Scorched (46 page)

They took their time, shedding what was left of their clothes slowly, enjoying the luxury of the soft bed admidst the chaos of the room. Constance thought of an island or a magic carpet or a ship, safe and warm and theirs.

She mapped him utterly, finding the secrets of each knot and circle, and then he rolled her over, impatient for conquest. He pinned her wrists.

“I want it all,” he murmured. “I want all of you.”

His mouth was on her breasts, demanding, pulling, laving her to swollen, aching peaks. She hooked her legs around him, feeling his heat against the tender skin of her thighs. She wanted that heat inside, driving her to a scorching, explosive release. Making her feel alive.

She needed it. Now.

But he claimed her a piece at a time, her lips, her eyes, her shoulders, her navel, ensuring each surrender before the final assault. She squirmed, breaking beneath her desire, her fangs aching for his flesh, but he wouldn’t let her bite.

When Mac finally did take her, he filled everything, demanded everything. She could keep nothing back against the urgent, pushing thrusts. Waves of contractions gripped her, drawing him deeper, breaking her apart until she spun away into nothing.

He finally let go with a roar.

And then she used her teeth, mounting him and lapping up the elixir of his spicy blood like an exotic treat. When the venom hit him, the cycle began—deliciously—again.

Mac made her vampire powers absolutely worth the price.

“We aren’t ever going to grow old,” said Mac much later, “and neither is this.”

“Mmm,” Connie murmured, thinking he looked especially good in blue, and rolled over, indulging in a long, feline stretch.

She caught her breath and stared from one side of the room to the other. The Summer Room was now a suite. The bed had shared space with a sitting area when she and Mac had begun their reunion. Now it was in a separate room, with two mahogany chests of drawers and a large mirrored wardrobe. She could see the sofa and chairs beyond, now sword-thrust free.

He looked up. “Ah, I ordered a few things when I was chatting with the Avatar.”

Constance rolled off the bed, staggering a little as her legs remembered how to walk. “How did it do this?”

“Hey, if it can make whole caverns disappear, it can add a kitchen.”

“Kitchen?”

“I like to cook.” He opened the wardrobe and pulled out a fluffy white robe. “Put this on. You’ll find some other clothes, too. Just some basics, until you can go shopping.”

Constance took the robe, her mind spinning. “You thought to ask for all this?”

He shrugged. “I’m not a complete barbarian. I know how to pick out wall coverings.”

The statement went oddly with the tattoos.

Never mind
. She pulled on the robe, luxuriating in its plush feel, and walked silently into the sitting room. Much was as she remembered from before. The door was fixed, of course. The books and the carpet were the same. Her piles of magazines, and the candles. Lamps now, as well.

Mac followed her. He’d pulled on his jeans, but left his chest bare. He folded his arms, his feet planted apart, watching her admire their home.

Constance looked again, and again, her curiosity carrying her from room to room and back again. There was too much new to see all at once. A kitchen with cupboards and dishes and knives and forks and . . .

“That’s a fridge,” Mac said. “Apparently electricity is possible here, if you think to ask.”

. . . and a beautiful dining area with eight chairs around a huge table and something he called a buffet but looked like a Welsh dresser to her. More dishes.

A bathroom with a large, white tub.

“And a Jacuzzi. I always wanted one of those. I mean, why not?”

And more rooms running off a hallway to the left. She couldn’t even take those in yet.

A lot of it looked modern—Mac’s idea of what a home should look like. It looked like the houses in her magazines, which made it all right with her.
She
was the mistress of this wonderful home. Constance Moore. The milkmaid.

She had a sudden urge to start dancing.

She kissed Mac until her head spun.

“I suppose I should go talk to the others. Let them know I’m back,” he said, sounding a little regretful.

By then her attention was captivated by a curious, flat thing dominating the sitting room wall. Was it a dark mirror? A strange painting? She understood that art was very different now—not that she knew a thing about it in the first place, but still, this was odd....

She looked at Mac, puzzled by the amusement in his eyes.

A quick grin. “Flat-screen TV.”

Holly got into the T-Bird, leaning her head against the seat. “Take me home, James. I want a bath.”

Alessandro felt the same way. He’d lost track of when he’d last slept. They’d gotten all the hounds out at last. Holly had insisted on staying until every last one was housed for at least the next few days. The Empire Hotel had taken quite a few at no charge. Of course, most of the place was badly in need of repair, so it wasn’t like they were losing income from paying guests. Good tax deduction there somewhere, he guessed.

Holly was eating one of the pastries the waiter from the Empire’s pub had brought over, probably stale by now. “Y’know, this guy, Joe,” she said around a mouthful. “He said he was Viktor’s brother.”

“The big weremutt?”

“Yeah, Constance obviously knew him. I thought she’d go into hysterics, she was so happy to see him.”

“Hmm.” Alessandro examined the parking ticket he’d just plucked out from under the windshield wiper. “Do you think city hall would take battling dragons as an excuse to waive a fine?”

“Ha-ha.” Holly took another bite. “Joe—Josef—has quite the story. After what those two brothers have been through, I can see why the one decided to go doggie and not come back.”

“Hmm.” Alessandro shoved the ticket onto the dash, not interested in another story until he had had a good day’s sleep. They’d been about to leave about an hour ago and then—surprise—the hero of the hour had strolled out of the Castle door looking like he’d eaten a canary, Constance on his arm.

After that, everyone wanted to call it a wrap. The adventure was over, for now. What could top Mac’s death and resurrection ?
Show-off
. Not that Alessandro wasn’t happy to see him alive. He was growing fond of Mac in a strange way.

His mind jumped tracks, too tired to hold on to a thought. He glanced at Holly. “Did your sister talk to you? She was looking for you before she left for the night.”

Holly barely managed to swallow before she yawned. “Yeah. We’re having lunch tomorrow before she goes back to Spain to see Eden. She seems really happy about that. Hey, you two seemed to be getting along all of a sudden.”

He wasn’t going to jinx it by agreeing. “Good thing she’s leaving in time so you can write your exams in peace.”

Holly made a strangled noise. “Exams. Hellhounds. Family stuff. Everything always happens at once.”

“Hmm.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes.

“Holly.” Alessandro gripped the steering wheel a little harder.

“Yeah?” She was still leaning against the seat, just rolling her head to look at him. The napkin from the pastry was crumpled tightly in her hand, the ends tucked carefully together. She knew crumbs in the car drove him crazy.

“Do you regret . . .” He trailed off, then made himself finish the sentence. “Ashe being here made me think—do you regret not having a family?”

Their house—her house—was coming into view.

“What makes you say that?”

Why do women always answer a question with a question?
He pulled into the driveway and turned off the motor.

“Just wondered.”

“It was something Ashe said, wasn’t it?”

“No. We fought a dragon together. There wasn’t exactly time to chat.” He stared out the windshield, feeling caught.
Why did I bring this up?

“She said I should come clean, so I figured she’d been talking.”

“What do you mean by ‘come clean’?”

He gave up staring and turned to look at her. Wind rustled in the hawthorn trees, the sound muffled by the car.

“Alessandro, I’m pregnant.”

The bottom fell out of his world, sheared off by the short statement. “Oh.”

“I didn’t want to say anything to you until I was sure.”

“Oh.” It seemed the only sound he was capable of making.
Whose is it?

He took a breath, feeling the slow, slow thud of his heart. Who knew words could hurt so much?

She blinked. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“I know how women get pregnant, Holly.” The snarl in his voice scared him. Pure vampire. He got out of the car, his only thought to walk away.

She scrambled out her side. “It’s yours. I know why you would wonder, but it is, I swear.”

He froze, every muscle going still. “How?”

“You’re my Chosen. That makes you, um, different in more ways than we expected.” She gave a faint, apologetic smile. “I hope you don’t mind. I wasn’t really expecting it, either. It’s not like we were, um, taking precautions.”

Alessandro began to walk around the car toward her, giving himself the half dozen steps to process the information. Irrelevant thoughts flew through his head. There was rain in the wind. He’d left the upstairs light on. The cat would be hungry. His brain was ducking the issue.

Six centuries of existence, and he hadn’t seen that one coming. Trust Holly to come up with the impossible. He stopped in front of her, looking down into her eyes. She looked so uncertain, it broke his heart.

She was still only a young woman. Vulnerable. She worked so hard, and now she was adding a family to her already-full plate.
I’ll be there for you
.

“That’s the best news I’ve ever had,” he said, and meant it.

She took his hands, gripping them hard. “Thank you.”

He raised her fingers to his lips. Grateful, but confused. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what . . .”
I don’t know what to do.

She smiled, heartbreakingly happy. “I’m just guessing, but it’s probably going to be a witch like me. I mean, your DNA is still basically human, right?”

That made a nicer picture than a baby with fangs and a pint-sized sword. Still, that wasn’t what he’d meant to ask.
What kind of a father will I make?

She reached up, kissing him, giving herself entirely.

He kept his question to himself. He would be the best father in the world.

Because that’s what her eyes told him he would be.

 

 

“This is Errata at CSUP at the University of Fairview with a quick public service notice. Are you interested in an exciting career in law enforcement with a difference? Are you stimulated by the opportunity to work with a variety of nonhuman species in a challenging teamwork environment ? If so, please apply with resume addressed to Conall Macmillan, care of the Empire Hotel.”

 

Mac had guessed right about the new job. It kept him busier than a vampire at a blood drive, and he loved it.

He sat at the kitchen table doodling on his notepad—making lists, crossing things out. Troll fences. New mattresses for the guardsmen. Grow lights for the garden some of the kobolds wanted. And signage—everything needed signs in this place!

And that was just the caretaker stuff.

There were also problems like Miru-kai. The Prince had vanished the moment the battle had begun. There had been very few sightings of him since. That didn’t mean they’d heard the last of old M.K. Top-notch villains didn’t give up that easily.

Before Mac tackled the warlords—so far he’d counted eight that amounted to any real threat—he had to rebuild his forces. He was trying to recruit new guardsmen—with plenty of improvements to their conditions of employment—and find ways to help the old ones. There were discipline issues, policy and procedures, and that whole intangible element of institutional culture. It was a lot to fix, but he had to start somewhere. He’d start with the fence.

Connie sat across from him, reading
Wuthering Heights
for the third time. Novels had become her new passion, second only to a celebrity dance show she’d discovered on TV. And shopping. Now that she had some control over her hunger, she loved trips to Spookytown’s boutiques with Holly. But every time she went out and no matter what else Connie bought, she came back with more books. He loved watching her discover all the possibilities the world held.

Mac didn’t get the attraction of the literary brood fests like
Wuthering
, but whatever. He’d put up with her blowby-blow analysis of Heathcliff and Cathy if she forgave him for introducing Sylvius to the joys of the outside world. Strictly supervised, of course.