Scorched

Chapter 27

Reynard should have been dead. Not that Constance wanted it that way. It was just a fact based on the probable odds—except Mac carried the captain with them, dusting from point to point. Reynard would be saved, no matter what kind of strength Mac had to pull from the marrow of his bones.

Demons were apparently very stubborn. Constance ran behind the dark, twining cloud that skimmed through the shadows of the Castle. Mac was moving quickly, conserving energy by staying low to the ground.

She quickened her pace, closing the distance between them as the cloud seeped to the ground, splitting into two, and coalescing into the forms of two men. Mac was stopping again, the distances between resting points growing shorter. He was tiring.

Reynard fell back with a groan. Constance winced in sympathy. She remembered when Mac had transported her from the restaurant the other night. Pain had disappeared in dust form, only to come back twice as hard when she became flesh again.

Impatient at the delay, she dropped to one knee beside Reynard, checking the temperature of his skin. He was clammy and cold.

“He’s fainted. He needs help,” she said. “All the guardsmen heal faster than mortals, but that’s not enough to save him.”

Mac was sitting with his back to the wall, his knees drawn up. He’d not allowed himself to stop for more than a minute at a time. Eyes closed, he’d propped his head against the stones. He didn’t complain. No man of Mac’s character would.

She crossed to him, slid down the wall until they were hip to hip. She could feel his heat through their clothes. It was more than just exertion. He was always warm to the touch now, not just when angry or aroused. “It was only a handful of days ago that we sat like this at the Castle door. I told you that you were impossible. I had no idea then that meant you were impossibly brave and good.”

“You just wanted me for my blood.”

“You just wanted to get under my skirt.”

He opened one eye. “Yeah, so what’s your point?”

“I’m glad you did.” She leaned over, kissed his cheek.

He laughed, kissed her back, then sobered. “How far have we got to go?”

“If we turn south, the passageway will take us to the route we want. If we turn west there, we’ll reach the courtyard with the dark pool.” Constance looked from Mac to the unconscious guardsman, and then spoke her mind. “How far do we take him? You can’t carry him much longer. Not if you want to keep any strength for yourself.”

Please forgive me, she said silently to Reynard. I have to speak up. Mac won’t spare himself.

Mac shook his head. “Reynard’s closer to help than he was before. I can take him a little farther. I won’t give in yet. Something will turn up.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but her emotions tore at her. Pity and fear.

“What’s that stink?” Mac said suddenly.

Constance heard a footfall, so faint it might have been no more than the shadow of a sound. She jumped to her feet, listening, her fingers curved into claws. “Who’s there?”

“That stink would be eau de dragon.” Ashe Carver swaggered—or perhaps staggered—out of the shadows, her weapon propped casually on her shoulder. She looked terrible—dirty and blistered, like she’d been through a fire. “You wouldn’t believe the adventure Caravelli and I had a little while ago.”

She stopped, looking down at Reynard. “Who’s this?”

“A friend,” said Mac.

“I’d hate to see your enemies.”

“What happened to you?” Mac asked.

“Not as much as what happened to this dude.”

“Captain Reynard needs a surgeon,” Constance said.

“Now, there’s an understatement.” Ashe bent, taking a look at the wounds. “Holy chain saw.”

She set her gun down and dropped to one knee, examining the bandage Mac had ripped from Reynard’s shirt. “He’s bleeding through. How clean was the wound?”

“Not very,” said Mac. “His guardsmen locked him in one of their cells.”

“Ah, so this is the mutiny guy. I thought the guards’ quarters were far to the east of here.”

“They are.”

“And you’ve brought him all this way?” Ashe stood and looked at Mac, her brow furrowed with surprise. “Aren’t you supposed to be, like, saving the world or something?”

“That’s after coffee,” Mac returned.

“Whatever.” Ashe pulled out a water flask. “Caravelli’s gone to fetch his puppy dogs, but they’ll be back this way in minutes. I’m just here to chase the dragon away if it comes back.”

“Dragon?”

“Long story. Leave your captain with me. Caravelli and I’ll take him along when we move the hounds out.”

“Are you sure?” Mac said dryly. “There’s not much action in watching a man bleed to death.”

“Maybe if I’m lucky the dragon will come back. Relax. My husband was a bullfighter. I’m used to pulling medic duty.” She knelt, wetting the captain’s lips with the water. His eyelids fluttered.

Constance felt a sudden flood of relief, indescribably thankful. The woman had arrived like a knight from a fairy tale. A very strange knight, but Constance wasn’t about to argue. She’d take what good luck they could get.

She watched Ashe raise the captain’s head, giving him another swallow. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but we don’t need to eat or drink here.”

“Uh-huh. Well, aside from the whole blood volume thing, there’s the fact that this guy looks like he could use some TLC. We’re not all immortal.”

Although Reynard was even older than Constance, she let it go. She wasn’t going to argue about that, either.

Mac rose. “Then if you’ve got this covered, we’d better get going.”

“Go get ‘em, Sparky,” said Ashe, standing over the captain like a feral cat guarding her kitten.

Connie and Mac ran until they began seeing guardsmen in the corridors. Mac recognized the area by the fact that the stone of the walls had been polished to a faint sheen. He had approached this place from the other side before, climbing up a staircase slippery with moss.

They ducked into the shadows as a pair of guardsmen passed. They looked Roman, with short red capes and leather armor with plates of dull metal sewn on. He held his breath as they marched by, sandals clumping on the stone.

Both vampires and demons had a talent for hiding in plain sight, but he wondered whether his body heat would eventually give him away. Ever since the council meeting, his core temperature fluctuated between mild curry and extra-strength jalapeno. It wasn’t uncomfortable—he wasn’t even sweating—but he was conscious of radiating warmth like a bipedal pocket warmer.

The guardsmen passed. Mac and Connie slipped back into the corridor, silently ghosting through it. The hall with the black pond lay just fifty yards ahead. He could just see the outline of steps angling away from either side of the arched entry, leading up to the balconies above. The guardsmen that had passed them turned to the left, mounting the steps and disappearing from view.

The noise level was growing, not the clamor of happy anticipation, but a low murmur of anxious expectancy. It snaked through the dark spaces, brushing Mac’s nerves with a cold and flicking tongue. He could almost taste the panic in the voices, sour as bile.

Fear was a powerful motivator. All of this—mutiny and sacrifice—was happening because the guardsmen were afraid of being trapped in a disappearing prison. They thought this was the answer, and Mac was set to rip that last hope from them. I hate this.

He felt the same knot in his stomach as he’d felt before kicking down the door of a drug house. A mix of righteous anger and please-don’t-shoot-me. He drew his weapon. Connie drew hers, the sound of the blade on the leather sheath raising the hair on his arms.

He inched along the remaining yards to the entrance. Through the doorway, he could see a slice of what lay ahead. He caught a glimpse of the white marble edge of the pool, the stark color warmed by the braziers that lit the cavernous space. Mac’s gaze traveled up. When he had seen the space before, the balconies had been empty, but now guardsmen watched from the front rows, filling perhaps a quarter of the space. Had there once been enough guards to fill every seat?

It didn’t matter. There were too many of them for a straightforward fight. He looked for cover. There were pillars beside the twin stairways to the balconies. When he got close enough, he eyeballed the pillar on the right. Its angle to the wall made a small but effective hiding place. He pulled Connie into it.

“Stay here,” he breathed. “I’m going to take a closer look at what’s going on. I’ll be right back.”

Connie nodded silently, her features lost in the shadows. She gripped his shoulder, pulling him down and brushing his lips with hers. She melted under him, soft and sweet, but with the bite of her teeth against his tongue. Fierce, dark Connie. He felt the rush of heat in his blood, licks of fire under his skin.

She drew back quickly, as if his touch had burned her.

He stepped away, his gut gripped by a sudden, contrasting freeze. Those licks of fire hadn’t just been inside him. They’d flared along his skin.

Desire burns. Great as a metaphor, but his life would be sheer hell if that started to happen for real. I’m losing control.

Reynard had predicted this: Whatever you touch will be scorched to ashes. Dear God, no.

Connie shifted. With a quick flash, her hunter’s eyes caught a scrap of light. He caught her arm, pulling her deeper into the shadow before she gave herself away. He felt her flinch under his touch, and he tried to let her go, but she put her hand over his, holding him despite the heat of his flesh.

“Don’t let me hurt you,” he whispered.

She replied simply by putting her finger against his lips, hushing him. Scorching herself.

Mac’s heart broke.

She still clutched him, pressing her comfort into his burning skin. Vampires weren’t immune to fire. He could feel it in the tremor of her fingers. She’s in pain.

“Come back to me,” she pleaded. “Promise.”

Mac stepped back. Not if I’m going to hurt you.

He didn’t speak, but somehow she understood. Tears stood in her eyes. Despite his silence, she could sense he was pulling away.

Mac ached. All of him. The feeling was too big to punish just his heart.

He loved her. It was up to him to make her world better, not worse.

Demons destroy. I’m not going to destroy her. Without a word, he faded to dust and went to save Connie’s son. It’s the only thing left I can do.

He materialized in the very back of the balcony that curved above the entrance. From here, he could see that the balconies circled the whole space, forming a small, round theater with a clear view of everything below. No bad seats for the sacrifice.

Guardsmen sat at the front of the balconies, but over to the side Mac noticed a handful of figures standing to the back, half hidden by the darkness. A jolt of anger ran through him. He recognized one of the figures, hawk-nosed, black-haired, garbed in robes heavy with gold embroidery. An exotic figure, like some tribal leader who’d fought Genghis Khan, or the Turks, or Vlad Teppes. It was the half-fey warlord and Atreus’s sorcerer rival, Prince Miru-kai.

So that’s how Bran pulled this off. The rogue guardsman had help.

But the how didn’t matter anymore. What counted was the drama below. Mac looked down.

Although he’d braced himself, momentary shock robbed him of breath. Beside the pool stood a wooden scaffold three times the height of a man. Sylvius hung from one side by his wrists, his white flesh scored by dozens of angry wounds. Beneath him, a wooden bucket collected the blood.

Directly across from him, a cage was suspended from the ceiling. In it was Atreus, captive and forced to witness his son’s execution. Silver chains bound him to the bars, the metal robbing him of all magical power. The sorcerer was crumpled in the bottom of the cage, his face clasped behind his hands.

Mac started to shake with anger, his skin searing hot, but he slammed the demon down, forcing his mind to take in every detail, any scrap of information that might be of use. Think. What do you see?

Lit by the fire from the four braziers that marked the corners of the space, the scaffold’s wood looked dark and stained with age. Wood wasn’t plentiful in the Castle. It had probably been saved for use time and again, stored away between atrocities like a macabre Christmas tree.

Half a dozen figures stood around the base of the scaffold, one reading from a grimoire. He looked like a sorcerer, complete with gray beard and staff. The others were guardsmen, including Bran. They were standing in a loose circle around the base of the scaffold, repeating lines from whatever spell the sorcerer was reading. The charred-toast smell of magic hung in the air.

The sorcerer dipped a goblet in the bucket, then raised it to his lips. He drank slowly, letting the blood linger for a moment on his lips before he licked them clean and passed the cup to Bran. The guardsman took it, drank more hastily. Took two swallows instead of one before passing it on. Mac watched Bran’s face flush. The guardsman shuddered, breathing deeply, and clenched his fists.

Blood of the incubus, bringing desire and appetite back to these ancient, trapped, frightened men. They were taking a last hit before sacrificing their high to save their Castle from annihilation. If it wasn’t all so insane, Mac might have sympathized.

The shackles at Sylvius’s wrists looked ordinary, both hands bound together directly above his head. The guardsmen had been cruel. He hung limp and broken, wings dangling like tattered rags, the broken shaft of an arrow still protruding from his side. From what Connie had said, Sylvius had been struck down before he could dust to safety. In too much pain, he had been unable to transform.

Demons—even the incubi—were often thought impossible to kill, but draining their energies did make them vulnerable. Last year, Holly had blasted Geneva’s powers away with magic, allowing the master demon’s own henchmen to tear out Geneva’s throat. Likewise, between the guardsmen’s magic-enhanced weapons and his wounds, Sylvius could be slaughtered as easily as a mortal.

Judging from the amount of blood in the bucket, the kid was barely still alive. Mac’s demon rose up again, searing with anger. Again, he yanked it back under control.

The first thing was to get Sylvius to safety.

He holstered his weapon. This was going to take more stealth than firepower. After studying the scaffold a moment, he dusted beneath the square of wooden slats that formed its top surface and re-formed clinging to its underside.

Remaining perfectly still a moment, he waited for a roar of protest from the guardsmen as he materialized. When there was none, Mac concluded he was hidden from the balconies by the top of the scaffold. He still had to worry about the half dozen men on the ground, but he had surprise on his side. Slowly, he slipped his hand into his pocket and slipped out Connie’s key. Then he put it in his mouth. Hope demon spit doesn’t mess up the magic.

The sorcerer chose that moment to gesture to two of the guardsmen participating in the spell. They picked up the bucket with Sylvius’s blood and emptied it on the dark water of the marble pool. The blood swirled, feathering the water with the motion of the splash, staining the hp of the pool with pink wavelets. The sorcerer said a word, and the surface of the pool bloomed with flame.

Mac took advantage of the distraction to crawl down the scaffolding, spit out the key, and press it to the lock of Sylvius’s shackles. The sudden flare of power jarred the incubus back to consciousness.

“Go!” the youth said, his voice raspy with pain. “You can’t save me!”

“If I leave here without you, Connie will kill me,” Mac said, wrestling with the lock. “I may as well go for the brass ring.”

“Stupid,” was all Sylvius could reply.

The shackles released. Using all his strength, Mac caught him in one arm.

“There!” roared Bran. “The demon!”

Gripping the scaffold in one arm and Sylvius in the other, with angry guardsmen all around, Mac had a sudden flashback to King Kong. Then an arrow pierced his thigh. Jolting pain loosened his grip and he fell, Sylvius with him, to the stone floor.

His shoulder took the brunt of the fall. Releasing the youth, Mac tried to stand, but his left leg was rubber. He drew his gun. Bran kicked him, a smash to the jaw that sent him tumbling over, the gun spinning away.

“You dare to interfere!” Bran roared.

Get over yourself, tattoo boy. Mac braced himself on one knee, his head throbbing. His demon was rising, flaring up with heat. Magic rolled off the burning pool like a fog, swamping his senses. Sylvius’s blood was boiling from the water, releasing something as it turned to steam. Whether it was the Avatar or not was anybody’s guess.

Mac tried to crawl to Sylvius, but Bran kicked him again, sending him sprawling on his back. Miracle of miracles, he landed with the gun only a few feet away.

Guardsmen were pouring down from the balconies, swarming to stop the invader bent on destroying their last hope. Mac groped for the gun, fired, kept firing until it was empty, but there were too many guardsmen coming.

Mac looked up to see another arrow just before it pierced his shoulder. The slither of a drawn sword whis-pered to his left.

Shit, they’re going to kill me. Mac’s vision went red with fury.

In a last, desperate move, he surrendered utterly to his demon.