Scorched (42 page)

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 halffey 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 lip 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 whispered 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.

T
he instant Mac vanished, Constance grew scared and impatient, the empty, lonely darkness around her closing in like a wall of ice. She was so cold she shuddered, as if her bones had forgotten they had ever held heat—as if she had never been a living woman, just a shadow of hunger.
You’d think all this shaking would keep me warm.

It wasn’t fear for herself that choked her, but for her loved ones. She had to know what was going on. Mac had gone for a quick look around, but she knew very well he meant to leave her in the safety of the shadows.
Well, bollocks to that
. She crept around the pillar and up the staircase to the right, crouching below the level of the solid stone balcony rail to stay out of sight. When she reached the top, she shrank into the corner. The nearest guardsmen were only a stone’s throw away, but their attention was firmly on the scene below. She turned her back to them, counting on her dark hair and clothes to melt her into the shadows. Just in case, she held the knife hidden in the folds of her skirt, the handle firm in her chill hand.

She closed her eyes a moment, steadying her courage. Her skin hurt where she had touched Mac, but she already missed his heat. She had seen the loss in his eyes before he left. He clearly didn’t understand how she felt.

There was a story of a fairy captive who could only be freed if his lover embraced him no matter what shape he took—be it bear or wolf or pillar of fire. Just like in the tale, Connie meant to hold on to Mac until he was hers.

Nothing said she couldn’t have her prince just because she had pointy teeth. And he would have his milkmaid, even if his touch burned like the forbidden sun.
I’m not letting him go
. She felt tears running down her face, some for Mac, some for herself. Some because she knew she had to face whatever was going on in the courtyard.

She had to do it. She had to look.

Silently, slowly, Constance raised herself up until she could see over the railing. The sight below struck her like a blow from Bran’s ax: Atreus, the scaffold, the bucket, and her son.
Oh, God
.

The need to scream was a physical pain, but there were guardsmen too close. One noise, and she would be dead. Or worse—helpless to erase the horrible events she saw. Accidentally, the point of the knife pricked her knee. She rode the sensation, letting it carry her away from the images before her.
What can I do? What can I do?

“There!” she heard Bran roar. “The demon!”

Then the guardsmen on the balcony were up, scrambling so fast they tipped over the stone bench. It cracked as it fell, but they kept going, down the stairs at a frantic pace. Connie looked over the balcony again, and saw why.

Sylvius was free!

Her heart soared, until she saw an arrow fly, striking Sylvius and Mac to the ground. Then she stood, not caring who saw her.

“Constance!”

She looked up. Atreus was calling to her from the cage. His eyes burned with such anger, she fell back a step.

“Constance, help me!”

He’s in a cage, chained with silver. There’s nothing he can do to me
.

A cry came from the scene below. She lurched to the balcony, nearly toppling over in her haste. The battle was worse. Mac was surrounded.