veins. Great. She brought the guard dog. Mac pushed his chair back, jumping to his feet. He’d run or poof to dust before he started firing silver ammo—or any other ammo—in a crowded room.

The quick move was a mistake. Caravelli leaped forward, sailing over one table and darting between the rest. Mac spun backward, putting the table between him and the vampire. He would have run farther, but the wall was in the way.

Every head in the place turned to stare, the piano music trailing off as if the tune had ripped in two. A couple of the werewolf patrons lumbered off the barstools, hitching up their pants and adjusting their baseball caps. The floor show was about to begin.

“Alessandro, what the hell are you doing?” Holly asked in the voice of a woman pushed to the edges of her patience.

Caravelli was half-across the table, poised to close the distance between him and Mac. The vampire gripped a long silver knife, the casual dress version of the broadsword. Just as deadly for stabbing, much messier and slower for beheading.

Mac held up his hands, showing they were empty of weapons. “I come in peace.”

He said it loudly enough the whole room could hear, and with an edge of sarcasm. His heart was pounding like he’d just run the four-minute mile. And to think he’d been looking forward to a quiet social drink where the only weapons were the little plastic swords that went through the olives. Like I’d ever do anything to Holly.

But he had. Mac had done her serious harm when the demon had been in control. Beneath his disappointment, he couldn’t blame Caravelli for protecting her as best he knew how.

He stole a quick glance away from the vampire, who was still poised like a macabre centerpiece. Holly was furious, her hands on her hips, glaring at the two of them. She was wearing a belted tunic and leggings that reminded Mac of Robin Hood or Peter Pan. The thought of Caravelli as Tinker Bell nearly made him laugh out loud.

Holly pointed to the chairs, her expression no-nonsense. “Sit. Both of you.”

Caravelli slowly backed off the table, sliding the knife into a sheath hidden by his jacket. Once the weapon vanished, the patrons started returning to their seats. The piano man struck up “Skylark.”

Holly threw herself into a chair, her lips compressed. “I said, sit.”

Mac complied, inching his chair back a little. Caravelli was too close for comfort, but he tried for a carefree tone. “Word of warning: stick to the drinks. The menu needs work.”

Obviously reluctant, Caravelli folded himself onto a chair, every inch the graceful predator. His gaze traveled from Holly to Mac, the vampire’s amber eyes glinting in the low lights. He leaned forward, raking his yellow stare over Mac. “I don’t agree with this meeting. You have no right to walk these streets. If you give me any excuse, I’ll finish what I started on Wednesday.”

By way of reply, Mac took a slug of his Bigfoot and stifled a belch.

“Since we’re all such good friends, I think we can skip the small talk,” said Holly, squashing the testosterone fest with a glare.

Caravelli put his hand on Holly’s. “Good. Say your piece and then we’ll leave.”

“Relax.” She looked up into his face. “Have a drink or something. You drive me crazy when you’re like this.”

Caravelli’s expression closed, as if someone had pulled the shutters tight.

Interesting. He’s going all protective, and she’s just annoyed. Vampire men were prone to territorial behavior, but what about the women? He wondered about Constance.

Holly turned back to Mac. “You look kind of ragged. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m okay,” he said, which wasn’t entirely true. “I think I’m just fighting a cold.”

“Demons don’t get colds,” Caravelli said flatly.

“Then I’m only getting half a cold. I’m so relieved.”

Holly gave them both a disgusted glare. “I looked for anything to do with the Castle creating or changing the inhabitants. There’s so little written, it didn’t take that long. The only references I found just covered the usual stuff— no need to feed, no need to drink, and so on. So I tried some other books on demonology.”

Mac sat back, crossing his arms, trying to listen to her and ignore Caravelli’s death-ray stare.

She went on. “There was one unusual reference to the Castle. It said something about an avatar being stolen, but the manuscript was in Bulgarian and so I tried running the text through translation software, but that never works all that well. I’m trying to get a line on someone at the university who can put it into proper English.”

“Avatar?” Mac asked. “As in the incarnation of a god? A concept?” He didn’t think an ancient manuscript would be referring to chat-room icons.

“I don’t know. As I said, the translation was garbled. All I got for certain was that the Castle is decaying somehow.”

“Yeah, well, I heard the place had gardens once,” Mac replied. “I don’t know what could grow there. There’s no sunlight.”

Caravelli narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t stopped watching Mac’s every breath. “Queen Omara reported rumors that the magic of the Castle is fading.”

Mac trusted very little that came out of the vampire queen’s mouth, but this once she could be telling the truth. Dying magic usually meant magic going wonky. Could it be that the remnants of his demon infection were reacting to that?

Holly shook her head. “Unfortunately, theories and rumors are all we’ve got. I’m sorry, Mac, but nothing I found was all that helpful.”

Shit. It was all he could do to control his face and hide his disappointment. It wasn’t her fault..

A waiter stopped, a young weresomething with a name tag that said JOE. Both Mac and Caravelli shifted in their seats, dialing down the glare fest for the benefit of the staff.

Joe was oblivious. “What can I get you?” He cleared away the remains of the stew, then picked up Mac’s empty beer bottle and added it to his tray. “Another drink?”

Mac nodded. Caravelli ordered red wine. Holly asked for mineral water. Joe left with the order. For a split second, everyone seemed comfortable. It was a good act. Too bad Mac had to put a wrinkle in it by asking for more favors. If Holly didn’t have the answer to one problem, he had to move on to the next.

“Holly, I’m really grateful to you for helping me out, but there’s something else.”

Predictably, Caravelli tensed, but Mac forged ahead. “What do you know about demon boxes?”

Holly lifted her eyebrows. “They’re kissing cousins to genie bottles. Sorcerers use them. Y’know, the whole make-the-demon-do-your-bidding shtick.”

“How interesting.” Caravelli looked like he was getting ideas.

Mac grimaced. “What kind of protection does a demon have from getting sucked into one? I don’t suppose they have, like, safety latches on the inside?”

The drinks came, Joe setting out little napkins before placing the glasses on the table.

“Do you think there’s a box with your name on it?” Caravelli asked, his hostile stare veering to the waiter for a moment.

“Don’t sound so hopeful.” Mac picked up his brew, wiping the condensation from the label. He didn’t really want another beer. He was feeling worse as the evening progressed. “There’s a case I’m working.”

Holly blinked. “You’ve gone private eye?”

“Yeah, right. Every ex-cop’s dream job. Nah, this is per sonal. There’s that vampire chick in the Castle—the one I was telling you about—who is trying to rescue an incubus from the guardsmen who kidnapped him. She has an in with a mad sorcerer who might be able to help me with my demon problem. Did I just say that?”

Caravelli took a long swallow of the wine, then set the glass down, looking almost amused. “It took six hundred years, but I think just now I finally heard everything.”

The piano player started another tune, the old one about a wonderful life.

Holly squeezed the lime perched on the edge of her mineral water. “It won’t be as hard to find out something about the boxes. I think there’s even stuff in a language I can read.”

Mac toasted her with his bottle. “I’d appreciate that. If the guardsman trapped the incubus in a box, I’d rather play it safe. I’m not eager to end up on somebody’s shelf.”

“So you’re really working a case?” Caravelli said, sounding skeptical. “Inside the Castle?”

Holly gave him an exasperated look, but held her tongue. There was a lot of fondness mixed with her frus-tration, and it made Mac smile. Caravelli’s one lucky bloodsucker.

He met the vampire’s eyes. “Yeah, well, crime happens everywhere. I believe in keeping order as much as you do.”

Caravelli picked up his wine. “Then why aren’t you in the Castle doing your job?”

Because Constance is there, and I had to get my head on straight before facing her again. “The answers I need are out here.”

“And when you have them?”

“I’ll work the case. Just because I’m part hellspawn, that doesn’t make me a bad person.”

“Strange as it may seem, I might be starting to believe you. Just starting, mind you.”

Glory Hallelujah, break out the fireworks.

People had been coming and going, the swinging doors letting in blasts of cool night air. This time, something compelled Mac to look up. A woman with dark blond hair walked toward them, dangling a motorcycle helmet in one hand.

All the male heads in the room turned, taking in the show. Just as quickly, they carefully looked away. She was a bad kind of dangerous.

She was tall and lean, dressed in dark jeans, dark jacket, heavy boots, and a long-sleeved T-shirt made of some elastic, sparkly fabric. The jacket was open and the shirt left nothing to the imagination. Neither did the hard lines around her mouth. She was ready for a fight.

Her gaze lit on Caravelli, then on Holly. Something crossed her face—disappointment, maybe, then specula-tion. Caravelli’s hand was resting on the table. It started to curl into a fist.

Interesting, thought Mac. The woman came straight up to Holly. Mac pushed back his chair again, this time ready to intervene.

Caravelli shot him a glance and a slight shake of the head.

The woman draped an arm around Holly’s shoulder. “Hey, sis.”

Mac nearly fell off his chair. Sis? Ah, so this is the vampire-hunting in-law.

Holly’s face went dark, then carefully blank. “Ashe. What brings you here?”

“I saw the T-Bird outside. Thought I’d come say hello.”

Ashe set the helmet in the middle of the table, claiming all the available space. No one spoke as she pulled up a chair between Holly and Mac. Alessandro stared into the bottom of his glass.

“Hi,” she said, turning to Mac. He got a better look at her face. Now he could see the family resemblance. She wasn’t bad-looking. If she smiled, she could be a beauty.

“Mac,” he said, offering a hand. Friendly neighborhood demon.

He thought he saw Caravelli smirk.

She took Mac’s hand in a grip meant to wrestle gators, then turned to the table in general. “Hope you don’t mind if I join you?”

Mac noticed she asked after she’d made herself at home.

“We’re having a quiet, private drink among friends,” Caravelli said with his special mix of sarcasm and Bela Lugosi.

Ashe snorted. “You know how to make a girl feel welcome.”

Caravelli shrugged and Holly winced. Mac felt sorry for Holly. She was the one caught in the middle. He looked for a diversion.

“What do you ride?” he said, nodding at the helmet.

“Ducati Monster 1100S.”

“Nice. I’m more of a Harley man myself.”

She looked him up and down. “How many strokes is your engine?”

Unfazed, Mac gave Ashe his most charming smile. “Trust me, the ride’s smooth, and the mileage is great.” And the scorching finish is a hair-raiser.

She stretched, sinuous as a cat, the jacket falling open to show off anything the see-through shirt hadn’t already disclosed. “I’m just tire-kicking tonight, or I might take a test drive.”

Mac wasn’t sure he was flattered. He sure as hell wasn’t interested, but it kept the conversation on a lighter note.

“Any reason you’re here besides hello?” Holly asked, her tone cool.

“We got off on the wrong foot, Hol.” Ashe looked at her sister, who was finishing the mineral water. “Is it okay if we try again?”

“Of course,” Holly said, more cheerfully. “We can do that. Do you want to meet for lunch tomorrow?”

“What’s wrong with here and now?”

“I was in the middle of something.” Holly pushed her glass away, looking weary.

Ashe’s fingers twitched, as if she’d been stung. “I’m family.”

A flash of temper lit up Holly’s face. “The world doesn’t stop because you decided to drop by and stake my boyfriend.”

Caravelli sat forward, his gaze on Ashe. “Perhaps it’s time to go.”

“You stay out of this, fang-boy.” Ashe turned on the vampire, and Mac saw the face of a predator every bit as dangerous as Caravelli.

I hate domestic disputes. “Is there something that can’t wait?” Mac asked tentatively.

“She wants to stake me,” Caravelli said, his tone mocking. “I tremble.”

Ashe leaned across the table, all but snarling at the vampire. “Sure, I want to. Why wouldn’t I? Swear to me you’ve never, ever bitten her,” she grated out, her voice barely audible above the noise of the other patrons.

“Ashe!” Holly snapped.

Caravelli sat like stone, his expression saying that he was guilty as charged.

Ashe gave a cold smile. “Thought so.”

She slowly got to her feet and picked up her helmet. Caravelli stood, tracking her every move. Her body said more of rage than any curse. Then she turned to Mac, her expression venomous. “And where do you fit in?”

Mac took in the violence in her eyes. Carefully, he resurrected the charming smile. “I’m a nice, quiet guy, but if I find out you’re going all Van Helsing on my friends, then I’m your worst nightmare.”

Ashe gave a lopsided smile. “I’ll look forward to it.” She turned, recoiling when she nearly bumped into Caravelli. “Get the hell out of my way.”

He fell back a step and she swept toward the door. For the second time that night, the whole pub turned to stare.

Holly looked shell-shocked. “Oh, Goddess, what just happened?”

“We tried to reason with a madwoman,” Caravelli said, dropping to one knee beside her chair and raising a hand to her cheek. “I’m sorry, cara, but she won’t be happy until I’m dust.”

“She’s my sister,” Holly said quietly. “I want her to be the way she was when I was little. I want that Ashe, not this one.”

Caravelli hushed her.

It was time for Mac to go. He was a third wheel. He put money on the table for his dinner and got up. He touched Holly’s shoulder lightly, but he addressed Caravelli. “I’m going to make sure Buffy isn’t hanging around outside.”

The vampire nodded. “A sound idea.” His face was unreadable.

Mac headed for the door, pushing aside the headache bashing the inside of his skull. With all the angry energy flying around, his demon should have been straining against its leash, but instead it lay queasy and still.

The fresh night air felt delicious against his baking skin. It was doing the raining-but-not-quite routine, tiny droplets stinging the skin with icy pinpricks. Mac ducked into the pool of shadow beside the Empire’s door and scanned the street. A Ducati would be easy to spot. He didn’t see it, but it wouldn’t hurt to take a tour of the block to be sure. He’d been listening and hadn’t heard a motorcycle.

Hunching against the dark, he walked to the corner, turned left, and went as far as the alley that led past the Castle door. The iron gate stood open and Nanette’s neon sign blinked an antiseptic blue from the other end of the passage. The flashing light made the dark corners of the alley even blacker. He could smell the damp bricks and the heavy pall of age that seemed to rise out of the ground—or maybe that was his imagination adding color to the scene. He’d heard once that the old town gallows had stood nearby.

They knew how to get rid of troublemakers back then.

Mac nearly passed by, but he took one last, closer look into the alley. Ashe was standing in front of the Castle door. He’d nearly missed her, except the faint light had caught the sparkles on the front of her shirt. He started walking toward her, the old cedar bricks sounding hollow under his feet.

“You really don’t want to mess with that,” he said, using the firm-but-friendly community cop voice.

Ashe didn’t look up, but laid one hand against the door. “What do you want?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, but moved her hand over the surface of the door. “There’s power here. Even I can feel it.”

“If you snuggled up to a nuclear reactor core, maybe you could feel that, too.” Mac jammed his hands into his pockets. “It’s about as dangerous.”

She trailed one hand down the wood like a lover’s caress. “What’s behind the door?” she asked. “It feels amazing.”

He suddenly realized the hellhounds were absent. Don’t those guys ever work? “It’s the back entrance to Nanette’s,” he lied. “She had a sorcerer put a spell on the door so no one walks in to see the bondage shows for free.”

Ashe pulled away from the door with a disgusted noise.

“I’d thought maybe you’d like that sort of thing.”

“It’s no fun unless I get to hold the whip. Besides... werecats? That would be like watching a kitten play with duct tape.”

That surprised a laugh out of Mac. Ashe gave a warped smile.

“Speaking of werecats, I heard something on the radio,” she said. “I think it was the university station. Something about a door in an alley leading to a big secret called the Castle.”

“Leave it alone.”

“You shouldn’t lie. It doesn’t suit you,” she said, and walked toward the other end of the alley. Crap.

Mac watched her go past the kitchen exit of a Chinese restaurant, the door propped open with a big white pail. In the brief pool of light, her slim back and fall of blond hair looked like a teenager’s. The swing of her hips did not.

Mac had no reason to stay, but he lingered for a mo ment in front of the door, suddenly tired. It was time to go home and sleep off his headache, but he hesitated. What was Constance doing? Was she still in the Summer Room, thinking up new ways to bite him?

A twisted corner of his soul hoped so. It was a very stupid, twisted corner.

Mac bowed his head. He couldn’t need her. He shouldn’t want her. But he did. It wasn’t as simple as falling in lust with a set of fangs. There was also a woman there, just like he was still a man. He had looked into that woman’s eyes, and been smitten.

The same way, he was sure, Caravelli had once looked at Holly. They’d made it work, hadn’t they? He’d just seen them stand united against Ashe.

I so don’t need this. Even as he thought it, he felt a thread of resignation in his soul. Constance might not have gotten her teeth into him, but she was firmly on his radar, and she was in trouble beyond even the guardsmen-stole-my-baby problem. Crap.

It wasn’t in Mac to stand by and watch her flounder. Not that he was in favor of the whole Turning thing, but there had to be an easier way to go about it than jumping and biting a stranger. Unfortunately, Mac knew squat about the whole vampirization process. If she did manage to drink from a living victim, what exactly would happen? How would she change? Would her personality stay the same? Weren’t vampires supposed to have a sponsor, or a team leader, or whatever they called them? He should ask Caravelli. Maybe he could help.

He heard a motorcycle start up about a block away, the engine revving to life.

Would it work if Constance drank from a guy who was only part human? And that part is getting smaller and smaller. Mac pushed away the memory of his demon rising, trying to claim her. It won’t happen again. It can’t. I don’t trust myself with that dark side riding me.

He put his hand on the door, feeling the swirling energy of the magic all the way to the bottom of his uneasy stom ach. Maybe I can make a difference. Maybe I can save the incubus and kiss the girl, but what will be left of me by then?

Every time he went into the Castle, he came out less human. There was no denying it.

But there was work to be done. The kind he was good at and thrived on. If he didn’t go in and help Constance get Sylvius back, kick guardsman ass, and undo the crime that had been committed, Mac was denying the part of himself he valued most. The thing that made him human in the first place. The part that cared enough to become a cop.

Demoned if you do, damned if you don’t.

Lost in thought, he almost felt the velocity of the Ducati before he heard it. Mac spun around to see the bike barreling down the alley, Ashe perched on it like a Valkyrie on her steed. Mac’s headache cost him a split second of reaction time. He sprang aside.

He wasn’t even sure if she hit him, but it sure as hell felt like it. He bounced against the brick of the alley wall, smacking the back of his head.

Oh, God. Mac slid down the wall, his vision exploding in blasts of white. He heard the Ducati tearing away, the motor a distant snarl.

Now he finally had something in common with Caravelli. He hated that bitch.