Sharon Ashwood - Scorched

“I surrendered to the fire demon. I slaughtered your men because I couldn’t control it. Why would those guardsmen who are left follow me?”

“They will know you by how you lead them. You know how such men work far better than I do. You’re one of them.”

“I think they’ll complain if I burn them to crispy critters.”

“I will give you mastery over your demon nature. It is something you would have developed in time, anyway. It takes practice to harness your powers. Isn’t that what you told Constance?”

“Then I get some control on the heat thing?”

“Of course.”

Mac rallied, his spirits rising despite himself. “And none of this no-eating crap. I keep my appetites, thank you very much. In fact, you should have more repression-free zones like the Summer Room. It’s healthier that way for everybody. Maybe if people get to let off steam now and again, they’ll stop hunting the incubi like truffles.”

The Avatar blinked, looking taken aback. “That would be up to you.”

Mac froze. “Up to me?”

She waved a hand, taking in the entire cavern. “I must regenerate rivers and forests, a sky and stars. That’s a lot to look after.” She shrugged. “I’ll have to leave a lot of the smaller details up to you.”

“You actually need me,” said Mac, surprise bubbling through him.

The Avatar nodded. “Yes, Conall Macmillan. And this time I’m asking your permission. Will you help me become the beautiful place I once was? Will you look after my people?”

Mac thought about Reynard and the guards, the warlords and the smugglers, and all the downtrodden of the Castle. It was more than an army of social service agencies could ever hope to clean up, and he was proposing to do it on his own.

“Hell, yes.” And then he laughed.

Cleaning up the street was exactly the kind of work that got Mac up in the morning. Besides, he wouldn’t be on his own. He had friends, and there were folks in Fairview who cared about what happened behind the Castle door. They’d proved that today.

Most of all, there was Connie. If ever there was a girl worth being resurrected for, she was the one.

“I’ll do it.”

The Avatar smiled, and it was like the sunrise. “Good.”

“Just a few more things before we shake hands...”

The Castle laughed, sounding very much like a lovely woman. “Of course there are. But just remember that the only thing that matters is the joy that gives you life.”

Suddenly, Mac was standing in front of the Empire Hotel. From the looks of things, it was early evening, the street still full of cars and people. What am I doing here? It was an interesting choice of locations for his resurrection. He guessed the Castle had some fine-tuning issues, but whatever. For a newly restored Avatar, he supposed it could be worse.

What do I know? He was grateful to be alive, too grateful to even think about the alternatives—death, or eternity as a ghost. Crap. That was one mental road he refused to go down. Not until he had time for a proper mental breakdown.

Which was never.

Leaning against the wall, he looked around. People were walking by, talking on cell phones, holding hands, absorbed in their evening plans. Car radios. Conversations. The bleed of jazz from inside the pub. Fairview was noisy.

Mac had missed that. The Castle was so damned quiet. Lore had said something about hooking up TV and radio reception. He was going to have to talk to him about that.

Mac jogged around the corner to the alley. It was jammed with people. It looked like the word of the hellhound exodus had spread and every supernatural citizen in Fairview had shown up to gawk. Quite a few seemed to actually be helping. He recognized the waiter—what was his name? Joe?—from the pub. He was passing out coffee and pastries to the volunteers.

Mac slipped through the crowd to see what was happening at the door. Ashe Carver was sitting on the ground, Reynard’s head in her lap. Good. They made it out okay.

She had one hand on Reynard’s forehead, lightly resting there. It looked like they had both received medical care—probably from a fey healer or a witch. Reynard was zonked out, but his injuries looked far better than they should have.

Still, in Mac’s book, Reynard should have been in a hospital, but that was impossible. Guardsmen could leave the Castle for only hours at a time—just long enough to retrieve an escaped inmate. So, after several hundred years of dedicated service, the captain was lying in a dirty alley instead of a proper ward.

No wonder the guards went rogue.

Things were going to change. Mac started a mental list.

He paused to get details from Ashe, but then Caravelli burst out the door, his sword—oddly crumpled—in one hand and a hellhound child in his other arm. “Goddamned dragon!”

Mac couldn’t suppress a snicker. The kid ruined the whole Prince of Darkness image.

“What happened?” said Ashe, craning her neck to look up at him.

“It came back. It took one look at the fire pond and did a belly flop right in the middle.”

“It killed itself?” Ashe said, her voice going up an octave.

He passed off the child to one of the hound women. The little girl must have been lost, because they looked very, very happy to see her.

“No, the dragon likes it.” Caravelli made a dramatic face. “It’s wallowing in it like a big, fire-breathing pig, rolling around in sheer bliss. Nobody can get through there. We’ve had to detour the second group of hounds through the balconies.”

“Leave it there for now,” said Mac.

It was clear the vampire, on some level, was enjoying himself. The hellhounds were looking at him like he was the Second Coming.

“We’ll leave the dragon there for now,” Caravelli said, still looking directly at Ashe. “We’ve got it surrounded in case it tries to move.”

“How are we going to get it back where it belongs?” she asked.

“Caravelli?” Mac said.

The vampire ignored him. “It looks like the tunnels that vanished are opening up again. Maybe by tomorrow we can convince it to go home.”

This is weird. “Caravelli?” Mac waved his hand in front of the vampire’s face. No reaction. Then he waved his hand through Caravelli.

Outrage slammed through him. I’m still a ghost! This was a disaster. Mac looked frantically around. Okay, everybody here is supernatural. Surely somebody is psychic. He didn’t see Holly anywhere.

And he hadn’t seen Constance. He turned around again, looking everywhere for her small, dark form. Lore was sitting with Sylvius on some overturned crates, one hand around his friend’s shoulders. Mac ran over to them. “Hey, can you see me?” He snapped his fingers under the hellhound’s nose.” Yo, Fido!”

Nothing.

Mac stopped, caught short by the stricken set of Sylvius’s body. He was curled over, his head nearly on his knees. The first thing he noticed was that the kid wasn’t hurt anymore. No blood. No wounds. Even his color was good.

“You’ll be okay,” Lore said. “I have faith. So should you.”

Mac nearly missed Sylvius’s answer, it was so quiet. “But Macmillan died! So many did. And what’s going to happen to me now?”

“You’ll do what you must.”

Which was true, but clearly not what Sylvius wanted to hear.

“I’m not who I was. The Avatar took back the part of me that was her.” Sylvius raised his head. “What’s left?”

With a shock of surprise, Mac understood. Sylvius was a young man. No wings. With the silver hair and black eyes, he was striking to look at, but he was human—or humanish—like his father.