Scorched

Chapter 16

“You did what to my sister?” It was the closest Holly had ever come to a shriek.

Alessandro was fairly sure he’d made a tactical blunder. “She’ll like it in the Castle. There’s lots there to kill.”

“When did you put her there?”

“Right after she tried to stake me. And bit me.”

Holly’s angry eyes seemed to fill her face. “What. Time. Did. It. Happen.”

Alessandro balked. The housekeeping spell Holly had laid on the vacuum cleaner suddenly wound down. The motor died with a sickly wheeze.

“Um. This afternoon.”

Holly clenched her teeth. “She’s only human, Alessandro. She doesn’t even have her witch’s powers anymore. She’s my big sister. She used to read me stories.”

He sighed, but it was an angry sound. “What should I have done, Holly? She tried to kill me in my bed. She damned near succeeded.”

Holly dropped into the nearest chair, covering her face with her hands for a moment. He knelt in front of her, sorry that he’d snapped, and captured her hands, one by one, and drew them from her cheeks.

Her eyes were moist, catching the lamplight like stars. “She’s my sister. How could you do that?”

Oh, no. He’d made her cry. It was the first time. A heavy, bleak feeling threatened to crush him to the carpet. “I’m so sorry.”

He could have torn out his own heart then and there. How could I be so stupid? Vampire logic isn’t human logic.

“I don’t know what you should’ve done,” Holly said, her voice thick with tears. “I don’t blame you. You had to do something, and I don’t have any answers. I could kill her myself.”

Confusion washed over him. How could he fix this? “I can go look for her. Bring her home. Right now.”

“No!” She squeezed his hands. “If she doesn’t get you, the guardsmen will!”

Alessandro blinked, his male pride flattened to road kill. “I can look after myself,” he said gently. “I was the queen’s champion swordsman. I’m still pretty good with a blade.”

“Of course you are.”

“I’m in and out of there all the time.” Long enough to toss someone in, at least.

“I know.” Holly closed her eyes, and fell silent.

The house was silent but for the ticking clock. A car whooshed by outside. From the kitchen, the cat was crunching kibble. They were home sounds. Sounds Alessandro had begun to treasure.

Holly swallowed. “I can’t bear to risk you right now.”

“But Ashe ...”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what to do about her. She’s not the same person I remember, the one I want her to be so badly. It’s like I keep trying to fix her in my mind, fit the old Ashe over the new one, but it doesn’t work.”

“Do you think the sister you remember is inside her somewhere?”

“Goddess knows. I think an awful lot has happened to her over the years, and I know she blames herself for our parents’ deaths.”

“I think she’s angry,” he offered. Was the stake the first clue?

“Whatever. I don’t want her back in this house. Who knows what she’d do next.” Holly let go of his hands and wiped her face dry with her fingers, clearly exhausted. “But we can’t leave her there. Sweet Hecate, I can’t believe my family is fighting like this.”

Alessandro put his hand to her cheek. As always, she felt warm to him, hot and vital. “I’m part of your family?”

She looked at him, her brows drawn together. “Absolutely. The most important part.”

“Thank you.” Then are you really afraid to introduce me at the reunion? Does it bother you that I can’t give you children? Will you still love me when you realize the cost of living with a man who is so different? Who has no family of his own?

He knew some of his doubts were Ashe’s poison at work. Alessandro forced himself to let them go. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just—let Mac deal with it.”

“Mac?” That was the last thing he expected her to say. “What can he do that I can’t?”

Holly shrugged, trying to look casual and missing by a mile. “Finding a missing person is kind of, y’know, cop stuff. He’s trained to talk to crazy people, and Lore said Mac’s going into the Castle, anyway. Plus, Mac owes me.”

“And he’s expendable if Ashe decides to take him out?”

“Of course not!”

“Then why is it okay to risk him?”

“Have you talked to Lore today?”

“No.” He intended to tear the alpha a new one about the hounds’ poor guard duty performance. He had a feeling the hound, like any smart dog with a mess to its name, was making himself scarce.

Holly seemed to slump even more. “Mac’s ... well, from the sound of it, the demon caught up with him in this other weird way.”

Alessandro’s eyes narrowed. “How weird? In what way?”

“Physically.” Holly told him what Lore had told her.

Unable to sit still any longer, Alessandro got to his feet and started to pace. “I was just beginning to trust Mac. It seems I was wrong.”

“I’m not sure about that. He didn’t sound, y’know, evil.”

For how long? If the demon taint was on a roll, who knew what else might change? “I should have asked this before. Is there any way you can reverse what’s happening to him? Your magic made him half human before.”

Holly shook her head. “That was a complete accident. The only thing I know how to do with demons is fry them to cinders. Pure blunt force. I’d kill him.”

“Then is he powerful enough to deal with your sister? She’s a good fighter.”

“Sounds like he is.”

Alessandro wasn’t sure he liked that answer. He took a few more steps, then stopped. “It isn’t that I want Ashe dead. I hoped putting her in the Castle would teach her a lesson. Show her there are worse things than a vampire trying to keep the town safe. That we’re not...” He trailed off, unable to find the right words.

Holly’s expression was sad. “You’re not all evil.”

“Not as long as I have options.”

Alessandro reached down, rubbing away a stray tear from her chin. He was so grateful for her. She made him, if not human, much less of a monster. “You’re sure you don’t want me to handle your sister?”

“No, I’m sure Mac will help, and Ashe doesn’t have a beef with him. It’ll be easier this way.”

“But...”

“I’m right about this.”

Alessandro wasn’t so sure. On the positive side, if Ashe and Mac kill each other, that’s two of my problems solved. But he didn’t mean it.

He should have been happy to wash his hands of an annoying situation. He should have liked the blade-clean logic of two dangerous individuals annihilating each other. He didn’t.

He wanted it all to work out, for everyone’s sake. Bloodshed wasn’t the answer.

Novel thought, for a vampire.

Maybe Mac isn’t the only one changing.

Mac ran through the corridors of the Castle at an easy, gliding pace, sword drawn. Dusting through the maze was faster, but that only worked if he knew where he was going. Connie had given him some useful information, but to conduct a search he needed solid contact with his surroundings.

He’d left Connie asleep. After she’d told him what she knew about the guardsmen’s lair, they’d made love again. Twice.

It had sated them both and exhausted her, sending her into a deep, comalike slumber. He’d held Connie for a long time, studying the soft curves of her face and body. There was no inch of her skin that he hadn’t touched that night, and he knew without doubt he would touch, taste, and claim it again.

His inner caveman beat his chest and roared with jubilation. Today it was good to be Mac the Barbarian.

He stopped at a crossing of corridors. The wavering torchlight showed one hallway curved away to the right. To the left, the stonework had crumbled like a giant fist had punched through the wall. A vast cavern loomed beyond.

Connie had mentioned this place. He hopped up the rubble, using the fallen stones as a stairway to the gaping hole a dozen feet above. The section of missing wall was more than man-height, the thickness of the stones uneven and treacherous. He balanced there, looking into the darkness. A hot, sour wind seemed to rise from below, flowing up the chimneylike cavern. His hair floated away from his face, caught by the breeze. There were fires far, far below, flickering like the stars of an upside-down sky. They called to him, blinking like mysterious eyes. No one, Connie’d said, had ever ventured into those depths.

Maybe he would someday, just to find out what or who lived there. Maybe dragons? A tingle of excitement rippled through him. That would be cool.

He could almost feel the Castle agree. It wanted to be explored. Everything about it spoke of neglect, but who was to say it had to be that way?

Connie had told him Reynard’s tales of collapsing corridors and disappearing rooms. Was there a specific cause, Mac wondered, or was the magic that made the place simply winding down? Were the rumors true at all? He knew how fast a lie could travel around a lockup. Who was to say the Castle was any different?

Still, it was a good reminder to stay alert.

Mac jumped down, landing easily, and kept on walking, following the left-hand corridor. Truth be told, he was enjoying this new body’s stamina. The more he used it, the better it felt. Plus, it seemed to be settling down. His clothes were too tight again, but the change was not as dramatic as before.

Just as well. There was a limit to how much size was actually useful.

He started to run, covering ground in a relaxed lope. The punched-out-wall phenomenon repeated itself a few more times, and then the wall between him and the cavern gave up altogether. Mac ran for about another half hour, barely breathing hard.

In the distance, he could hear the sound of voices. Probably one of the settlements that drifted around the Castle, moving as the warlords claimed and lost territory, established their courts and then surrendered to rivals. Politics in the Castle was an endless chess game, one Mac had been too insignificant to play. Not that he’d wanted to. He’d just wanted out.

The noise grew more distinct, coming from his left across a vast, wild space of crumbled granite. Curiosity tempted him to look. He climbed up an easy slope of rock, pushing higher and higher until he could see the source of the babble.

Not a town, but an encampment. Campfires glimmered, backlighting figures who moved through a forest of tents. Most inhabitants of the Castle lived in its rooms, but a few preferred the open places, living like nomads. By their size and the way they moved, these were werecats. Lions or one of the more exotic species.

Cats tended to roam on the fringes of the main populations, which meant the town proper would be just beyond what he could see. And it can stay there. He’d flown beneath the radar so far. He meant to keep things that way. If this Prince Miru-kai was setting up shop in the area, he had to be careful not to attract attention.

So far he hadn’t run into any other wandering goblins or changelings. The area leading from the Summer Room was as deserted and secret as Connie had claimed. Still, he worried about leaving her alone. He added home security to his mental to-do list. Maybe once she had her son back, she would want to leave the Castle altogether.

Mac resumed his course. Eventually, the Castle grew darker, the torches farther apart, the slope in the floor descending. At the same time, across the floor of the cavern to his right, he saw a honeycomb of caves emerge from the black rock. Scatters of torches appeared here and there, showing signs of habitation.

Mac slowed to a walk. The air was warmer here, drying the light sweat on his body. There were no corridors to his left now, and the path he was on narrowed to a mere walkway, an iron rail guarding against the sheer drop into the cavern. The pit was still deep, but he could see the cavern.

Mac allowed himself a wolfish grin. He’d found their headquarters, or at least their clubhouse. The large area directly below was scattered with tables and benches where guards lounged, read, diced, or talked. Rooms opened onto the area, guards coming and going. One in the far corner looked larger and had more traffic, as if it served an official purpose.

Mac finished scanning the scene below, and began examining the rocky expanse higher up. Above the rooms, caves dotted the raw stone face of the wall. Some had bars or gates. Were those cages? Storerooms? From where he was, it was impossible to tell, but either explanation would make sense. Now that he looked closely, networks of open stairways were chipped into the rock, zigzagging up from the floor.

And that was as much as he was going to find out from his present vantage point. He had to get closer.

Mac picked an empty-looking cave that overlooked the busy room below. He took a deep breath and melted to dust, flowing through the shadows and down, down to land in the heart of the enemy’s home.

What have I done? Constance wondered.

It was a simple question. There should have been an easy answer, but like the lady in the song, her demon lover had carried her away with fine promises. The difference was, Mac used a bed rather than a ship.

When they reached the shore again On the far side of the sea, Then she spied his cloven hoof And wept most plaintively. “What is that mountain yon,” she cried, “With fire and ice and snow?”

“It is the peaks of hell,” he cried, “Where you and I must go.”

Mac, however, didn’t seem the seafaring type, and he definitely didn’t have cloven hooves. They were already in hell. The only question that remained was whether he was a trickster.

She had awakened alone, and that worried her. He had asked how to find the guardsmen, but how could she be sure he had gone to keep his promise to bring back her son?

Candles bathed the room in a topaz glow. Constance stared at the ceiling, curling into the warmth left by Mac’s body. He could not have been gone long. His heat still bathed the sheets, and she nestled down like a chick in the nest. She was utterly, thoroughly satisfied in ways she hadn’t known existed. But being awake meant facing the future. Emotions crowded in like street hawkers, all shouting for attention. What should I feel?

During her life, she would have known fear. Girls who. gambled their maidenheads away on love risked losing everything: their good name, their employment, their futures. No work meant no food. An unwanted baby all too often meant utter ruin. But that wouldn’t happen now. For one thing, she was Undead, already about as fallen as a woman could get.

He’s a demon. Yes, but she was a vampire, more or less. They were on even footing there.

He’s a stranger. That had more meaning. Some might accuse her of naivete, of falling prey to temptations of the Summer Room. Her appetites had been muted for far too long, only to burst forth like some unseasonal hothouse blossom.

It was true, she had been quick to surrender, but it had felt perfect. It had been the right combination of gentleness and need, wild demon dominance and pleasure. Conall Macmillan suited her through and through, better than any romantic fantasy she had spun for her own amusement.

But would he keep his promise to find Sylvius? Constance dangled one hand over the edge to pick up the Castle key tangled in the mess of garments she had tossed to the floor. It felt cold, hard-edged, the opposite of the fine, soft sheets that still bore Mac’s imprint. She turned it over and over, watching the glint of gold in her palm.

She could tell he was in trouble. His demon had taken hold, and there was no telling where that transformation would lead. What had been a mere streak of danger was now barely in check. He needed an anchor, a home. Something to tip the balance between beast and man. Someone with a claim on him.

In the course of their lovemaking, she had made up her mind about one thing. Love was far more important than innocence. The bonds to her dear ones meant more than anything else.

She prayed Mac felt the same. She’d surrendered to their mutual pleasures that night, falling under the spell of his expert caresses. In the most primal ways, he’d made a gift of the womanhood so long denied her. My demon lover.

And yet, as much as she wanted to drown in the languorous haze of lust, her next thoughts had to be of her boy. Whatever Lore said, abandoning Sylvius would make her more of a monster than any blood hunger. If Mac failed her, she would have to find the courage to save her son all on her own. She wasn’t a servant anymore. She didn’t have the luxury of someone else’s protection, nor could she wait for someone to tell her what to do. It was up to her.

She rolled onto her back, holding the key up to the candlelight. If she left the Castle, would she truly become the ravening beast Lore feared? She could not wait long to put her fate to the test.

Please, oh, please, keep your promise.

When Mac rematerialized, he whipped around, sword ready, but saw the cave he was standing in was a storeroom. He was alone.

The first thing he noticed was that it was noisy, sound pouring up from the plateau below. After the silence of Connie’s corner of the Castle, the clamor felt like a physical blow. Most of it was male voices, booming and loud, and the occasional clank of weapons and armor. The context was different, but the mood was a lot like a busy squad room.

Mac looked around the cave. There were piles of old armor, shields, and breastplates emblazoned with the six-pointed sun that was the guardsman’s symbol. A rough wooden rack held ranks of spears. A trunk with no top overflowed with dusty uniforms. The place smelled like leather and oil.

Mac thought about changing into some of the clothes, but decided it was pointless. After hundreds of years of serving together, these guys all knew each other too well to count on a disguise. Besides, his plans were too vague. He had no idea what he needed yet.

On the other hand, he did poke around until he found a scabbard and shoulder belt for his sword. His hand was getting stiff from carrying it around. He’d even considered ditching it now that he had his Sig Sauer with him, but there were some critters a bullet wouldn’t stop.

It took a while until he found a rig that didn’t interfere with the gun holster, but finally he found something that did the job. Surveillance was the next step.

Mac settled near the mouth of the cave, burying himself in shadow and pulling the dark plaid shirt closed over the white of his T-shirt. From this angle, he could watch the tops of the heads of people coming and going from the busy room below. A dozen feet from the doorway, four guardsmen sprawled around a table. One, he saw with a flicker of annoyance, was Bran. He didn’t know the other three, but he could see the round, ruddy face of the man sitting next to Bran. There was enough firelight that it was almost bright.

Idly, he calculated the position and angle of each man, estimating their vulnerabilities and strengths. If he jumped from here to there, landing in the center of the table, he could probably take all four in eight sword thrusts or less.

That’s the demon talking, and it’s an optimist. There were at least forty other guardsmen to consider, and a major bloodletting got him no closer to finding Connie’s boy. Mac gave a quiet sigh, resigned to pursuing his mission the hard, dull, smart way.

The fair-haired man sitting across from Bran was talk ing.”... got there and the passageway was collapsed. We’re cut off from the north quadrant. It’s bad. We’ve lost communication with Captain O’Shea, and he’s got the trolls on his hands. We can’t send reinforcements. He’ll have to battle it out for himself.”

“What about Sharp?” Bran asked.

“He can’t get through, either. The bridge is down.”

Bran swore. “This whole damned place is coming apart. I’d hoped it was nothing but tall tales.”

Mac stiffened in surprise. So it was true. Something was wrong with the Castle.

The red-faced guardsman spoke up. “O’Shea said that’s why the trolls were coming up from down below. The places they made their dens are gone.”

“Fine for the trolls,” said blondie. “We’re stuck here. We can’t leave. We’re cursed.”

“We know what we have to do,” said red face. “It’s not pretty but it’s the only way.”

“Enough,” growled Bran.

“You said so yourself!”

“The captain doesn’t want to hear that kind of talk.”

But I do. Mac leaned forward a little, taking a better look at the guardmen’s rooms. From here, he could see into a few. About half looked like dormitories, each with a number of beds. The others were empty. Had they once been filled? If so, what happened to the men who’d slept there?

The fourth guardsman spoke up. “You’re too young to remember, but once the Avatar brought rain and sun. Nothing’s the same now.”

Avatars again. Holly’d said the Avatar had been stolen.

The others groaned and shuffled, as if this was a story they’d heard a thousand times. Blondie stood. “I’m off to patrol. Coming, Hans? Edward?”

The two others got up and joined him, walking away to leave Bran on his own. In the distance, another group of three guardsmen were wrestling a huge, misshapen creature up one of the staircases carved into the stone wall. What the heck is that? A troll?

All Mac could see from that distance was that it wore a tunic of some kind and was bald. Shackles around its wrists, ankles, and waist made climbing the stairs awkward. It lurched, nearly falling. One of the guards poked it with the butt of his spear, saving it from tumbling down the cliff face, but clearly hurting it at the same time. Mac scowled. He hated guys who took advantage of their authority that way. It wasn’t like the prisoner had been trying to escape.

The guards opened the barred door to one of the caves and shoved the creature inside. Well, that answers that question. Some of these caves are indeed cells.

Fuming, Mac returned his attention to the table below. Bran sat like a disgruntled lump. The only thing lacking was a beer to cry in.

The Castle didn’t have beer. Or bratwurst sausages. It truly was hell.

Reynard appeared, walking out from the room below.

“I’m tired to death of writing up the log,” said the captain in his la-di-da accent. He’d always sounded to Mac like he’d just quit his job as an announcer for the BBC. All he needed was a Rolex and a polo pony to complete the GQ picture.

The captain slid onto the bench, his back to Mac. “There are times I’d give anything for another one of those perpetual pens. We need to catch another smuggler and confiscate his wares.”

Perpetual pens? Was he talking about a ballpoint?

“Why not simply do business with the rats?” Bran asked with what came close to a sneer. “Then you could have all the pens and log books you want.”

Reynard’s answer bit the air. “Because smugglers also bring in weapons for the warlords to use against us. I won’t tolerate their presence.”

Bran shrugged. “As you say.”

Mac’s mind skipped away from the conversation. If Reynard had been doing paperwork, the room below was the captain’s office. That would be well worth a look. There might be some indication of where Sylvius was being held— like in the log book. Most officers would record anything of significance, and capturing an incubus surely counted.

If Reynard was sitting outside, that meant the room was probably empty. It was a risk. There might be others there, or supernatural traps he couldn’t anticipate. Still, he’d walked into equally dangerous places as a mere human.

Mere human? His demon was getting carried away again. If there was the slightest chance, he would strive to be human again.

Was that the best thing?

This wasn’t the time to think about it.

Mac dusted and trickled down the rock face, stretching himself out to be as inconspicuous as possible. He reassembled in a crouching position, hiding in the corner.

He got an immediate case of the creeps. Nerves tightened his shoulders to the point of pain. I wish I had backup. Or a warrant. Standard operating procedures. A nice jail cell to pop the bad guy into when the day’s work was done. Dream on. Suck it up.

Staying perfectly still for a long moment, he listened, felt for any movement in the air. Nothing. He could find no reason for his sudden case of nerves, but he knew enough to trust his gut. Cautiously, an inch at a time, he rose from his crouch.

Again, he was in luck. He was alone. The room was dark, all the lights extinguished. Despite good night vision, Mac found himself straining to see detail.

The space was average, about the size of a large bedroom. Two walls were floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with thick, leather-bound tomes, each bearing a number. Were these old log books? For how many years? Were they all Reynard’s work? If so, the guy’d been in the Castle a long, long time.

Anxious, Mac turned to the other side of the room. A comfortable-looking armchair filled one corner, but it was the only sign of rest and relaxation. Beside it was a drab green metal filing cabinet, dinged and scraped in a way that said office surplus. More smuggler’s wares?

At last, his gaze lit on a desk that stood at a right angle to the door. Its surface was cluttered, a candle lamp and inkstand framing an open book the size of a jumbo cereal box. Yes!

Mac inched toward the desk, bracing his sword to his side. It would be just his luck to knock something over and give himself away.

Then he froze. It was so dark, he’d almost missed them. On the bookshelf, poised like knickknacks, was a series of three boxes. He leaned closer, trying to see by the trickle of firelight that found its way through the open door.

The middle box was red lacquer, exactly matching Connie’s description of the demon-catcher. Instinctively, Mac’s fingers sought out Holly’s charm. It was still there, safe beneath his shirt. With every sense peeled, he reached out, sweeping the air above the boxes.

C’mon, demon, if you’re listening, how about some help here? It answered instantly. There were indeed sentient beings inside those tiny cubes.

Yes! Mac snatched the red one and stuffed it into the pocket of his plaid shirt. The fit was tight, but at least that would keep it from falling out.

“Helping yourself?”

Mac wheeled. Reynard stood in the doorway. Whoops!

Wasting no time, Mac willed himself to dust. Nothing happend. He tried again. He was trapped.

Inside, the demon yowled in panic, but Mac’s will held on, doggedly trying to put two and two together. Why won’t it work?

He tried yet again with the same result.

Calmly, Reynard struck a match and lit the candle lantern. The whiff of sulphur seemed almost comically appropriate. The candle flared up, highlighting the captain’s face from below. “Macmillan, isn’t it?” he asked pleasantly.

“Yeah.”

Reynard turned, closing the door. Despite the heat in this part of the Castle, his dark hair was neatly tied back, his uniform buttoned, boots polished, and neck cloth perfectly tied. He was either crazy or had steely self-discipline.

“You were a soul eater, if memory serves.” Reynard’s voice didn’t stray from the pleasant, gentleman-to-gentleman tone. “You’ve changed your appearance. Interesting. Well, you’ll find your demon powers don’t work in this room. You can enter in any form you please, but I’m afraid the only way out is on your own two feet.”

“A trap.” Damn. If his dust-engines were down, Mac would try to talk his way out of this. If that failed, he’d just have to fight all forty-odd guardsmen and hoof it back to Connie with the box.

“A trap?” Reynard shrugged. “A precaution, though I have to say you’re the first to ever dare enter here.”

“Call me precocious.”

“I’ll call you prodigal. I thought you had escaped us. But you’re back, I see, and it seems your demon symbiont finally got the upper hand. Opportunistic creatures.”

Mac felt a flicker of something like embarrassment. His muscular body was evidence of how much ground the demon had gained. “Can you tell me how it happened?”

“Ah, took you by surprise, did it?” Reynard clasped his hands behind his back, a faint smile on his lips. “Demon infections are infinitely adaptable. If you encounter strong magic, one strain can mutate to another, taking advantage of the forces around it. You change to better serve your demon’s needs. You grow into its strengths, if you like.”

Mac leaped at the scrap of information. This wasn’t the time to play twenty questions, but he’d take what info he could get. Plus, he needed time to think about an escape.

“I thought the Castle did this,” he said.

Reynard’s smile faded. “Perhaps. The Castle has grown unpredictable, though what it would want with a fire demon is beyond me.”

“Fire demon?”

“I can feel your heat from here.”

“But why ... ?”

“You won’t have a pretty end, I’m afraid. Its appetites— fed by your emotions—will eventually get the upper hand. Then, whatever you touch will be scorched to ashes.”

“Bullshit!” Mac growled. That can’t be true. I’m not that out of control. But fear and anger blazed inside, bringing his skin to a slippery sweat.

The captain watched him, his expression neutral. “I don’t need to argue the point. I’ll wager you already know the truth of it.”

As he spoke, Reynard reached beside the door, picking up a long, wicked-looking firearm at least as old as Reynard himself. You gotta be kidding me. A musket?

Mac reached for his Sig Sauer just as the muzzle of Reynard’s weapon swung his way. Reynard beat him to the draw. “I’m using silver shot.”

Mac paused, his hand hovering above his holster, eyeing the big, ugly bore aimed at his head. Those old firearms were never as accurate as a modern weapon, but at this range it was impossible not to blow Mac to smithereens.

Mac feinted, grabbing another one of the demon boxes.

“No!” Reynard barked. “Don’t touch that one!”

“Why not?” Mac said, suddenly feeling his chances improve. “Was this one a bad boy? How about this one?” He picked up the last box and tapped the two together just hard enough to make a clacking sound. He felt vaguely foolish, but Reynard looked terrified.

“Why don’t you put down the musket and we’ll talk.”

Clearly reluctant, Reynard lowered the weapon, his eyes deadly. “You fool. Either one of those two demons would tear us all apart. The incubus is a temptation. The creatures in the other two boxes are holocausts.”

Mac looked from one box to the other. “Just the thing to keep around as paperweights. Buy a safe, dumb ass.”

“They need to be seen by the men. They need to be reminded of our victories.”

“Right. Good thinking. Whatever. All I want is the incubus.”

“He’s dangerous.”

“He’s a kid.”

Reynard gave a dry smile. “He’s a monster, just like you. Worse, he’ll make monsters of the rest of us with his seductive powers. The Castle’s hold over our base instincts is slipping already. The influence of an incubus is all that would be needed to turn us into a den of savages.”

The guardsman had been holding his musket in one hand, but the other had reached to the desk behind him, pressing a catch beside one of the drawers. A compartment sprang open.

Mac held up one of the boxes, a black cube of heavy, dense wood. “Don’t try anything stupid. You know, monster that I am, I could crush this in one hand.”

“You would die as quickly as I.”

“So what? If what you say about my future is true, I’m already as good as dead.”

Reynard had withdrawn another box from his desk, this one painted green. He pressed a catch, and the lid sprang open. “It’s a little hard to threaten me from inside here.”

Mac’s heart cartwheeled in alarm.

“I command you to enter!” Reynard barked, just like he would to a wayward private.

Crap!

Mac felt a yank of gravity, as if a dozen vacuums were sucking at his skin. The air around the box flared with cold, brilliant light, vibrations humming just beyond what Mac could truly hear. It rattled his teeth, crushed his temples like someone grinding their knuckles into his skull. He squeezed his watering eyes shut against the light and leaned away from the fierce pull, roaring a protest. Where it lay against his bare chest, the charm bag burned like acid.

But Holly’s magic held. Mac felt the light wink out before he even opened his eyes. Gradually, the pull on his flesh faded. He stumbled a little, adjusting as he no longer needed to dig in his heels.

Reynard had one arm lifted to shield his eyes. As he lowered it, his jaw dropped a little as he saw Mac still standing there, a box in either hand and the red one in his pocket.

“Surprise, Merlin. The mojo ain’t working,” Mac said in a low, warning voice. “Now stop fooling around and let me go. That incubus has someone waiting for him at home.”

“Did Atreus send you?” Reynard hissed.

“No way. I sent me, because it was the right thing to do. But let’s not get sidetracked.”

The door flung open. Bran hulked in the doorway. “You!”

“Don’t come any closer. I’m armed,” Mac waggled one of the little boxes, and felt ridiculous.

“Obey him, Bran,” said Reynard, not taking his eyes off Mac. “He’s taken hostages.”

Great. I’m in an armed standoff with demonic gift boxes. He held the black box in the palm of his hand, curling his fingers around it. “What’s the magic password out of here?”

Bran looked at his captain sharply. Reynard’s eyes were on the box.

“Don’t make me do this, Reynard. I just want to correct a mistake.”

“Demons lie,” said Reynard. “So do humans.”

“Demons have no honor.”

“You broke a heart when you took this boy. I’m setting that right.”

Reynard gave him a long look. “You won’t smash those boxes.”

“So you’re willing to gamble that I’m a good monster? You can’t have it both ways. I’m evil or I’m not.”

“You argue like an attorney.”

“Low blow, Captain, but I’ll tell you one thing. I’m no coward. Call my bluff and I’ll play my cards.” A beat passed.

Reynard said a word in a strange tongue. Mac felt the atmosphere in the room lift, as if someone had thrown open a window. Whatever spell had kept him from dusting away was gone.

“Captain!” Bran roared, and launched himself at Mac.

The guardsman was too quick. Mac went sprawling, the boxes flying from his hands. His head cracked against the bookcase, but he rolled Bran over, smashing a fist into Bran’s jaw. Roaring to the surface, his demon flooded his mind with a need for scalding, red violence. Mac’s skin flared, fiery-hot. Seizing Bran like an overpacked gym bag, he tossed him across the room with a snarl.

Reynard’s musket went off with a boom. Mac twisted, dancing away from the silver shot that slammed into the filing cabinet. A plume of acrid smoke clogged the air. Reckless with rage, Mac grabbed the musket by the barrel, ripping it from Reynard’s hand and flinging it behind him. Then he grabbed the captain by the arm, wrenching him closer.

Reynard was a strong man in his own right, but his feet left the floor with the force of Mac’s one-handed tug. Mac slammed him against the bookcase, holding him by the throat, forcing him to teeter on his toes. The buttons on the captain’s coat had come undone, and his shirt gaped open to reveal the blue tattoos beneath. The mark of the guardsmen. It looked incongruous against the oh-so-civilized officer’s skin.

Anger was as surf in Mac’s ears, and he rode it, savoring the power of his muscles, the giddy sensation of his own strength. These men were as feeble as toys.

He’d taken what he came for. He hadn’t even drawn a weapon. Why should he? With his brain, brawn, and the willing violence of the demon, he was the perfect weapon.

Reynard was choking, his breath coming in rasping gasps. His skin was turning red from the heat of Mac’s hand.

With all his force of spirit, Mac fought for control. As good as it felt, he would not surrender to his darker side. Slowly, let Reynard ease back to the ground.

He heard Bran rushing him from behind. Just as the guardsman leaped, Mac dusted out.

The last thing he heard was the two men smacking together.

He’d always liked Wile E. Coyote cartoons.