Scorched

Chapter 5

October 1, 9:00 p.m. 101.5 FM

“Welcome back to CSUP. This is Errata, and we’re speaking with demon expert Dr. Philip Elterland of our own Fairview U. So, Dr. Elterland, as a cryptozoologist, can you explain to us the difference between different kinds of demons? Are there, like, four-door and two-door models, or what?”

“Thank you, Errata, for such an interesting question. You are correct that there are a lot of different creatures we call demons. Calling one of these entities a demon is analogous to using the term ‘bird.’ There are chickadees and there are eagles.”

“Tell us more.”

“With pleasure. Keep in mind that some demons, like incubi, are born, and others are created from a human host.”

“Dr. Elterland, isn’t it true that species that are born as minor demons—like hellhounds and incubi—aren’t particularly dangerous unless attacked?”

“That’s true, but they are in the minority. Take, for instance, the species that most people have heard of, popularly called the soul eater. They are extremely aggressive. These demons infect—some written sources use the verbs ‘curse’ or ‘taint’—a human host with a parasitic condition popularly called the Dark Larceny.”

“How does this happen?”

“All we have determined with any accuracy is that it takes person-to-person contact.”

“You mean you can’t get it from a toilet seat?”

“Um. No.”

“So what happens once somebody’s cursed, Dr. Elterland?”

“They are stricken with the urge to feed on human life essence. At some point, the host is entirely absorbed by the demon and acquires supernatural powers.”

“How long does the process take?”

“A matter of days. It is interesting to note that although demons shape-shift, they can only make other demons when in human form, and they only attack humans.”

“Is the demon a separate consciousness?”

“Not as far as we know. It’s more like a cluster of driving biological imperatives the host cannot control. For the human, it is a painful, terrifying experience. The hunger. The loss of bodily control. The sudden realization that survival means feeding on other humans. Simply put, the human’s civilized nature is no longer in the driver’s seat. Eventually, those better instincts are extinguished and the human becomes a true monster.”

“Huh. Sounds like the ultimate frat party experience.”

“Well, it is about feeding and reproduction.”

October 1, 9:00 p.m.

The alley outside the Castle

Mac was trapped in a solid circle of hellhound bodies. He lashed out, knuckles smashing against the hard metal snaps of a jean jacket. He heard an off and then someone swept his legs out from under him.

Mac crashed to the brick pavement, his spine searing with pain as he landed on his tailbone. Then the toe of a heavy work boot drove into his kidney. Blind with pain, Mac tried to roll to his knees, but another foot thumped into his stomach. He flopped to his back, throwing his arms protectively over his face. He braced for an old-fashioned beat-down. There wasn’t much even a quasi-demon could do against six hellhounds and a pissed-off vampire. “Hold,” snapped Caravelli.

They stopped midkick. Moving quickly, Mac tried to get his feet under him, but one of the hounds casually put a foot on his throat. Mac could feel the grit on the thick rubber treads scraping the flesh of his neck.

Shit. He was caught.

“Put him in the Castle. He was Geneva’s thrall.”

Everything in Mac tightened at the sound of the name. He hated that her mark still branded him like a Made in Hell sticker.

As one, the hounds bent, grabbing Mac’s hair, his arms, his clothes. Their dark shadows blotted out the neon glow of the Kitty Basket’s sign, leaving only an impression of shaggy hair and the glinting embers of their eyes.

Metal grated on metal, and the Castle door opened with a theatrical groan of iron hinges. Mac’s feet left the ground as the hellhounds lifted him into the air. He squirmed, twisting in the hounds’ stubborn grip.

“Caravelli, no! Please, no! I haven’t done anything.”

The hounds heaved him over the threshold like a sack of sand. Mac skidded on his stomach, his chin hitting the stone floor hard enough to clack his teeth together. He hit a jog in the floor and jolted into a sprawling log roll.

The bolt grated shut with a heavy, hard rasp. Mac tried to leap to his feet, but stumbled, his joints folding uselessly. The crash onto the hard stone floor had numbed every nerve.

“Caravelli! Damn you!“

He pushed himself up again, his palms flat against the gritty floor. His head spun, half from shock, half from the dim, flickering light but this time he made it to his feet. Pain flowed like hot oil as his flesh registered the fall. Mac dragged in a breath, then lurched to the door and gave it a single, furious blow.

“Damn you to the darkest hell!”

His demon could sense Caravelli on the other side of the door, a lurking presence. Caravelli, his judge and jailer. Mac gave the door a savage kick, putting all his force behind it. The heavy oak barely vibrated, adding insult to his fury. After a second’s pause, he could feel Caravelli move off, the shadow of a passing storm. He’s leaving me here!

Panic rolled up Mac’s throat, cold and foul as a corpse’s embrace. I’m going to stake that walking mosquito. Slowly. With sharp toothpicks so it takes a long, painful while. Not to mention what I’m going to do to his hellhound henchmutts.

Little by little, he turned to face his prison. The Castle was just as he remembered. There was no exterior, just miles and miles of dark, damp corridors that rambled outside of time and space. And now I’m back in the joint.

He took a few steps forward, shoving his hands into his pockets. Unease settled on him like thickly falling snow, palpable as the low hum of the Castle’s magic.

The last time, that hum had nearly driven him mad. It was barely audible, a pressure just below hearing that made his sinuses ache all the way from his molars to the top of his head. It made the demon in him stretch and flex, suddenly restless. The Castle was supposed to damp demon hunger, but right now it was making it harder to control.

He had to do something. Move. Explore. He started walking, carefully noting each near-identical corner and hallway. The rubber soles of his track shoes were nearly silent, only the rustle of his clothes echoing in the cavernous space. He seemed to be alone. Where was everyone?

A year ago, after the battle where Geneva died and her armies were crushed, Mac had awakened somewhere in this maze. The force of the spell that had killed Geneva had blasted him deep into the Castle. He should have died.

Instead, Mac had made a half-dead crawl for the exit, like the survivor of a spectacular pub brawl—except there was no way out. As his injuries healed, the crawl had become a run, then a game of survival. Injured and confused, he didn’t remember much, but his trek through the dungeon had given new meaning to the term “bad neighborhood.” As far as he could tell, it had taken around six months to find a way out of the Castle. He’d stumbled on an open portal, a piece of pure dumb luck.

He’d escaped once. He could do it again. This time at least he knew the location of the door. The trick would be getting it open. Then, a heartfelt discussion with the Vampire Caravelli.

He stopped abruptly, his body reacting before he even knew why. Perfectly still, he listened. His ears strained to catch the sound again. Behind him. Faint, but growing. Scuff scuff scuff.

He turned. A man was running toward him—one that Mac knew all too well. Good ol‘ Guardsman Bran. A feeling of sour anger washed through Mac, adding old resentments to his already foul mood.

As if the day wasn’t bad enough, an unholy grin of pleasure split Bran’s face, the look of a bully finding new prey. Mac could run, maybe hide, but before he even reviewed his options, Bran was mere feet away and drawing a short sword.

Back in the Castle five friggin’ minutes and I‘m in the middle of an ass-kicking. Mac wiped a sudden sweat from his face. Same old Club Dread.

Mac circled his opponent, who mirrored his low, watchful crouch. Bran was a huge, bare-armed hulk covered with spiraling blue tattoos. He stank like old leather shut up in an attic trunk for far too long. A black braid swung past the man’s hips as he moved, a dark slash against the scarlet and gold silk of his tunic.

Guardsman Bran was one scary, ugly mother.

Shadows ate at the ceiling and surrounding passageways, giving the illusion there was no reality beyond the circle of their combat. The solitary sound in the corridor was the shuffling of their feet on the stone floor. Torchlight played along Bran’s short sword, reminding Mac the guardsman was armed and he wasn’t.

Sharp objects mattered, but Mac’s pulse roared in his head, drowning out fear with every heartbeat. He felt drunk, high, complete, even relieved. He was ready to pound this grunt and love every minute of it. Kill or die. The shredded remainder of his demon side had finally slipped its leash.

Mac lunged. Bran was quick, blocking him, slashing at Mac’s ribs—but Mac was supernaturally fast, dancing aside before the blade could land.

They sprang apart, circling again.

“Nice to see you, too,” Mac said with a taunting grin. Without warning, he changed direction, but Bran followed the sudden shift with the poise of a gymnast. Mac licked his lips, his mouth dry from breathing hard. “Interesting tatts. Still working the Bronze Age look?”

“Be silent.” Bran curled his lip, his white teeth and pale skin making him look more like a vampire than a guardsman. “I found you, fugitive. No one escapes twice.”

“C’mon, saying that’s just tempting fate.”

They closed again, grappling and snarling. Bran swept Mac’s feet from under him, but they both fell, Mac on top. Mac’s vision turned white, then red with bloodlust and rage. With his knee on Bran’s throat, Mac smashed the guardsman’s sword hand into the stone floor, pounding until Bran’s fingers let go of the hilt.

Bran surged, tossing Mac off. Rolling to his back, Mac brought his feet up just in time to catch Bran in the chest with a satisfying thump. The guardsman stumbled, air whooshing from his lungs. Mac flipped to his feet, running two steps to sink a hard, knuckle-bruising shot to Bran’s midriff. The man was solid as granite, but no match. Bran doubled over. Mac grabbed the sword and brought the hilt down with a smack, catching the guardsman behind his left ear. Bran dropped like a stone in a face-flat sprawl at Mac’s feet.

The thump of his fall, like so much dirty laundry, echoed in the cavernous dark. Mac bent, feeling for a pulse. The guardsman was still alive but would be out for a good long time.

As he rose, Mac felt the surge of his own blood, the tingle and rush of human life in every limb. Behind it pulsed the demon, gleeful—lustful—at the prospect of even more violence. Hunger. The weight of the sword was a suggestion, the hilt hard and perfect in his greedy palm. There were so many ways to kill. A quick blade in the spine. The slow agony of a gut wound.

Gritting his teeth, Mac backed away. I’m still too much a cop to kill a man when he’s down. Even this one. He clutched at that thought, holding it like a talisman that would preserve his slipping humanity.

But in the Castle, every moment was fight or die. Here, he needed his demon side to survive. Staying human would be a losing battle. I have to get out of here, or lose my soul again.

A flicker at the edge of his vision made him look up, reflexes poised.

Mac glimpsed a face, all wide eyes and pointed chin. It was a woman, barely more than a girl, with a thick fall of midnight hair long past her waist. Every line of her thin body looked startled.

All was silent but for the sound of Bran’s faint, slow breathing. The woman just stared, her mouth pulled down at the corners.

She’s afraid. He stepped over Bran and toward the woman. With a birdlike hop, she whisked around the cor-ner. After a second’s hesitation, Mac sprinted after her. Until he knew whether she was running from simple fear or running to get Bran’s friends, he couldn’t let her get away.

By the time he got to the corner, she was already out of sight, but he could smell a trace of sweet perfume. He followed it, mapping this new direction in his mind so he could retrace his steps.

She hadn’t gone far, only down another turning. There she hovered, her back to Mac, peering anxiously around the far corner. He came up behind her, his movements utterly silent.

He hadn’t realized how much noise a human made— breathing, rustling, swallowing—until, as a demon, he’d stopped. He’d made no sound, no scent, moved no air when he passed by. Now, partially human again, he could switch the ability on or off. Going stealth mode freaked him out a bit, but it came in handy.

He was close enough now to see the woman clearly. Her dress fell to the floor and was made of a heavy indigo fabric worn threadbare along the hem. She was small—barely five feet, small-boned, and almost frail. He could have picked her up in one hand. Most of her weight was surely in that thick, straight hair.

Just when he was close enough to notice a strip of dusty lace peeking out from beneath her skirt, her shoulders stiffened. She’d made him. Soundless or not, even demons couldn’t hide from that sixth-sense survival instinct that makes a deer run before the cougar breaks cover.

She whipped around to face him, eyes wide with fear, white edging their deep blue centers. With the jerking motion of a cartoon character, she looked around the corner again, then back to him. Caught between two bad choices.

“What’s there?” Mac asked in a quiet voice, wondering whether she spoke English. The Castle didn’t have a universal language, unless one counted despair.

“More guardsmen,” she answered, almost whispering.

Not going to warn Bran’s friends, then.

“Three of them, heading toward their quarters.” Her words lilted. Irish, perhaps? She searched his face, clearly measuring the level of threat he presented. “Who are you?”

“Conall Macmillan, ma’am.” Somehow it seemed right to use his best manners, as if the shade of his great-grandmother was cuffing him on the ear. “At your service.”

“At my service, now, is it?” There was a flash of irony in her eyes. “And how is it that anyone who defeats a guardsman would serve the likes of me? Guardsmen are made stronger than us. We can’t beat them, and yet there you were looming over Bran’s broken body.”

Uncertainty squeezed Mac’s chest. He didn’t want to hear from a pretty woman how he wasn’t quite normal, much less that he loomed. “I’m just passing through. Maybe the rules don’t apply to me.”

Her gaze caught his, deadly serious. “No one just passes through here.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“You have a key, then.” She said it naturally, as if it was no great marvel.

There’s a key? Maybe more than one? Mac didn’t answer, wondering what else she might reveal.

“Well, then.” She was calming down, but still looked like she was expecting a dirty trick. “That would answer why I’ve never seen you before.”

“I hope that means you wouldn’t forget me if you had.” He sneaked a glance at the neckline of her dress. Her low-cut gown was laced up the front, the tight crisscross of ribbons making the most of her slender shape. Besides a pendant on a leather lace, she wore a scarf of thin white fabric around her shoulders, the ends tucked modestly down her front and foiling any clear views of cleavage. Damn.

She caught the look. “And if I remembered you, would that be on account of your smooth tongue and practiced smile?”

“I have better souvenirs.” Careful, the last woman you thought was cute turned you into a demon.

But she ignored his comment and looked around the corner instead, this time letting her spine sag with relief. “They’re gone.”

“Good.” The sword, once so important, now felt cumbersome in his hand. He wanted an excuse to touch this woman. It was pure instinct. She was beautiful and achingly young. The fact that she was hiding from the guardsmen only added a protective urge to the mix. “What’s your name?”

“Constance,” she said, then added, “Moore,” as if it was a piece of information she rarely needed.

“Were the guardsmen chasing you?” he asked.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m a patient man.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” She gave him a bold look that almost contradicted her earlier caution. “You men never make it to the climax of a tale.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “You must be one helluva storyteller.”

She gave a sly, close-lipped smile that would have shamed the Mona Lisa. Her eyes dared him right up until they shifted away, a nervous tell. “I am. Ask any warmblooded man.”

Mac folded his arms, an awkward process when holding a sword. “Oh, yeah?”

She leaned against the stone wall, all fair skin, black hair, and cherry lips. Snow White in a reckless mood. “Indeed.”

“But are you Scheherazade or Jane Austen?”

“I don’t know those names. Which would I like to be?”

Despite the taunting jut of her chin, he could see the tremor in her fingers, the quick pant of her breath. His demon side licked up her fear like a cat lapped cream. He reached out with his free hand and cupped her jaw, tilting her face up to him. “What do you know about a key?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I know they exist. This place isn’t as air-tight as one might think.”

He dropped his hand, but didn’t move away. “You got one?”

“No.” She tried to hold his gaze, but failed. “You can trust my word on that.”

“Worried that I might search you?”

“You’d probably like that.”

“You think so, eh?”

“You’re male, aren’t you?” The words were more defeated than bitter, and somehow that made them worse.

“Yeah, but I’m not a ravening beast.” Not the human part, anyway. “Trust me, undressing a woman is more fun when you’re invited.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t mirthful. “And you’re an expert, I suppose.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“I’m sure it does.” Again, the Mona Lisa smile. There was a history that went with that sweet, self-mocking sadness.

Definitely more temptation than he could handle. He bent and pressed his lips to hers, perhaps to taste that puzzling smile, perhaps to kiss it away. Or maybe just to prove his expertise.

Constance inhaled, a quick, light gasp ended by his capture of her mouth. Her lips were cool and soft, returning his kiss with surprised hesitation. That perfume he had smelled earlier, something flowery and old-fashioned, wafted up from her silken skin. He felt the tentative brush of her fingers in his hair, light as a moth’s wings. Finally, her hand settled on his cheek, a girlish, uncertain touch so gentle that it tickled.

She was no practiced flirt, and he’d just called her bluff.

At a twinge from his conscience, he drew back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ...”

She used both hands to pull his head down, bringing his mouth back to hers.

Okay. Mac wasn’t about to argue. Heat surged through him, thick and electric. He drew his hand up her spine, over her ribs, up the side of her breast. Constance flinched, as if he’d touched a bruise, but then murmured in pleasure, rising onto her toes. Her body brushed against his. Oh, yeah. Unexpected, but oh, yeah.

He felt the tip of her tongue meet his, a shy inquiry. Constance tasted as sweet and wild as blackberries still hot from the sun. He couldn’t drink down her soul as he could have in his demon days, but he could savor it, sad and pure, like her smile.

He already ached in his body, but that taste of her spirit made him ache in his heart. He caught the salty tang of loneliness. That’s just not right. Was there no one to look after her? A tiny creature like Constance shouldn’t be out wandering the halls of the Castle by herself. She was so small, he could nearly span her waist with his hands. The fabric of her dress felt rough, too coarse for such tiny perfection. And there was far, far too much clothing for satisfactory exploration.

Okay, whoa, buddy. In five seconds flat, you’ve gone from sneaking a kiss to planning to get naked with someone you’ve just met. Get a grip.

Heedless, Mac’s fingers slid beneath the flimsy fabric of her scarf, finding soft, cool skin and the gently rounded tops of her breasts. He kept his touch feather-light and was rewarded with a delicate shiver. Tracing his thumb over her collarbone, he caressed the satin flesh of her shoulder. Nice.

He deepened the kiss, but kept his beast tightly leashed. Whoever this girl was, she wasn’t ready for his demon side. Hell, most of the time, neither was he.

So sweet. She knew about a key, a way for Mac to escape. It was almost a shame. This moment, so full of new promise, almost justified an eternity in the Castle.

And yet...

Yeah, okay, Macmillan, what’s with the hearts and flowers? This isn’t you.

Something was not right.

No shit, Sherlock. Nothing’s been right for over a year. Was it the soul-sucking demon shtick or the eternal prison of darkness that tipped you off? As for the girl...

Mac winced, suddenly going very still. Women. There’s always something.

Yeah, Constance was sweet. The teeth, however, were a surprise.

Gently, he pulled away. Her eyes were closed, her lips flushed and slightly parted to reveal tiny, perfect fangs. A vampire. But an innocent one that sent off none of the usual vampiric vibes. There was only one way that happened.

Constance had never tasted blood.

Pheromones. That answered why she had fascinated him so completely, sent him head over heels in less time than it took your average speed date.

But it raised still another interesting question.

A really good one.

Am I meant to be her first kiss or her first kill?