Scorched (22 page)

Fear was spice. Saliva pooled in his mouth. As Holly’s Chosen, blessed by her magic, he didn’t need to feed on blood any more than a human needed a candy bar. That didn’t mean the temptation wasn’t there. Just ask a chocoholic.

“You aren’t supposed to be awake,” she said, her voice shaking just on the last syllable. She cleared her throat.

“Really?” The light was making his head pound.

“You can’t move in daylight.” She squeezed her eyes closed, for a moment looking so much like Holly it made him loosen his grip on her hair.

“Of course I can.”

He was kneeling beside her on the soft mattress, bracing with one hand while he held her down with the other around her throat. Ashe was strong enough to break the grip of a human male. Against him, she didn’t stand a chance. Both her hands clutched his wrist. Any moment she’d start trying to pry herself free because survival instinct demanded it.

She wouldn’t win.

He gave a deadly leer. “Trade secret. Any vampire that is old enough can wake during the day. It just makes us very, very cranky.”

At the moment, he felt like he had the mother of all hangovers.

“What’s Holly going to say when she finds me dead?”

A low growl slipped out. “What’s to say she’ll ever find you?”

Ashe made a tiny, rebellious noise. “You’re a monster.”

“Your point?”

The floor shook, a brief rumble. The tension between them was waking the house’s sentient magic.

Ashe hauled on his wrist, her fight coming back. “You won’t win. I’ve never lost yet!”

She bit him.

Alessandro ripped his hand away, swearing as the blood welled up. “Son of a whore!”

Ashe sprang off the other side of the bed and whipped a second stake out of her boot. “Hurts, doesn’t it, asshole? How do you think Holly felt when you bit her?”

Alessandro reached the end of his rope. With vampire speed, he hurled a pillow straight at her face. Reflexively, she stabbed, releasing a snowstorm of feathers. He used the moment to sail over the bed and grab her from behind, twisting her arms behind her back.

The house trembled again, this time rattling the blinds on the window. Soon it would become dangerous, but to which one of them? Both?

Ashe gave a bitter laugh. “You can kill me if you want, but that doesn’t make you a living man. You can’t be part of my sister’s
life
. You’re death.”

Her words sliced so deep, he didn’t feel the sting until a second had passed. Then it seared him to the marrow, too deep for any real response. He twisted the second stake out of her fingers, not caring if he hurt her. “I’m still better than the family she has. I wouldn’t send my child away to be raised by strangers.”

“I’m keeping my daughter safe from the likes of you.”

Alessandro bit back a profane retort. He had few options. He could kill Ashe, lock her in the basement, or toss her down the front steps. He dropped his voice to his coldest, cruelest tones. “How do you feel about family counseling?”

“Fuck you.”

His conscience was clear enough to introduce a final option.

“Then I have a very special place for you to go where you can kill all the monsters you want.”

 

“Pissed” didn’t begin to cover Mac’s mood.

He’d bought groceries, stuffed himself to bursting, and, suddenly exhausted, fallen asleep on the couch. He remembered getting up for a midnight snack that had involved another normal day’s supply of food. When he woke up midmorning, he was sure he’d changed even more. He felt like an ox. Maybe somebody out of
Alice in Wonderland
. It would have been funny if it had been happening to anybody else.

He was not amused.

That was just the physical stuff. The demon had put his aggression on high, something he’d noticed the second time he’d been forced out of the apartment to find clothes and food. He’d nearly attacked a guy who’d cut him off in the beef aisle in the supermarket. Yeah, Mac was pissed, and there was fear underneath the anger. At moments, he was hanging on to his self-control by the fingernails. The demon was taking over.

He tried to call Holly, but she wasn’t home. He’d hung up without leaving a message. He had a sixth sense that this was his problem to solve, anyway. Or maybe he’d listened to Lore too long and all that prophecy crap was curdling his brain.

He was hungry again. Mac piled sliced ham onto a bun, feeling like he spent his life at the fridge door.

There were only two things keeping him focused. One, he’d made a promise to Constance to rescue her son. Two, he needed answers—all kinds of them. He was determined not to let his brain slack off just because his body had gone into overdrive. The slip with Lore had been warning enough.

Mac bit into the sandwich and chewed while he split and buttered a second bun. Ham or beef on this one? Why not both?

His plan was simple: Get Sylvius. Interrogate Atreus. After that he’d find out what Lore was really up to. If the hounds had a clue about what was going on, he needed to know. The Castle had done something to him, and he needed it undone just as soon as he’d rescued Connie’s son. There had to be a way to get back to his life as a human. For one thing, he couldn’t afford his demon’s insane grocery bill.

After eating his third sandwich, Mac slung the charm Holly had sent him around his neck. The shirt he’d just bought already felt tight through the shoulders and chest.

Whatever was happening to him, it wasn’t over. The simple truth was, if he didn’t do something—take charge, act, focus—he would give in to the panic bubbling up inside him. It was hard to hide from the monster when it was the very flesh you lived in.

But turning into a monster didn’t mean he would go back on his word. He’d let the demon infection distract him long enough. It was time to go back to work.

He grabbed the sword he had taken from Bran from the umbrella rack, testing its balance. This body would know how to use it in a way his old one hadn’t, but he still took his semiautomatic—the holster’s seven-way comfort adjustments worked to their XXL limits—and all the ammo he had. No point in giving up the tried and true.

He dusted from his condo to the door of the Castle. The first challenge was finding out where the guardsmen kept their special prisoners. Constance’s advice might cut hours off his search. She’d been following Bran before. She would at least have an idea which corner of this cavernous Gotho-rama to start with.

No doubt he could find her in the Summer Room, like a tiny, dark pearl in the safety of its oyster shell. He’d made her promise to stay out of trouble, but that didn’t cover the trouble she represented to him. Just the memory of the place—and what had nearly happened there—was intoxicating. That much temptation should have been a warning in itself to stay away, but his body remembered the feel of her pressing against him. It made the decision.

Finding the room involved only a few wrong turns. It was exactly as Mac had left it. The candlelight was soft, glittering in the silver light of the tapestries, casting misty shadows on swooping fabric that draped the ceiling and swathed the great canopied bed.

He lingered for a moment in the doorway, and then closed the door behind him and slid the bolt that locked it home. It was true he had all but fled from the room—and Constance—only days before, fearing what his demon might do to her, what her blood thirst and the room’s lustfilled magic might do to him.

This time would be different. He was in control. He had come for her.

But I didn’t come here for her. Not that way. I came here for information on how to find her son
.

Think again
.

She had tried to seduce him. By some übermale libido logic, she had offered herself, so now she was his. His dark side applauded.
Teach her a lesson for tricking you.

But that argument wasn’t working anymore. The cold comfort of human logic was losing ground. He simply
wanted
.

He should never have come. His demon crumpled that thought like a beer can and tossed it aside.

Like a sentimental memory, Constance’s perfume hung in the air. There she was, stretched out on the dark velvet spread, the wealth of her long, dark hair nearly invisible against the inky background. Mac stood at the foot of the bed, looking down on her through the sheer silk of the draperies. She looked as pale as the dead, her faded dress shabby against the opulence of the gold-tasseled pillows.

She was so vulnerable. A wave of possessiveness swamped him, heating his already-pounding blood. Human or demon, Mac was all male. Beneath the pull of her beauty, the two sides of his soul were starting to blur. They both ignited with desire.

Mac set the sword down on a nearby table, then removed his shoulder holster and heavy boots, careful to make no noise. He crept to the side of the bed, and parted the curtain with his hands. The clearer view didn’t disappoint. When she had been bitten, her face still had the soft perfection of extreme youth. He had looked at enough women to know how much Constance stood out.

Intense satisfaction rippled through his gut. She was his for the plucking. She had already asked for what he wanted to give her. There was nothing to stop him.

Except himself. Mac was frozen by the tender innocence of her face. His conquering impulses gentled. If he was going to make her his, there would be no victory without surrender. For that, more than brute lust had to come into play. He needed persuasion, too.

He leaned forward, one knee on the bed, and balanced himself above her. She was so small, he was going to have to be careful. Slowly, savoring the moment, he lowered himself, touching her lips with his. Her mouth was cool, slightly parted, showing the tips of her fangs. He found them even more erotic than before. He drew himself fully onto the bed, then kissed her again, harder. He propped himself on one hand now, using the other to slowly draw away the thin scarf she wore. The ends were tucked demurely between her breasts, a puritanical tease. The fabric slid away with a whisper that shivered along his nerves. The scarf smelled of her perfume.

“Constance,” he whispered in her ear. There was no response. The Undead rested deeply, falling into sleep so deep it was often mistaken for true death. He had no idea how long one would rest in a place that had no sun to hide from, but it could be a while.

Ah, well, that just gave him more time to play.

Skimming a finger along the top of her dress, he admired the whiteness of her skin, the soft way her breasts fell as she slept. The laces that held the front tightly closed tempted him. The tips were frayed, the ribbon soft from time and use. Carefully, he pulled one end, loosening the knot. As it gave, the lacing relaxed, the blue cloth parting to give a glimpse of more layers of clothing beneath. What he thought was a dress was actually a skirt and kind of jacket, petticoats and other cottony bits beneath, and then a stiff vest-thing that laced up the front. He guessed it was some type of corset, except it didn’t look like those he’d seen in men’s magazines.

How the hell could anyone move in all this stuff?
Getting her out of it was going to take some determination, not to mention an engineering degree.

“Constance,” he whispered again, but louder.

Her eyes snapped open, her expression one of confusion deepening to desire and then absolute shock. “You came back!”

“I said I’d come back.”

She sat up, amazement filling her eyes. “What happened to you?”

Mac sealed her mouth with his before she could say another word. Her hands gripped his shoulders, trying to keep some distance between them. That wasn’t what he wanted. He worked the kiss, using every trick in his repertoire to prolong it, to make her forget whatever fear was slipping between them. Bit by bit, the tension in her fingers eased. He pushed her back down to the pillows.

Eventually, he let her break away. He left tiny kisses on her nose and eyes and brow before he retreated.

“It’s fortunate that I don’t need to breathe,” she said tartly, but her tone was shaken.

Her eyes had drifted shut, and now she opened them again. For a moment, she looked blind before she pulled him back into focus. Slowly, her brow furrowed, and she pushed him away, one hand against his chest.

This time, he let her.

Her head crooked back, trying to get a fuller view. Fear had faded to caution. “Conall Macmillan, what happened to you?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you like what you see?”

“By the sweet saints, what have you done?” Though she spoke barely above a whisper, her tone was whip-sharp. “And you’re burning up. Are you sick? What magic have you got yourself into?”

He thought he might have heard concern somewhere in there. He swallowed, the taste of her still clinging to his tongue. “It just happened. I feel fine.”

She raised herself up on her elbows, nearly bumping noses with him. Her gaze slowly slid down his front. She tensed, then flushed a faint, faint bloom of pink against her white, white skin. “I can see that.”

He couldn’t stop a grin as curiosity widened her eyes. He leaned forward, using his body to force her back to the bed again. He leaned on one elbow, supporting his head on his hand. He used the other hand to tug at the ribbon that held her jacket shut, quickly working it free.

She closed her hand over his, stilling his fingers. “You know you don’t smell the least bit human anymore? You smell
other
.”

Her words jolted Mac. “What does that mean?”

“You’ve changed through and through. You’re a demon now, no ‘half’ about it!”