Scorched (6 page)

Like a glowing finger, the cloud that was Sylvius landed on the demon trap, making the red lacquer dazzle with intensity. The box seemed to inhale, dragging the billowing particles inside itself—more and impossibly more, fitting what seemed like a roomful of pearly cloud inside the tiny cube. At last the lid snapped shut, and the brilliance was snuffed out.

Once again, Constance slammed to the floor as Atreus released her. This time, she didn’t open her eyes. She heard the guardsmen shuffle and talk in low voices. She heard their footsteps as they marched away. She heard Viktor’s low whines. Finally, she heard the rustle of Atreus’s robes as he wandered out of the chamber.

They took my boy
.

She lay coiled into a painful ball. If only her mind could slide into the pain and dissolve, but she was a woman. As long as one of her own needed her—be it a stray calf or a foundling incubus—she couldn’t rest. She had to save Sylvius, but how? She had needed a protector to survive in the Castle. How could she possibly save someone else?

Constance braced one hand against the floor, then the other. Experimentally, she pushed herself up enough to slump against the wall. Viktor butted his head against her thigh, letting her know he was there. She rested one hand on the beast’s head, too weak yet to scratch his ears.

Despite Viktor, she felt horribly alone.

She touched the pendant Sylvius had made for her, pressing it against her skin. The feel of it was an anchor in a sea of nausea. A true vampire could heal much faster. A real vampire could fly and had astonishing speed and strength. Constance would need full vampire powers if she was going to rescue Sylvius.

She had never fully Turned, because she had never tasted human blood. The guardsmen had imprisoned her too fast. So, Constance needed to hunt.

She’d never considered giving up the last shreds of her humanity before. But then, no one had needed her help so very badly. Even so, could she bear to do it?

Drinking blood was beyond disgusting, and who was there to bite? The guardsmen were the closest thing to human, and they certainly didn’t smell edible. Putting her lips on Bran’s flesh would surely make her retch.

Her fingers stirred the thick fur of Viktor’s ruff. He sighed. She sighed, and it was painful.

All right, maybe not Bran. But she had to be strong, like a warrior queen of old Eire. If she had to embrace her vampire nature to save Sylvius, so be it.

Her child was at stake.

She would find a victim.

She would become the necessary monster.

 

“W
elcome 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.”

 

 

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
oof
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.