Scorched

Chapter 24

October 10, 1:00 a.m. 101.5 FM

“This is Oscar Ottwell, your daytime host filling in tonight for the incomparable Errata. We’re at 101.5 FM at the beautiful University of Fairview campus. For the next hour I’ll be talking communities. I know many of the listeners out there live and work in the area some call Spookytown. Is it a business district, a ghetto, or a neighborhood? Can it be a community with so many different species in so small a space?

“To put it another way, what makes a few square blocks more than a place on a map? The cafe that remembers you like your tea with lemon? The grandma down the street who lets the kids climb her tree? Or is it the guy down the street who always gives your car a push when the battery goes dead?

“Folks, our lines are open. Call and tell me what makes a neighborhood a community.”

October 10, 1:30 a.m.

CSUP boardroom, University of Fairview campus

“That’s not the answer!” retorted George de Winter, tossing back his dark mane of overstyled hair. “Fairview is not a homeless shelter. We can’t open the door to an unlimited flood of refugee trash who can’t even feed themselves.”

Mac glared across the scuffed table at the representative for the Clan Albion vampires. The crappy overhead lights in the CSUP boardroom were giving him a demon-sized headache. “Look, dickhead, we can’t just wall the Castle up and forget about everyone inside. We have to do something.”

“The Castle has survived for who knows how many thousands of years.”

“So?”

“Perhaps it’s meant to self-destruct. It’s a prison filled with the dregs of supernatural civilization.”

“Which you don’t want in your backyard.”

“Of course not. And I don’t like your tone.”

Am I allowed to stake the stakeholders?

Once upon a time, he’d sat as police liaison on assorted committees and actually enjoyed it—but somewhere between chowing down souls and turning into Mac the Barbarian, he’d lost all patience for idiots. Fancy that.

He took a deep breath, refilling his water glass from the pitcher on the table. The others in the room exchanged glances. Mac knew he was there on sufferance, only there because he was Caravelli’s guest. Keep a lid on the sarcasm.

He tried for a conciliatory tone. “I appreciate your concerns and every effort will be made to minimize the impact on Fairview as a whole.”

De Winter gave an eye roll. “I don’t see how that’s possible. Let the rabble out of the Castle and the humans will quickly find out there’s a supernatural prison on their doorstep. Right when we’re pushing for equal rights and trying to convince them we’re good little law-abiding monsters. Good thinking.”

Mac cast a sideways glance at Holly. She was doodling on a legal pad, drawing a bat with a cartoon bubble over its head. The bubble said, “blah, blah, blah.” She caught Mac smirking and moved her hand over the drawing to hide it.

“Oh c’mon, George,” said Errata, the werecougar radio host. She was in full kitty Goth regalia, somehow managing to make stretchy faux snakeskin—black, of course—look tasteful. “Sooner or later someone’s going to start talking to city hall. Right now they think it’s an urban myth, but what are they going to say about us when they find out we’re abusing our own people? The council risks a lot more exposure by standing by and pretending this isn’t a train wreck.”

“And when someone blows the whistle, you’ll be right there to break the story,” de Winter shot back. “The biggest one since the coming out in Y2K. Forget it. Keep your scoops in the litter box, young lady.”

A hostile silence followed. Mac glanced around the table. Most looked like they agreed with the radio host. Others looked worried or about to fall asleep. The room was stuffy, plain, and ugly, one of the light ballasts humming hypnotically overhead.

Holly started to draw a cat eating the bat.

Just enough council members had shown up for a quorum. There were ten present, including Holly, Caravelli, and Errata. The rest were vamps and werewolves. The fey, as usual, hadn’t bothered to show. Lore was late, which ticked Mac off. The council meeting had originally been for his benefit.

One of the vamps looked at her watch. Mac had already forgotten her name.

The meeting was going nowhere.

Dr. Perry Baker, university computer prof and the youngest of the wolves, spoke into the sudden quiet. “Look. I agree with Errata. If we know there are people who should leave the Castle, we can’t just blow them off. They’re our people. They’re supernaturals, like us.”

“Maybe these are your people,” de Winter drawled. “They aren’t mine. Not to mention the fact that it’s— hello!—a prison, which means bad people are inside. Remember Geneva?”

“De Winter,” Caravelli growled. He didn’t say anything else, but the other vampire folded his arms and shut up.

“Let me cut to the chase,” Mac said. “The hounds have an extensive information network inside the Castle. Lore told me earlier today that he received word of a group of about forty hellhounds who’ve escaped from an area that just collapsed. They’re working their way toward the door. They’re moving slowly because they’ve got women and children in the pack, and the risk of capture is high.”

“Oh,” said Errata. “Children.”

“So we go get them,” said Perry Baker. “Any questions?”

“Is there anyone else we can identify immediately for rescue?” asked Errata.

“Just a moment,” said a vampire who had been silent so far. He had been older when he Turned, with the exquisite manners and handsome face of an old-fashioned film star.

Mac turned to Holly, widening his eyes. She scribbled on her notepad, Big Important Vamp. Beaumont clan. His name is Antoine.

Everyone turned, as if this guy was worth listening to. He spread his hands a little, an orator’s gesture. “We are under the emotional pull of a sad story, and that is making us throw out all our previous policy regarding the Castle. If we begin to rescue people, where do we draw the line?”

“The vampires have opposed every rescue attempt!” Errata objected. “Every time this comes up, Antoine, you block us!”

Antoine leaned forward, eyes flashing. “Mind your tongue, little cat. The wolves have always agreed with us.”

“What?” Perry Baker rose from his seat. “All I’ve ever said is that we’d better know what we’re doing before we throw open that door!”

“That’s not how I remember it,” Errata snarled.

This is going south. “Silence!” Mac shouted, then used his two-finger whistle.

All heads, fangs out and eyes aglow, turned to glower at him. A shudder of demon heat went up his spine.

Mac cleared his throat, forcing himself to calm down. “Antoine is right. We need to be clear about what we’re doing. The hellhounds have to be our immediate goal. Because some of the inmates are dangerous, and we don’t know for sure which ones those are, we can’t just rush in there with big hearts and no brains. It sounds cruel, but I more than anybody know the consequences when someone like Geneva gets loose.”

Antoine nodded, his expression relieved.

Errata sat down. The others followed her example. “Okay,” she said.

“At the same time,” Mac added, “we need to fix the Avatar. In some ways that’s the bigger problem.”

“I don’t really understand this business about the Avatar,” said Perry. “How do the guardsmen think they’re going to put it back by killing its child?”

Holly pulled a folder out of her backpack and opened it. “I found a passage in a book that talks about the ritual for freeing the spirit from the body. It’s called disincorporation.”

“Sounds like murder to me,” the werecougar replied tightly.

Mac frowned, growing hot with the fierce, dry heat of his demon. They’re talking about Sylvius. Anger sucked at him, leaving an ashy taste on his tongue. He grabbed his water glass, gulping down the cool liquid. Where he gripped the glass, the condensation on its side fizzled in a puff of steam.

Caravelli gave him a curious look. Mac shrugged. At least I’m not kidding when I say I’m hot stuff.

“This ritual is supposed to save the Castle from collapsing?” Antoine asked, sounding subdued.

“That’s the theory,” Holly answered.

Perry looked confused. “Wouldn’t the energy draw have to be huge in order to re-create a spirit form like the Avatar?”

“You mean it would require several deaths?” Mac asked darkly.

“Careful what you say,” said Holly quickly. “These spells have a way of listening.” Mac shut his mouth.

“The passage describes a few specific points,” Holly said.

“The body is suspended from a large structure. This is going to take time to set up and they’ll need a big space to do it in. There’s also a body of water nearby, like a lake or a pond, that will be magically set on fire.”

Mac scribbled the details on his notepad as Holly spoke. There was only one pond he knew of in the Castle—the place with the dark pool—and that gave him the major creeps. He could see doing a sacrifice there.

De Winter sighed. “Well, I don’t see the benefit of involving ourselves in this Avatar business. What’s it got to do with Fairview?”

The notepad burst into flame. Mac swore, slapping his hand down on the flames. Caravelli jumped back, throwing his water on the fire before it spread.

All the vampires’in the room inched away from Mac. Fire was one of the few things that could hurt them. Mac just sat there, gaping at the drowning flames. What the frigging hell was that?

Perry pulled a pen from his pocket and reached across the table, stirring the soggy mess of wet ash until the last cinders were out. “So, have you tried antacids?” He looked over the rims of his wire-framed glasses. “I heard you got over the soul-eating thing, but how long have you been a fire demon?”

“Can we stay on topic?” said de Winter. “Flaming like that is just rude.”

Before Mac could struggle through another thought, the boardroom door opened. Lore looked inside, as if uncertain he had the right room.

“Where the hell were you?” Mac demanded.

The hound entered, followed by Connie and Viktor.

Everything else forgotten, Mac jumped to his feet. Why is she here? She looks scared. Where’s the kid?

She kept one hand on Viktor’s head while he sniffed loudly, taking in the scents of the various creatures in the room. Connie looked ragged.

Caravelli tensed. “Constance, what happened? Are you all right?”

“She came to Mac’s condo as I was leaving to join you,” Lore said. “She has bad news. We have less time than we thought.”

“None,” Connie said, her voice small but firm. She looked around the room, meeting the glances of everyone in it. “The guardsmen have mutinied against their captain.”

Her gaze drifted to meet Mac’s. They stood on opposite sides of the room, but the intimacy of her look put them side by side. “They took Atreus, the only sorcerer who had the strength to oppose them.”

How the hell did they do that? Mac wondered.

“And they took Sylvius.”

Mac caught his breath. So that’s why she’s here.

“The sacrifice boy?” de Winter asked.

She closed her mouth for a moment. Mac caught the quick tremor of her chin. She was fighting back tears. “Yes.”

God, she’s being brave.

Errata swore. “That’s it. We have to get him, and we have to get those hounds.”

Everyone started talking at once. Connie slipped across the room to stand beside Mac. Her cold, cold fingers slipped through his, gripping him tight. “I’m so hungry,” she whispered. “If Lore hadn’t been at your home, I don’t know what I would have done.”

Mac bent down, whispering in her ear. “But you made it. You found us.”

“There were so many people and buildings,” she whispered back. “I had no idea your home would be so far away. This city is huge!”

Fairview was actually a medium-sized place, but compared to an eighteenth-century village it would have seemed vast. Mac squeezed her hand.

She ducked her chin, looking dejected. “I thought coming into my power meant I could fight the guardsmen, but they’re still too strong. They’re soldiers, and I’m not. All I could do was run for help. It doesn’t seem like much.”

“You did what was necessary,” Mac replied. “After cen turies out of this world, you mastered your hunger and your fear and journeyed through a completely strange landscape to get the right message to the right people. You’re doing just fine.”

She looked up, meeting his eyes. She looked sad and tired, but there was a glimmer of pride there, too. “I suppose I am. And I didn’t even bite anybody along the way.”

Mac squeezed her hand. “Atta girl.”

“But I think I might have frightened a few.”

Mac didn’t want to know.

They turned back to the meeting.

“There is word of a second hellhound pack farther back along the road,” Lore was saying. “At least another thirty hounds. Prince Miru-kai’s men are in pursuit.”

“What about the guardsmen?” Mac asked.

“With panic about the Castle’s collapse, word is spreading quickly about the door, and the guardsmen are on alert.”

“Damn,” said Perry Baker. “We can’t mobilize quickly enough. To get enough boots on the ground, we need to contact the loners as well as the packs and prides.”

Errata swung her chair around and stood in one smooth motion. “Leave that to me. Radio stations aren’t just for talk shows.”

October 10, 4:00 a.m. 101.5 FM

“This is Errata Jones at CSUP Radio, 101.5 FM at the University of Fairview. This is a public service announcement and a call for volunteers. Those members of the supernatural community able to provide food and shelter for mothers and children please contact the station at 250-555-2787—that’s 250-555-CSUP. Please do so immediately. We need blankets, clothing, and food. Would members of the supernatural community peacekeeping roster or those with medical training please report to the Empire Hotel as soon as possible. Organizers are standing by. Thank you.”

The radio called, and people came.

Werecats, hellhounds, vampires, hedge-witches, and even two of the fey. Alessandro said there were familiar faces, but also people no one had ever met before. Lone wolves. A family of bears from a downtown cafe. The Bakers and the rest of Pack Silvertail, always well organized, were the first on the scene.

The turnout was impressive, given the short notice. They milled in the narrow alley by the Castle door, drinking takeout coffee and huddling in groups. The council members went from one clump to another, relaying their plan. All told, there were about forty fighters. The rest were standing by to deal with refugees and the wounded.

“Just not the numbers to storm the Castle in grand style,” said Caravelli regretfully. “Too bad. I always wanted to do something like that.”

Mac grunted. “Think Robin Hood—guerrilla warfare.”

“Bah. Men in green panty hose.”

“Whatever.”

“You’re in a hot temper.” Mac sighed. “Price of being a fire demon?”

“Do you have a sudden desire to pose for a calendar?”

“Those are fire fighters. Y’know. Dalmatians. Funny yellow hats.”

“That’s just for humans. A bit of soot and all the werekittens will be begging for you, and only you, to kindle their tender tails.”

“I am so not in the mood for vampire humor.”

“What would you rather be, the big bad demon or the boy with the spotted dog?”

“I thought you didn’t like fire.”

“I like watching you squirm.”

“Don’t start something, crypt boy. I have depths. Hey, does anyone have a gun I could borrow? The sorcerer squished mine.”

Lore brought his hounds. With a handful of hounds and Lore’s second-in-command, Caravelli was in charge of locating and escorting the closer group of hounds to safety.

This was the simplest part of their plan, because Lore’s intelligence placed the group no more than a mile east of the Castle door.

Once they were safe, Caravelli would take charge of securing the path of retreat for the warriors traveling farther into the Castle. While the nearest Castle residents were believed to be at the werecat encampment Mac had seen, there was still a chance of danger from guardsman patrols or a hostile warlord.

Pack Silvertail, along with Lore and the rest of his hounds, were going in search of the group of refugees re-ported to be farther away. All the other fighters stayed with Holly. She was stationed by the door itself, her magic the last line of defense in the event something nasty tried to leave. It was the most critical position, and she was the only one among them with enough magic to hold the Castle door if everything else went wrong.

Mac, because of his unique demon abilities, was going after the guardsmen’s captives, hoping to succeed through stealth. He would go alone.

Or so he thought.

Connie was looking up at him, her silvery blue eyes turning the color of steel.

“But it’s dangerous,” Mac said, hearing how lame that sounded even as he spoke.

“I’m every bit as much of a monster as you are, Conall Macmillan. You need someone to watch your back. And this is my son we’re rescuing. I’m no fine lady to be sitting here and tatting lace while you ride off to war. You need me.” She checked the knife at her belt. “I know the Castle better than you do, and speed counts.”

She was right, but he was bound by the universal creed of macho heroes. “But...”

“Enough.” She poked him in the chest. “You’re only in charge of me if I say you are. Now I love you, boyo, but you’re not thinking clearly. Are you going to take advantage of two and a half centuries of knowledge of this place or are you going to pretend that being a great big demon makes you an expert on things you can’t possibly know?”

She loves me. His mind got stuck there.

“Well?” she asked.

“What if you’re hurt?”

“I’m a vampire,” she said in an exasperated voice. “And what if you’re hurt? No one should be on this job alone.” Mac surrendered. She loves me.

Perry found Mac a Sig Sauer almost like his old one. He offered to find something for Connie, but she wanted nothing but her belt knife.

“It’s what I’m used to. I used to gut chickens, you know,” she said, drawing her blade for the thirtieth time to check its edge.

“Handy.”

“I had to work for a living.”

“And?”

She fixed him with a guarded look, a little uncertain now that she had won the argument to go with him. “Gentlemen generally prefer the embroidering type.”

He touched her cheek, momentarily mesmerized by her wintry beauty—all snow and darkness. “Who says I’m a gentleman?”

As a reply, she thrust the knife back in the sheath, managing to make the simple act suggestive. And then she smiled. It wasn’t the Mona Lisa smile, but a broad grin.

Oh, yeah.

Mac drew the line at taking Viktor. The last thing he needed was an addled werebeast with obedience issues— and to be honest, Mac had grown too fond of the creature to put him needlessly at risk. Viktor was on a truck bound for Pack Silvertail’s rural property. There he could find werebunny rabbits to chase and a very large fenced enclosure suitable for oversized canines.

“Hey. Demon guy.”

Mac turned. Oh, great. It was Ashe.

Mac took a hard look at Holly’s sister. She had a light machine gun slung across her shoulder. She saw him look ing at it. “Altered for heavy silver ammunition. I know a guy at Colt.”

“Shouldn’t you be recuperating?” he asked.

“I’m good.”

Mac didn’t believe it for a moment. She looked pale and moved like she still hurt.

Ashe looked at Connie. “Hello, again.”

“Hello. We never introduced ourselves. My name is Constance.” Connie looked Ashe up and down in turn. “Are you Holly’s sister?”

“That’s right. Ashe Carver.”

Connie narrowed her eyes. “Are you here to slay vampires?”

“Not today,” said Ashe. “But it sounds like your son’s in real trouble. There’ll be plenty of action to go around.” She patted her weapon.

Mac turned to her. “Y’know, I saved your life. It kinda hurts you’re planning to throw it away so soon.”

Ashe gave him a lip curl, but it held no rancor. “You never know, Scorch, I might come in handy.”

Wonderful. The fire-demon thing’s already hot gossip.

“You need a warning label.” Mac looked her in the eye. She reminded him of some of the female cops he knew, including his old partner. Solid, for all the kick-ass attitude.

“A warning label. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said all week.” She turned and walked toward Pack Silvertail’s huddle, where the Bakers were assigning teams.

Mac called after her. “Yeah, and it would say ‘slow learner.’”

Ashe made a rude gesture.

Connie tilted her head. “She’s an unusual woman.” Mac sighed. “Thank God for that.”