Sharon Ashwood - Scorched

October 7, 7:15 p.m. 101.5 FM

“ Good evening to all you fanged and furry listeners out there in radio land. This is Errata, your hostess from CSUP, the FM station that denies and defies the normal in paranormal. It’s October first and a crisp evening up here on the Fairview U campus. Looks like there’ll be frost on the pumpkin tonight.

“We have our usual dark and dangerous lineup ahead, but first a special alert. It’s come to our attention that a certain demon detective is back in town. Word has it he’s been lying low for the past while, but my informants spotled this local bad boy out and about last night. Welcome back from the dark side, detective, but be careful of all those bridges you burned last year. I think the footing’s a little treacherous.

“Oh, and by the way, I wouldn’t count on running a tab at the local watering hole—I think a Thanksgiving turkey has a better chance of long-term credit.”

So, they buried her at a crossroads. Some folks just bring that out in people.

Conall Macmillan shoved his hands into the pockets of his Windbreaker. Autumn dusk closed around him in shades of blue and charcoal, heavy with seaside moisture. It would be dark in minutes. He could hear the wash of waves in the silence. St. Andrew’s Cemetery was empty, except for the dead. And him, of course, though where he fit on the whole dead/live continuum was open to debate.

The grave lay at the intersection of two white paved walkways, smack in the way of joggers and dog walkers. Not much of a crossroads, but enough to keep her down. It said something that the ones doing the burying had been vampires. They didn’t scare easily, but the woman now resting beneath the earth had been a demon, a monster’s monster, evil pure as... What was the right comparison, anyway?

Mac looked up at the fading horizon, memories as black and sharp-edged as the cedars etched against the ocean. Sudden, cold nausea invaded his gut, riding a wave of remembrance at once intimate and brutal.

What could compare to the desperate, terrifying hunger that had flayed him until he shrugged off humanity like a tattered bathrobe? What could compare with the silver sweetness of each human soul as it slid over his teeth and down his throat like a delicate summer wine?

Each life was a drop of relief in a desert of desperate need. That was the thirst of a demon, a soul eater. A murderer. He knew, because the woman beneath the crossroads had made Mac just like her. Walking evil.

The brass plaque on the headstone simply read: GENEVA. It had been a year since she was placed, suddenly human and instantly dead, beneath the dirt.

A breeze hushed through the leaves that littered the lawn, an anticipatory sound. The wind was changing as the sun bloodied the sea, carrying in the smell of brine. Mac walked around Geneva’s last home, viewing it from every angle.

What am I looking for? To reassure myself she’s really down there—human, deceased, and rotting the way she’s supposed to? Not a good thought. Geneva had been beautiful, for all her wicked ways. The memory of her still brought heat to his flesh.

He’d always gone for the wrong women, the kind who weren’t interested in forever. After years on the squad, his heart was entombed in dead bodies and paperwork, insulated against a cop’s daily dose of carnage. A quick and dirty grapple in the dark was all he had to give and those mad, bad babes fit him to a T.

So when a pretty blonde had invited him for a drink, he’d considered it lucky, but business as usual. Bad mistake. Life-ending mistake.

Now the forever kind of woman was beyond his grasp. Even if he dared to make her his own, one day he might fall off the wagon and then it would be, “Sorry, darling. I scarfed down the kids.”

A short brick wall encircled Geneva’s plot, holding in the sod. The site was on a hill and had views of everything: the ocean, the acres of yew trees and headstones, even glimpses of the strip mall to the north. It was fitting. Geneva had loved to be in the center of things.

Dead center, ha-ha, Mac thought bitterly.

A desolate feeling stole over him. It was bad when you had to laugh at your own lousy puns. Fortunate that he wasn’t a drinker. It would be far too nice to forget everything, even for just a little while.

Thunk!

A knife thrummed into the dirt at his foot, silver blade quivering as it struck. The dark steel hilt had the elegant simplicity of all vampire armaments.

Mac hunched, his spine itching at every spot where the knife might have struck. “What?” he snapped to the empty air.

The answer was dry with sarcasm. “You finally showed up. It’s been a year.”

Mac had forgotten how much he hated that low, smooth, arrogant voice. His teeth clenched so hard, pain shot up his left temple.

Between one blink and the next, Alessandro Caravelli appeared on the other side of the grave, his weight resting on one hip. Yes, it had been a year since they last met. Shrink-wrapped in leather, the vampire still had the rock ‘n’ roll biker vibe going on: boots, studs, and attitude. Curly wheat blond hair fell past his shoulders; his amber eyes were steady, unblinking, and not at all friendly.

“The sword’s a nice touch,” Mac said. “Very retro.”

The vampire held the huge blade loosely at his side. “Special edition. It kills everything. Even demons.”

Despite himself, Mac felt a sizzle of fear. “I’m not a demon anymore. I’m not evil. I’m cured.”

Caravelli’s chin lifted; he took a subtle sniff of the breeze. “Faint, but the demon stink is there.”

Mac’s lip curled at the insult. “Oh, yeah, and seeing you brings back all the good times, Caravelli. I’ve so missed your bad-assed sheriff-to-the-Undead routine.”

“I still keep the law among the supernatural citizens in Fairview.” Without a flicker of expression, Caravelli took a step closer. “And you’re still a danger. You were Geneva’s thrall. Our enemy.”

“Yeah, well...” Mac trailed off. The events of a year ago were confused in Mac’s mind, but he remembered the essential facts. Geneva picked a fight with Fairview’s supernatural community—werebeast and vampire, demon and fey—in a bid to control the territory. Yes, he had fought with the black hats, being a demon and all at the time.

His side lost. Holly Carver, a witch, had turned the tide, blasting Geneva with a spell so powerful that it had stripped away the demon’s powers. The moment Geneva became human, her own soldiers had killed her. Drained her blood. Left her corpse to the mercy of her enemies.

It’s hard to get good help when you’re an archvillain. It’s even harder to change careers from henchdemon to harmless civilian.

Caravelli frowned, a slight movement of his foot signaling his impatience.

Oh, crap. Shifting his weight, Mac forced himself not to bolt, though the urge burned along every nerve. Never show a vampire fear. He couldn’t take his eyes off Caravelli’s sword. How come I ‘ m walking around unarmed? Stupid! He’d lost the habit of carrying weapons during his demon days.

Mac played his only card. “Hear me out. I was caught by the same spell as Geneva. If she was made human again, so was I.”

It worked. The vampire lowered the blade an inch or two. “Then tell me this. You disappeared after the battle. We looked for you. The queen offered a reward for your return. Where have you been?”

“Out of my mind.” Mac looked away. “Yeah, I feel guilty. I was a cop, for God’s sake. Geneva made me turn against everything I stood for.” Heat rushed up his face, but he forced himself to meet Caravelli’s gaze. “I didn’t join her willingly. She corrupted me. You know that. You were there.”