Unknown - Scorched

“You should realize that Atreus might kill you.” She closed her eyes for a long moment. “But I’m the only one he has now. Maybe I can still make him listen. Maybe.”

Her voice held a world of devastation. Mac fell into the spell of her soft lilt, past the fangs and the quick tongue and the pretty face, and wondered where all that unhappiness came from. I really can’t afford to get emotionally invested in a vampire.

Mac ignored the warning. There was too much he needed to know. “I thought Atreus had a big court with lots of soldiers and retainers. At least that’s what I heard.”

“That was long ago. As he lost his wits, he lost those who followed him. Now there is only me.”

“King Lear and Cordelia,” Mac said softly.

“Who are they?”

Things must be bad if I’m thinking Shakespeare. “Characters from a play.”

“Ah.” She lifted her chin, huffy. “I wasn’t a fine lady, to go spending my time at the theater. There was always work to be done.”

Mac couldn’t stop a smile.

“What’s so amusing?”

“Nothing. So, to get back to what we’ve agreed to so far, you will help me with Atreus. What do you want from me?”

She nodded, looking even more pale than the usual vampire white-on-white. He wasn’t sure why, but interceding with Atreus wasn’t going to be easy for her.

She pressed her lips into a flat line, her gaze shifting away. “First let me say I’m sorry I tried to bite you. I thought you were human. I need to bite a human to get my—well, like you, there is still a bit of human in me.”

A faint flush rose to her cheeks.

A bashful vampire. Who’da thunk. Mac helped her out. “You need to hunt to fully Turn.”

She nodded, averting her face from him. “Yes. I’ve escaped that fate for a long time. I can’t any longer.” She looked like she was about to start crying again, her lower lip tucking in.

Mac put his hand on her shoulder, the cloth of her dress soft from long wear. He could feel the bones beneath. “Why not?”

Her head jerked, her tear-starred gaze going from his hand to his face, but she didn’t shake him off. “The guardsmen took my son by force—I mean the foundling child I raised. I have no one to help me get him back.”

Mac caught his breath. He was suddenly and unexpect edly on familiar ground. A crime had been committed, and he had a witness. “They kidnapped him.”

The skin around her eyes tightened, as if she were pulling him into focus for the first time. “Yes, you could call it that.”

“How old is he?”

She touched a bronze pendant that hung at her throat.

“Sixteen.”

He had to make a mental shift to envision her child as a young adult. She looked so young. “What do the guardsmen want with your son?”

“Sylvius is an incubus.”

“Oh, shit.”

Mac dropped his hand from her shoulder, his fingers unconsciously seeking the shape of his weapon beneath his coat. An incubus added a whole new layer of complication. They were the so-called angels of lust, sought after like a drug.

“Atreus protected my son until now, but he’s lost too much of his power, and Sylvius is just coming into his. The guardsmen said taking him was for the safety of everyone in the Castle, but I think it was for their own pleasure. I trust the captain to keep his word, but not the rest.”

Angels of lust, Mac thought again. This one was going to be angel puree. Incubi were not fighters. The guardsmen would make mincemeat out of the kid. What a train wreck.

“Was there a demand for ransom?”

“No. They have Sylvius, and that’s what they wanted.”

Constance studied his every expression, as if she were trying to find hope. “They put him in a demon trap. The only good part is that Captain Reynard led the guardsmen. He is not as cruel as the others.”

Mac knew who Reynard was. “But Bran is his second-in-command.”

Constance bit her lip. “I—”

“Sh!” Mac held up a hand. He could hear the distant sound of voices and tramping feet, the clank of weapons against armor.

Constance lifted her head, suddenly alert. “It’s the patrol. We have to leave here. We can’t be caught near the door.”

Swiftly, they got to their feet. Then Mac caught a glimpse of the approaching men. It was dark and they were distant, but their shapes looked wrong. Not human. He pushed Constance further into the shadows. “That’s not the patrol.”

“Come this way,” she said, grabbing his hand. Her fingers were so cool that Mac felt like he had a fever. “Reynard said Miru-kai’s spies are in these parts. The warlords want Sylvius, too, and they probably don’t know he’s gone.”

“Oh, great.”

She started to run, a quick, effortless glide through the shadows. He followed her down the corridor, sliding the Sig Sauer out of it’s holster as they moved. The cop in him was on high. For the first time in ages, he felt completely alive. Useful.

Her touch alerted every male cell in his body.

She was beautiful and in trouble. A double threat. Oh, baby.

“Where are we going?” he asked. “I know a secret place.”

An arrow hummed by his head, the wind brushing his ear. Crap!

It skittered harmlessly to the stone floor, but Mac and Constance jolted into a sprint. Someone shouted. It wasn’t any language Mac knew, but the guttural, angry tone was clear.

If she’s not fully a vampire, how badly could an arrow hurt her?

Constance darted around a corner, leading them into a nearly identical hall. Mac risked a glance at their pursuers. They were closer now. He could see four. All wore what looked to him like medieval battle gear. One had tusks.

Mac had a fleeting thought about werebacon.

He turned and scrambled after Constance. She led him through the maze, going deep into an area where Mac hadn’t been before. Except for their pursuers, this part of the Castle looked deserted. This was not at all like the busy, thronging territories Mac had been in before, each with its own ruling bully. This was a wasteland.

Someone could make a fortune with a GPS system in here.

“Hurry!” Constance waved him forward, heading for a path that inclined gently downward. The rigid crisscross of corridors was breaking into longer, curving paths, the stonework ragged and natural. Drips of stone hung from the ceiling, frozen in time. It was like the masons of old had gone for coffee and never returned to finish the job.

For a moment, Mac could feel the magic of the Castle like a breathing presence, watching, considering. Then it was gone, the random bump of a shoulder in a crowd, but the vastness of that consciousness was enough to make Mac stumble, grab the wall for support.

What the hell was that for?

No time to think about it. Constance flitted down the path, pulling a small but efficient-looking knife out of a belt sheath. Mac trailed after her, listening for their pursuers. They were getting closer, heavy footfalls echoing in the gloom. The air was cold and damp. Mist clung to the floor, long fingers swirling over Mac’s feet as he moved.

Then the ceiling rose, the corridor widening until it formed a huge cavern ringed with torches. It could have held a gymnasium with room to spare. Ropes of fog floated in the air, twisting like something alive.

Mac stopped cold, grabbing Constance’s arm. “There’s no cover here. We can’t cross open ground. They’ll shoot us.” He could dust and float across, but that wouldn’t do her any good. Crap!

“We have to get over there.” Constance pointed. Ahead was a stairway. The light barely touched it, showing only a few horizontal edges highlighted against the prevailing murk.