Scorched (12 page)

Closing the jewel chest, Constance set it back in the trunk. Perhaps it would have been wise to take other jewels to sell or trade, but she wasn’t going to compound the error of her ways. All the years spent in the Castle, in the violent courts of a sorcerer-king, hadn’t clouded her sense of right and wrong. She’d fought to defend herself, but she’d never killed. She’d enjoyed luxuries, but never stolen. Until now.

She’d grown up poor, and had grown poor again as Atreus’s power withered. She understood that when a person had very little, it mattered if someone took it away. For that reason, she never wanted anything she didn’t have a right to. But then she did take a knife, sliding it into her sheath. She needed to replace the one Reynard had confiscated. Surely that was justified?

After she closed the lid of the trunk, Constance crept from the room, the key a hope held tight above her still heart.

She knew where there was a door.

It had appeared about a year ago after a great battle. It was clearly no ordinary door, for it was locked so securely that the guardsmen had never bothered to post a watch. Just the occasional patrol passed by it.

Still, its presence baffled Constance. Despite the keys, despite the odd portal that flickered open when a demon was summoned, the Castle was meant to be air-tight. A prison. So why was there suddenly a door?
Perhaps Reynard is right and the Castle’s magic is falling to pieces
.
Like Atreus.

She slowed her steps. The door was now within sight. Still walking, Constance took out the coin-shaped key. Unfortunately, Josef had neglected to mention how the wretched things worked.

She glanced over her shoulder, giving way to an involuntary shudder. A patrol could come, and she’d seen what they’d done to the last poor fool who’d earned their wrath. Bran had a taste for skinning his victims alive.

At a trot, she crossed the last few feet to the door and pressed her hand against the rough surface. Her fingers looked frail against the wood, except for the long, sharp nails. The possibility of liberty was delicious, but it was terrifying, too. She could taste fear on her tongue, bitter as a new penny.

“Constance.”

She gasped, wheeling. Then she recognized him.
Lore!

“Where the bloody hell did you come from? What are you doing here?” she asked, every hair on her body tingling with shock. “I thought you’d gone. Escaped. You and your whole pack.”

It was all she could do not to slap him for scaring her clear to her second death.

It had been a year since she had seen Sylvius’s childhood friend, but Lore looked the same. His dark hair was still long and shaggy, his face still gypsy-dark, the prominent bones giving him the same rough-hewn look as all the hellhounds. The young alpha looked fit and healthy, his slim, tightly muscled body moving with vigor. His clothes were different, cleaner and better mended than she remembered.

He leaned against the wall, bending his tall frame so he could see her face. “Why are
you
waiting by the door, Grandmother?”

She grimaced at the name. It was a title of extreme respect, one he knew she hated. At her disgusted expression, a rare grin split his long face. Hellhounds, like any dog, were not above teasing those they liked.

“How did you get back in here?” She dropped her voice to a whisper, just in case.

“When we escaped the Castle, we regained our magic.” He spoke slowly, his words slightly accented. The hounds had their own tongue, and rarely spoke with other species. “One of those talents is unlocking doors. As long as I do not stay long enough for the Castle’s magic to affect my powers, I can come and go.”

“Why by Saint Margaret’s toenails would you want to come back?”

He gave her a long look, the torchlight deepening the hollows in his face.

She folded her arms, hugging herself. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

One never asked a hellhound too many questions. Unlike almost every other species in creation, they could not lie. It was even hard for them to evade a direct question.

“I don’t like standing here in the open,” she added.

He cupped her elbow and drew her around the corner and into the shadows. “You should not have asked me why I’m here.”

She wasn’t in the mood for more guilt. “I can keep your secret.”

“Atreus—”

“Atreus is losing his mind. He grows worse each day, each hour.”

Lore’s face grew tense. “Even so—”

“Bloody hell, Lore, you know me. You were like Sylvius’s big brother.”

He licked his lips. She could see the moment he decided to trust her. “Most of my pack escaped, but some were left behind. They are slaves or soldiers for the warlords and sorcerers. One by one, I’ve been bartering for their freedom.”

“Bartering?”

“You wear oil of roses. Where do you think it comes from?”

“Josef gave it to me before he left.”

“And where did he get it?”

Constance blinked, putting the pieces together. Doors. Keys. “It came from the outside world.”

“Like others before me, I’ve discovered the Castle residents have a taste for luxury goods.”

“Smuggling!”

Lore gave a low laugh. “Clothes and books and tobacco. Goods are cheap and plentiful out there.” He nodded toward the door. “So far, I’ve traded for a half dozen of my people. Shoes are popular. Cross-trainers.”

Cross what?
“And no one sees you come and go?”

“Bribery works. It is more the outside of the Castle that is a problem.”

“Why?”

“Naturally enough, not everyone wants those in the Castle to escape, but I’ve arranged it so that my hounds guard the door. At certain times they leave. They can honestly say they haven’t seen me go in with gifts and come out with another hound.” He gave a sardonic smile. “It seems we are compelled to tell the truth in the outside world, the same as we must here.”

Constance hugged herself, considering what he’d said, and what she needed. “Lore,” she said, picking her words carefully. “Something has happened.”

He put his big hands on her shoulders, solid and comforting. “What?”

“The guardsmen have taken Sylvius.”

Shock blanched the hellhound’s face. He swore, spitting something in the hounds’ own tongue. Not sparing a single detail, Constance told him what had happened. Lore crouched to the floor, as if her news had robbed him of the strength to stand.

Constance knelt beside him. “I need your help.”

Lore closed his eyes. “Constance, no one can help Sylvius now. I wouldn’t pit my whole pack against Reynard and his men. They’re as strong as the most powerful demons.”

“I don’t need your hounds. I’ll do this myself. I just need your help leaving the Castle. Show me what to do when I get to the outside world. I’m sure it’s changed since I saw it last.”

Lore didn’t answer.

Constance searched his face. “Will you take me with you when you go?”

He looked away. “No.”

For a moment, she didn’t comprehend his words. It was the opposite of what her ears wanted to hear. She stared at him, astonished. “Why not? It’s such a little thing. A tiny favor!”

He shook his head. She gripped his arm until he turned back to her. “Why not?”

He stood, backing away.

She rose as well, refusing to let him avoid her. “Tell me.”

He made a frustrated gesture. “Right now, you’re still as much a human as a vampire. Would you throw that away?”

“If I have to.”

His eyes grew dark with sorrow. “Didn’t you say that you were captured as soon as you rose from the grave? That you never fed?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m so weak.”

“Did none of the other vampires talk to you about this?”

Constance flinched. “I’m not one of them. They call me a mistake and won’t have anything to do with me. You know that.”

Lore hung onto the words a long moment, but he finally, reluctantly let them go. “If you cross the threshold, the bloodlust will overtake you. There’re humans everywhere out there.”

Constance shrugged, doing her best not to picture the moment. “So I will feed. That’s what vampires do, isn’t it?”

“The newly Turned don’t simply feed. They kill. They go mad with hunger. I’ve seen it. You’ll attack someone. You’ll tear them to shreds.”

“No.” Shaking her head, Constance struck him in the chest. The blow thumped, making Lore stagger back. “No, I won’t. You don’t understand. I have to get out.”

“You’ll be executed if you leave!”

“It’s not fair. I shouldn’t be a prisoner. I haven’t done anything wrong! I’m not a monster!”

But hadn’t becoming a monster been her plan? Constance trembled, angry and confused.

Lore took her hands in his. “It’s against the law to harm a human. The punishment is death. And that doesn’t even touch on how you will feel about what you’ve done.”

“You mean I’m trapped in here forever?”

“Could you kill someone? Not a guardsman. Not someone intent on doing you harm. Just an ordinary person living their ordinary life. Could you do it?”

Doubt pooled in her gut. “I never thought I would kill them. I thought I would simply take some of their blood.”

“You’re such an innocent, Constance. And Atreus kept you that way. That was both good and bad.”

“I’m on my own now. I have to learn to fight for myself. I need to finish Turning.”

“Your life has been blameless, Constance. Would you give that up? The cost of power is always more than we expect. We pay with what’s closest to our hearts.”

She paused, turning over his words. “But I’m trying to
save
the one I love most.”

“Be careful how you bargain with destiny. You risk destroying the good it brings.”

“Spare me your cryptic hellhound prophecies!”

“It’s not a prophecy. It’s truth.”

“But if I were free . . .”

“Freedom costs.” He gave a bitter laugh. “I barter for my people every chance I get. Someday I’ll pay with my life.”

Constance sank to the floor, sitting down before her legs gave out. She felt suddenly hollow, an eggshell with nothing inside.

Freedom cost. Hope came at a high price, too.

She was really tired of being poor.

 

“G
ood morning, Fairview, this is—uh—CSUP, the super supernatural station on campus. Welcome to the morning show, brought to you by the Fairview Interspecies Cultural Association, proud sponsor of the new Fairview University and Community College Pan-Species Studies Department.

“Our regular host is off this morning, so this is, um, Dr. Perry Baker, your friendly resident computer professor. Is your laptop possessed? Eating your homework? Sending socially awkward e-mails? Give me a call, and I’ll give you a diagnosis. I might even give you deniability. But first, a tune from my personal local fave songstress, Lupa Moon.... Hmm, okay, how was that, Dave? Am I talking too fast?”

“Turn the mic off, Perry.”

 

The next morning brought cloudy October skies and a wind that smelled of frost. The atmosphere reminded Mac of endless hours spent doing sports drills before school—football, rugby, and whatever other team that would have him. Hockey outdoors if there was ice, after school on the streets if there wasn’t. The memories of cold mud and bruises were sharp and precious. They gave the part of him that was still wholly human a source of strength.

Maybe that connection to his old self was what made it so easy to fall back into a man-with-a-plan routine. He had investigating to do, and he knew where he was going to begin.

As he got dressed, he looked inside the gun locker he kept in the closet. He’d had to surrender his police weapon, but his 9 mm Sig Sauer P229 semiautomatic was in good working order. He had plenty of clips of ammunition. Good to know. He’d never been the kind of cop who relied on firepower to solve his problems, but times they were a-changing. He wasn’t going to need it in broad daylight when sword-toting vamps were safely in bed, but come sundown he was going armed to the teeth, silver bullets and all. One night of playing tag with Caravelli was enough.

And then it was time to go to work. The moment he took his raincoat out of the closet and slipped his notebook into its roomy pocket, Mac felt like himself again. His chest unknotted with relief, the same sensation as finding a longlost set of keys.

His good luck held. His search for Holly on the Fairview University and Community College campus lasted less than half an hour. Like many early-morning students, she was walking, head down and eyes half shut, from the bus stop to the library. Mac came out of his lurking position beneath the spreading branches of a cedar tree.

“Hello, Holly.”

She stopped dead in her tracks, turning the color of old cottage cheese. She was scared. “Oh, Goddess, what are you doing here?”

He held up his hands, palms out. “Okay, so I didn’t leave a good impression the last time we met. I’m safe now. I’m on a strict diet of junk food and antacids.”

Frowning, she shifted her overloaded backpack. It looked like she had half the bookstore in there. “How’d you get out of the Castle?”

“I walked out. The maid service sucked.” He stretched out one hand, indicating a nearby bench. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

She didn’t budge, but watched his every twitch. “You walked out, huh? How?”

“Luck and an absence of hellhounds.”

“Goddess, Alessandro’s going to be pissed.”

“Can we talk? Anywhere you like.” He kept standing, hands in the air, like a suspect under arrest.

She looked wary, then interested, and then checked her watch. “Yeah, okay. But this had better be good. And I want to talk someplace where there are lots of people around.”