Scorched

Chapter 13

October 4, 7:00 a.m. Mac’s Apartment

“Good morning! Tnis is CSUP at seven o’clock for your local and world paranormal news bulletins...”

Mac’s hand slammed down on the radio button before he opened his eyes. Blessed silence rang like the aftertones of a bell. He did a quick inventory. His stomach had settled and his headache was gone. Whatever bug he’d had yesterday had shoved off. Sleep had done the trick.

Good, because he had a lot to do. He wasn’t awake enough to remember everything, but the list ended with— if he could get it together—rescuing an incubus from the bad guys.

Mac threw the covers off, stifling. He sat up and nearly fell to the floor. Obviously, he was still half asleep. He caught the edge of the mattress, steadying himself. Need coffee.

For a moment, he thought the light-headedness came from smacking his head on the wall when Ashe had buzzed him with the Ducati. Then he realized it was hunger. He hadn’t eaten a lot of that god-awful stew, but he had made himself a sandwich when he got home. That should have been enough to hold him until morning, but he felt like he hadn’t eaten for a week. Time for breakfast, then.

He stood up, feeling thick-headed and oddly clumsy, and padded into the kitchen wearing nothing but his pajama bottoms. The condo felt too warm. Still groggy and feeling all thumbs, he switched on the coffeemaker—he always prepped it the night before—and shoved bread in the toaster, eating another piece untoasted because he was too starved to wait. While he waited for the appliances to do their thing, he shuffled into the bathroom.

When he went to wash his face, he noticed the problem. Mac froze, the water gurgling down the drain as his brain groped with what he was seeing in the mirror.

What the fuck?

His brain backed up and tried again. His reflection wasn’t exactly him. For one thing, he had to duck to a new angle to reach the sink. Not much. Just enough to realize that he was slightly taller than when he’d gone to bed. And he had put on pounds of hard muscle.

Huh?

His mind went absolutely blank. He blinked, the confusion on the Mac-but-not-Mac’s reflected face multiplying his alarm. Aw, c’mon, what the hell am I supposed to do with this? I look like a fucking action figure.

Mac reached under the stream of water with trembling hands—hands that now felt too large—and splashed his face. His basic features, at least, hadn’t changed, though he looked like he hadn’t shaved for three days. Well, he probably hadn’t—and with dark wavy hair that had gotten far too long, all he needed was a loincloth and he’d be good to go for Mac the Barbarian. He sluiced water over his face again, and again, stalling while his brain scrambled for footing. No. No. No. I don’t need this!

Finally, he turned off the taps, grabbed a towel, and blotted the water from his eyes. Then he looked down at himself, shivering with delayed panic. Oh, God. There was too much leg sticking out of the pajama bottoms he wore.

The lightweight pants showed that whatever had happened to his body had left him much more than anatomically correct.

Oh, God. No wonder he’d felt so horny last night. Not enough air.

He stumbled out of the bathroom, throwing open the sliding balcony door. The force of his shove made the glass all but jump the track. Shit.

He stepped outside, the concrete cold under his feet. He sucked in lungful after lungful of the October chill, grabbing the painted iron of the railing to steady himself against the swimming sensation in his head. What’s going on?

Disorientation didn’t cover what he was feeling. It was like going through adolescence all over again, and in eight hours. The big body, clumsy and unfamiliar. The raging hormones. It makes no sense. Why did this happen?

His brain stalled again, crashing under a wave of panic and outrage. What is this? More demon crap? A curse?

All he’d wanted was to be human again. Instead, he got Mac 3.0, manly man edition. He made a fist, watching the play of extra muscle in his forearm. He’d been strong already, fit, in perfect shape, but his demon strength had been limited by his human frame. This body could do so much more. He’d grown into that demonic power.

Maybe that was the point. The demon infection had been stalled by Holly’s magic, so now it had taken a new direction. Under the Castle’s influence, it was still Turning him, just a different way. That makes no sense. People are supposed to renovate houses, not the other way around.

Mac let the fist go, feeling blood flow into the relaxing flesh. Every time he went into the Castle, something bizarre happened. He sucked another lungful of air, now noticing the stronger swell of his chest. He’d been a big-enough man before. This was—well, like he’d spent his life chasing woolly mammoths instead of felons. Most guys would like this. He should be feeling jubilant. Potent. Powerful. What he felt was pissed off. He’d had enough of magic messing around with him.

Anger steadied him. Plus, the cold air had cleared his head a little. Straightening, he looked out over Fairview. At least it looked the same as it always did. The pale morning light showed patches of russet and gold in the trees. The distant strip of ocean gleamed pewter gray. Life woke in the town, pulsing.

It pulsed through him, too. That strange, electric feeling he’d felt before rushed through his blood at full tilt. He was insanely alive. Every muscle and thew of this body wanted to run, fight, and burn off this fierce, hot energy.

Beneath it all, his demon powers hummed like a dark, Gothic chorus. They had gained ground, leaving him feeling far less civilized. I’m so screwed. How the hell am I going to come back from this one? Am I even a little bit human anymore?

Well, the upgrade would make fighting idiots like Bran that much easier.

He noticed the curtain of a neighboring condo twitch. The place had a clear view of Mac’s balcony, which was why he seldom used it. Great. He looked around and noticed a few other female faces in other windows, one with a camera phone.

He thought of a few fresh obscenities, but a corner of his ego did the happy dance. He stomped on it. Mac stalked back inside, feeling the confinement of the apartment like an assault. Hunger was moving on to nausea. He was going to pass out if he didn’t eat something.

He grabbed the cold toast out of the toaster and shoved one piece in his mouth. He put two more slices of bread in the slots and punched the button down. With a sigh of relief, he chewed the dry toast, washing it down with black coffee. Then he felt patient enough to actually butter the second piece. He rummaged in the fridge for a block of cheese, ripped open the pack, and broke off a piece with his hands, not bothering with a knife. By then the next round had toasted, and he started the ritual over again. Mindlessly, Mac kept going until he ate nearly every damned thing in the fridge. Then he checked the freezer. Nothing there but frozen peas. He could go to a restaurant, but he wasn’t sure he was up to facing the world as SuperMac just yet.

Still, more groceries were an urgent priority. Mac refilled his coffee cup. He’d always taken it black before, but now he piled in the milk and sugar, still craving fuel to burn. His bones ached, as though they’d been stretched and pulled. It must hurt to be a werebeast. Never thought about it before.

He slurped the coffee, stalling.

What are you doing? Going through the motions of coping doesn’t mean a damn thing. But that was all he had, outside of running through the streets screaming at the top of his lungs.

Admit it. Who doesn’t want to wake up in a better body? And it’s not like you haven’t switched species before. But this isn’t me. Well, it is now. That’s not exactly a bonus.

He sat down, the wooden kitchen chair creaking beneath his unaccustomed weight. He felt healthy but insanely hot, like the fever he’d had last night had become permanent.

Hunger raged, the same way it had the last time he’d been transformed into a demon. The only positive was that this body didn’t seem interested in eating souls. It definitely preferred meat. Lots and lots of it.

It wanted a fight, the exertion of all this power against another. It wanted to dominate.

It wanted sex, and not the pretty kind.

His mind went to Constance, sleek and small and aching for his touch. He had smelled the desire on her, the musk beneath her perfume. He itched to get to her, to claim her the way her hungry lips had said she wanted to be claimed.

And the vampire hickey? This body could take it. Bring it on, sweetheart. Bite me if you dare. He swam in that thought for a moment, remembering how eager she had been to seduce him. Oh, yeah.

Oh. Hmm.

Dragging his thoughts from the mental home theater, Mac set down the coffee cup, careful of the fragile ceramic handle. Maybe the first thing this new body needs is a cold shower. It had all the rampant enthusiasm of a seventeen-year-old. Great. I’m never going to ask anyone to supersize me again.

Already his stomach was cramping with hunger once more, his enormous breakfast forgotten. This is ridiculous.

The phone rang. Thankful to connect with the normal world, he picked it up, holding the receiver gingerly. He had visions of squishing it by accident.

“Macmillan.” He nearly dropped the phone. His voice resonated differently, bouncing around in a larger rib cage. It was also shaking with stress.

“Hello? Mac?” It was Holly.

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat, trying to shrink his voice back to normal.

“Sorry to call so early. Have you got a cold?”

He rumbled again, feeling like a sports coupe that woke up as a monster truck. “What do you know about the Castle making superwarriors?”

“Guardsmen? Mac, are you all right? You sound strange.”

Guardsmen. Was that what he’d become? But they were originally human, not demon. They were bound by oaths and spells and trapped against their will, sent to the prison by some whacked-out secret society in charge of supplying Castle guards. Nothing to do with him.

“Mac? What’s going on?”

How much did he want to say this minute? He was too hungry to think, too impatient to explain himself. Too scared. Too embarrassed. “I’m okay,” he said.

“I found something on the demon boxes. I figured you’d want the information as soon as possible.”

His cop side jumped to attention. Good to know it still worked. “Hit me.”

“They’re not exactly common, but they’re not rare, either. I popped into my grandma’s place and had a look through some of her books. Sure enough, I found some thing. I made up a charm that should stop you from being sucked inside.”

“Great!”

“Lore was over here about something else. I’m sending him to you with the charm. He should be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“Great,” he said again, inwardly cursing. He wasn’t ready for visitors, but after the effort Holly had gone to, there was no way he was going to complain about timing. “I owe you big time.”

“No problem, Mac. Take care.” She hung up.

He hung up, grappling with the jumble of problems he had to solve, starting with the most basic. Crap, what am I going to wear? Nothing was going to fit.

Mac paused, remembering his raincoat. He’d noticed the sleeves felt short a couple of days ago, when he had been talking to Holly. Had the first signs of this change already started then?

What if it wasn’t over?

His stomach growled. He ached. He got up to head to the shower and knocked over the hallway lamp. Everything was too close, too cramped.

I hate this. He was an alien in his own landscape. Just call me Ogg, cousin of Tarzan.

After the shower, he grabbed his largest pair of sweat pants and a muscle shirt. The shirt, straining across his chest, made him look like something from a cheesecake boy-toy calendar.

Great. Just great.

The door buzzer rang. Mac walked to the hall and pressed the button for the outside door, not bothering with a greeting. As he moved, he could feel muscle shirt pulling tight across his back. Prowling back to the kitchen, he rummaged in the cupboard until he found some soda crackers. He tore the package open as Lore walked in.

The hellhound reached the kitchen, stopped in his tracks, and looked Mac up and down, the only change in his expression a slight lift of his dark brows. “You’ve been working out.”

Mac chewed a cracker. “I had a makeover.”

Lore narrowed his eyes, considering. Hounds seldom showed emotion to outsiders. The merest flicker was like anyone else having a spazz attack. “Did you mean to do this?”

“No.”

“Then it’s not an illusion.”

“Nope.”

“Huh.” Lore was silent for a moment, and then held out a brown paper bag. His hands were large, the type that would deliver a bruising blow in a fight. Mac could have crushed them in his.

“Holly asked me to give you this,” Lore said.

Mac stuffed another two crackers in his mouth and took the bag, unrolling the top. It held a small cloth pouch pulled shut by a drawstring long enough to hang around his neck. Mac pulled it out of the bag slowly, cautious just in case it didn’t mix well with whatever transforming spell he was packing. When it seemed safe, he slipped the string over his head and tossed the bag on the counter. The pouch looked primitive, filled with who-knew-what witchy herbs and rocks, but it was small enough to stuff under his shirt and out of the way.

Lore watched him silently, dark eyes following Mac’s every movement. “Holly said that charm protects against demon boxes. You’re going after Sylvius.”

Mac looked at Lore sharply. The hellhound’s expression was guarded. It was like looking into the gaze of a street-tough stray. Which, in a way, he was.

“How do you know about Sylvius?” Mac asked.

“He’s a friend.” Lore folded his arms and leaned his shoulder against the refrigerator. “I would have said it was sure death to attempt to rescue any prisoner of the guardsmen, but you can do it. The gods have obviously prepared you.”

For a moment, Mac forgot about refueling. He had no idea what hellhounds believed in, but he didn’t like the idea of being prepared by some entity. That smacked of being the anointed one, or inflated one, or whatever. More crap he’d never signed off on.

“How do you know what I can do?” he asked. “How do you know what goes on in the Castle? You haven’t been there for a year.”

For the briefest instant, Lore looked smug. “Hounds are good with locks.”

“What does that mean?”

“We’re half demons. We have power over doorways and thresholds. Things between one realm and the next. Prophecy. Now that I’m free, the Castle door is no problem for me.”

Mac choked on a cracker crumb. He poured a glass of water and drank it down. Then he started back in on the crackers.

Lore watched him with steady eyes. “We’ve been watching you.”

“That’s creepy.” The hellhounds in general were pretty weird—not harmful, but too silent, too watchful for comfort.

As if reading Mac’s mind, Lore lowered his gaze, studying the kitchen floor. “When you returned to Fairview, some thought it was a miracle. You had fallen into the dark, but came back in defiance of your curse. Our elders thought the gods had called you here for a purpose.”

Mac made a dismissive noise. If the gods were calling, they could leave a voice mail.

Thoughts chased across the hound’s strong-boned features, whole arguments Mac would never hear because he didn’t belong to their closed, silent community. Finally, Lore said, “You don’t believe me. Hounds don’t lie. We can’t.” -

“Whatever.” Mac reached for another cracker, and realized the box was empty. He crumpled it in disgust.

The hound stiffened, pulling away from the fridge to stand straight, his hands half clenched at his sides. “Events are moving quickly. You need to listen.”

Mac threw the box back on the counter, a white haze of frustration flooding his mind. “Screw all that. I need to eat. You wouldn’t like me when I’m hungry.”

The words came out between clenched teeth. The alternative was roaring like a wounded bear. He didn’t want to deal with gods and legends. He had more immediate problems.

Lore edged back, cautious now.

Mac steadied his breath. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it. I’m done with being special. I don’t do destiny.”

“That’s your decision.”

“Damned straight.”

Lore held on to the ensuing silence until Mac met his eyes. Then he carried on as if Mac had been listening intently all along. “Nothing happens without reason. If you’ve been brought back and changed, there’s something you need to do. Something even bigger than rescuing my friend.”

Mac felt irritation bunching his shoulders. “Like what?”

“If the task is yours, you already know.”

“That’s crazy.”

“That’s the way it works.”

“I don’t want to play.”

The hound’s expression went from neutral to icy. “Destiny doesn’t make you special. It’s simply more responsibility.”

“I just want my life back.”

The words, however true, suddenly sounded childish in Mac’s ears. That just made him more annoyed. “Get out of here.”

Disappointment flickered in Lore’s eyes, then vanished as he shuttered his expression. “When you need help, call us.”

He left without another word. From the kitchen, Mac heard the door click shut.

Crap. That was stupid.

Mac had never asked Lore why he had brought up the prophecy in the first place. Or why he had offered the hounds’ help.

Hellhounds never involved themselves in other people’s business. What was their interest in whatever it was the Sparkly One was supposed to do? Was there trouble in the hellhound kennel?

He’d been so wrapped up in his own shit, he’d missed all that. Motivation was something a cop should never overlook. He’d be damned if that would happen twice.

There was something going on there. He could smell it.

God, I’m hungry.