Scorched (29 page)

The demon was present, flowing through every fiber and bone, but it felt natural. Rather than two adversaries in the same body, it felt simply like the darker side of himself: dangerous, wild, and full of heat.

How dangerous?
Demons destroy. It’s their nature.

He sensed his own potential for savagery with every breath, every movement of his new muscles. It was tempting—a corked bottle of the finest vintage, just waiting to be poured out and savored. The demon thirsted for it like a drunk in the gutter.

Bold words, but it wasn’t going to be easy. He had begun by thinking that the clues to regaining his humanity lay in the Castle. That was why he had gone back in the first place, after his conversation with Holly at the U. Ironically, every time he went inside the Castle, he came out a little—or a lot—less human. This last time was no exception. Now his demon was making itself comfortable in its upgraded home.

But he hadn’t exactly lost. He could not have rescued Sylvius without his demonic powers. If he rejected his demon side, he would be turning his back on the Castle residents who needed a protector, such as the hellhounds and their stranded family members. And what about the missing Avatar? What about Connie?

If demons destroyed, how come he was being so darned helpful? Caveman and all, Mac was confused on levels he never knew existed.

He switched on the coffeepot and went to take a shower. It was only after he dressed that he remembered the answering machine. Holly had left all the messages. He phoned her back.

“Oh, Mac, thank the Goddess you called. Were you inside in the Castle?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see Ashe?”

“No.”

“Damn it!”

Mac remembered Ashe’s reaction to the door. With everything else that was going on, he’d forgotten about that. “How’d she break in?”

“She didn’t. Alessandro threw her in there.”

“Heh.”

“Mac, it’s not funny.”

He cleared his throat. “Of course not. Any particular reason he, uh, sent her on vacation?”

While Holly talked, Mac wandered out onto the balcony. Traffic was hopping below. A corner of his mind wandered back to Connie, wondering what she’d make of it. She’d probably never seen cars.

I’m going to fix that
. His demon flexed, heating his flesh, firing his imagination.
Oh, yeah
.

“After we couldn’t reach you, Alessandro went into the Castle himself,” Holly was saying. “He had to come out this morning. He ran out of ammunition. He couldn’t find her.”

“Don’t worry,” Mac replied. “I’ll look for your sister. I probably know the lay of the land a bit better. I might have more luck.”
So Caravelli didn’t kill Ashe, even though she tried to stake him. Isn’t he getting all mellow in his domestic bliss?
“When I find her, I’ll tell her to play nice. I don’t want her running around with pointy objects inside the Castle, either. Someone might lose an eye. If she says please, I’ll even let her out.”

Holly sighed. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Nah, I owe you several. And I’m about to owe you another. I know this sounds a bit, uh, trivial given what you’ve said about your sister, but where do women buy nice, y’know, date clothes?”

“Um. That depends on what they like. Mac, what are you up to?”

“A gift.” With Lore moving in, he suddenly had a modest amount of free money. Enough for one night of fun, anyway.

“Uh-huh. What kind of gift for what kind of person?”

“The lady in question has retro tastes.”

And a taste for blood. Would that be a problem? Nah. After all, she would be with him. If things got bad, he could always whisk her off to one of the freaky bars where vampires fed on the willing and stupid. Those joints would know how to handle a newbie vamp, right?

“How retro?” Holly’s curiosity oozed from the receiver. “Is this for your fair lady in the Castle?”

Mac grinned, enjoying the moment. “She’s into these old fashion magazines from the thirties and forties. Kinda Greta Garbo. If I could find something up to date but with that feel . . .”

“Do you know her size?”

“Not the manufacturer’s size, but I could figure it out.”

“That’s what all men say, and they can’t. Their fantasy lives interfere.”

“I have a good memory for spatial relationships.”

“I’m just saying . . .”

“Put yourself in my hands.”

“Caravelli would have my head.”

“Let me rephrase. Put your shopping experience in my hands. I’m a woman, and I’m a witch. When do you need this for?”

“I’ll let you know. Right now I have to go see a sorcerer about a Castle.”

L
ore had given Mac directions to Atreus’s chambers.

Mac peered around the corner into a big square hall. He was still hoping for a polite Q and A, but didn’t have high hopes. He’d left the sword at home—if Atreus was unbalanced, showing up armed could cause more problems than it solved—but he wasn’t about to wander into the lion’s den completely helpless. He had a well-hidden boot knife, and he’d worn the flannel shirt like a jacket to cover his gun.

He’d come alone. He wasn’t going to risk Connie. Not with so much chance of ugliness.

Mac slipped into the room, concealing himself behind one of the massive, fluted pillars dotting the room. He did a quick visual sweep. It was a huge space with upward-thrusting stone ribs, and he found his gaze drawn higher and higher. Banners hung from the vaulted ceiling like falling leaves, the jagged, rotting edges of the bright silk trailing cobwebs fringed with dust. A breeze made them stir, like they were eerily alive.

He circled the pillar to the right, trying to get a better view of the room itself. There wasn’t much furniture. Chests and chairs, mostly. In the middle of the hall was a carved wooden throne. It was empty.

He was about to give up when he heard a noise, the barest shudder of an indrawn breath. Instinct made him draw the Sig Sauer and cock it, the harsh sound echoing like a bouncing ball. He paused, wondering whom it would alert.

Nothing stirred. Had he imagined that breath?

The noise had come from the far corner, behind the throne. Mac crouched and glided with demon silence to the next pillar, getting closer. And waited.

Nothing.

He straightened and turned, holding his weapon lightly, focusing on everything and nothing, every sense peeled. In an instant, he found what he was looking for. There was a tall man standing with his back to Mac, so still that it would have been easy to mistake him for part of the room.

Mac barely got an impression of blue robes and dark hair before his attention swerved to the thing the man seemed to be staring at: Ashe Carver, in all her biker-leather glory, hanging on the wall like a weird modern sculpture.

Holy crap!
A jolt of adrenaline thumped his pulse into high gear. Mac stared for a long moment, not sure if she was even alive. Arms spread above her head, legs dangling, she was utterly still. There was no blood, no weapon poking out of her. What was keeping her up there?

Then her eyes slowly moved to meet his. Cold filled him from the bottom up, rising like a foul tide. He could see her breathing now, short, shallow pants, sucking in mere mouthfuls of air. She was choking to death.

Her bright green eyes glittered with knife-edged terror.

“You,” Mac barked, raising the gun. “Back away from her.”

The robed man took a step backward, turning just enough that Mac could see his face. Not an old guy with a big white beard and magic wand, but a much youngerlooking man—hooked nose, high cheekbones, and long raven hair. The man held one hand up, fingers spread, like he was holding an invisible sheet of paper against an invisible wall.

He had to be holding Ashe by magic.
The sorcerer
.

“Identify yourself.”

The man looked mildly surprised. “I am Atreus of Muria, of course.”

That figured. This so wasn’t the way Mac had wanted this conversation to go. He needed information from this guy. He couldn’t just blow his head off. What had Ashe done to put this disaster into action?

Still, he couldn’t let Atreus squish her to death. He’d made a promise to Holly.

“Let her go.”

The man dropped his arm. Ashe fell to the floor with an unceremonious thud, rolling once to land on her side. Mac let his eyes flicker away from Atreus for only a second.
How am I going to get her out of here?

“She’s very rude,” Atreus said. “She tried to poke me with a stick.”

So you tried to stake a sorcerer. Good job, Ashe
. “That
is
rude.”

“I assume that’s a weapon you’re holding.”

“Yup.”

“That’s also rude.”

Before Mac could react, the semi slipped from his hand and sailed across the room, landing at Atreus’s feet. It spun, miring itself in the hem of the sorcerer’s robes. Atreus bent and picked it up, studying it with obvious curiosity. “Such toys humans invent.”

He closed his hand around the gun, fondling the smooth finish a moment before a twitch of his fingers crushed it to dust. There was no muttering of spells, no flash of spectral light. This was sorcery so smooth it was damn near invisible.

Mac felt his jaw fall open, surprise clearing a path for fear.

The sorcerer’s black gaze speared him. “You’re like her, demon. You lack respect.”

Atreus’s gesture seemed to fold the air around Mac, hard pressure forcing him to his knees. “Bow before me!”

Mac was flattened until his forehead bumped the cold, gritty floor. He bit his tongue, the sudden tangy taste of blood filling his mouth.

Mac turned his head just enough to see Ashe’s face. She was deathly pale, eyes closed, her skin shining with sweat. She was still breathing in quick, sharp pants. Ashe needed doctors and an ambulance. She wasn’t going to get that here.

Mac couldn’t dust out and leave her. He couldn’t move, period. Claustrophobia prowled through him, almost exotic in its intensity.

Atreus was pacing the room in long strides. His robes followed him like something alive, twisting and flowing with Cecil B. DeMille dramatics. He picked up a long staff, adding to the effect. “My territories stretched through entire city-states. This was all my land. You have all forgotten the nine that made this place.”

Keep it together, Mac. One breath at a time
.

“Were you one of the nine?” Mac asked. He was in so much trouble, asking a question wasn’t likely to make it any worse.

“I was. I put the sun in this sky.”

And had he noticed it was missing? “When was that?”

Atreus took three long strides and thumped the staff down on Mac’s back, pushing the end hard between his shoulder blades. “Before the light went from the world, you fool. And now the world itself falls away. The Castle has crumbled for sixteen years.”

An electric, tingling flood spewed from the staff, shooting through Mac’s nerves in white-hot jolts.
Pain. Pain. Pain
.

And then blessed numbness. Mac collapsed like melting rubber; Gumby left too long in the sun. Atreus wandered away, taking the staff with him.

“All my subjects turned on me. All they cared for was my power.”

Connie was right. The guy was a few quarts short of a cauldron. Mac tried to move his hand, but couldn’t. Ashe was starting to turn fish-belly white, but her eyes were flickering open.

C’mon, demon, let’s get a move on. Help me out
.

But he was talking to himself. There wasn’t a separate being inside anymore. He was it. All there was. The realization startled him, but he shoved it aside. He could think about that later.

He could feel his skin burning, demon heat washing over his limbs. The smell of hot fabric hovered, like his clothes were going to ignite.
That could be embarrassing and painful
.

Finally, movement. His finger twitched.
You’re going to have to do better than that
.

Atreus was ranting. “First Viktor turned on me, retreating to his beast form. Then Josef stole away. Even my little girl has left me.”

Mac’s mind raced. Okay. Back to saving the hostage. If he went to his demon form holding an object, it traveled with him. Would that work with another living creature? Or would it go horribly wrong?

Atreus thumped him in the back again. “What did you come to steal from me? What?”

Mac stayed in his facedown position, doing his best to look cowed and helpless. He had come seeking his humanity. Now his priority was saving Ashe. Still, he might grab something from this fiasco. He moved a foot and an arm. The paralysis was wearing off.
Thank God
.

“I came to ask questions.”

Atreus’s zigzagging path stopped in front of Mac, mere inches from his face. Mac could see the sorcerer’s embroidered shoes, the threadbare toes padded and curled upward to gentle points. There were stray threads on both points, as if some of the glass beads that dotted the design had fallen off.

“What did you come here to ask?” Atreus demanded. “I will only grant one question. I am busy with matters of state.”

One question. There were so many, and they all led back to the Castle.

“Who was the Avatar?”

Atreus went utterly still. “She was the mother of my child. I made her from the sun and the rain, and then I killed her.” The regret in his voice was gray and cold as the winter ocean.

Was that madness, metaphor, or domestic homicide?

Atreus turned and walked to the throne, and mounted it. He settled, spreading the skirts of his robes over his knees so that the folds hung perfectly. He rested his hands on the heavily carved arms of the throne, and looked down on the room as if it were crowded with his subjects begging for favors. He nodded, gesturing graciously to people who weren’t there.