Unknown - Scorched

Another arrow whirred over their heads, slicing into the mist. In a single motion, Mac crouched, pulling Constance down with him, turned, and fired two shots in the direction of their pursuers.

Someone—something—screamed. A hit.

Mac’s heart hammered, adrenaline raging through his veins. His demon flared, sharpening sight and hearing, burning through muscle and nerve.

Was that it? Were they gone?

Darkness. Footfalls.

The thing with tusks burst out of the darkness with a feral roar, brandishing a spear over its head. Shit!

Images flew at Mac, sharp and lurid. Torchlight lit the creature’s metal-studded tunic. Tiny eyes under a massive brow. Tusks jutting from the lower jaw, ringed with heavy bands of gold. It was huge, twice as big as a man, looming like a truck.

The spear left its hand, flying with ferocious speed toward Mac’s chest.

Training kicked in. Mac dove to the side, rolled, and emptied three roaring blasts into the thing’s chest. It flew backward, chest shattering to gore, spraying the darkness with a ruddy mist. The spear smashed into the stone where Mac had been a moment before, showering a fountain of sparks into the air.

Constance yelped, scrambling backward, knife ready to stab.

“You okay?” Mac bellowed. “Bloody Bridgit’s toenails!”

If she could curse, she was okay. Mac scrambled to his feet and down the tunnel, weapon at the ready. Hot demon rage warred with a cooler demand for caution. Damned if another one of those things is going to get the drop on us.

He stepped around the creature he’d shot, feet skidding on things he didn’t want to name. It reeked, an unfamiliar putrid stench worse even than a dead werewolf. Mac held his breath as long as he could. The passageway flickered with torchlight, the irregular stonework casting gnarled shadows.

I shot this one. I hit another. There should at least be blood.

Mac slowed. A second body sprawled on the ground, limbs at random angles. The body was melting to a puddle of slime, rotting in fast-forward. He’d seen that before.

Changelings—the twisted, malformed children of the vampire world. Those that hadn’t Turned right. They made the Hollywood nosferatu look cuddly.

It wasn’t easy to kill a vamp, but he’d hit it in the head.

Mac looked around. There was no sign of the other two. He finally took a deep breath but instantly gagged at the stink of foul blood. Goddamned Lord of the Rings wannabes.

Mac wiped the sweat from his palms, then his face. A tremor passed through him as the adrenaline left his system, leaving him hot and queasy. The Castle offered far too many chances to die.

He turned, looking again at the body of the first creature he’d shot. What the hell is that thing? He tried to remember if he’d seen anything like it the last time he was in the Castle.

“They were Prince Miru-kai’s followers. I’m sure of it.”

He looked up. Constance was standing nearby, the knife still in her hand.

“It was a goblin,” she said. “They’re fierce, but they’re not very brave if you put up a fight.”

“The others were changelings.”

“I know. Turned wrong. Like me, but I was luckier.” She held out a hand. “Come. They won’t be back today.”

Mac stared at her. She was solemn, but far from terrified. “You sure we’re safe?”

Some of her poise faded. “What they really wanted was Sylvius, and we don’t have him.”

“Right.” He still kept his grip on the Sig Sauer. He wasn’t putting it away quite yet. “Attacks like this happen much around here?”

“Not here. There are many in the courts, of course.”

“Were there many goblins in the courts?” He didn’t really care, but it was something to distract them from what had just happened.

She lifted one shoulder. “A few. I spent plenty of time hiding behind the throne. It was good, sturdy oak.”

Mac met her gaze. Her eyes were steady, but he thought he caught a slight curve of the lower lip.

“The werecats were the worst. If they got in a temper, you could say goodbye to the upholstery.” She turned and beckoned him to follow.

Mac complied, his heartbeat almost back to normal. They were out of the corridor before she slid the knife back into its sheath. Mac watched her. “You’re a vampire. Surely you’re strong enough to use a sword?”

“And what would I do with a great blade, like a Highland clansman? I’m too small. Besides, it’s hardly ladylike.”

“Even a small sword would give you greater reach.”

“Stealth and accuracy are just as important. You men are all about size. Sadly predictable creatures.”

“Guilty.”

She smirked, then took a glance at the Sig Sauer. “Mind you, something like that would come in handy.”

“Women always like the big explosions. Delightfully predictable creatures.”

She tossed her head. “Now you sound like you’re boasting.”

“I’m flattered that you think I have cause to boast.”

“I think you have a smooth tongue.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I wonder how often you’ve whispered that in a maiden’s ear?”

“I’m not sure I’ve known that many maidens.”

“And next you’ll tell me that was your doing.”

As they retraced their steps, Mac couldn’t help but look down at the goblin he had shot, or the spear that lay across their path. Constance skirted the carnage, lifting her skirts to keep them clean. How can she live in this place, with so much violence, and still seem so innocent?

Because she’s not. She’s a vampire. You’re playing with fire.

As they crossed the cavern, the ropes of fog clung like spiderwebs, dewing Constance’s hair like a mantilla of jewels. Then they started up the uneven steps, ascending into a mass of shadows that billowed where the ceiling should have been. The soles of Mac’s ankle boots slid on someting slippery.

“What is this crap?”

“Moss,” Constance replied. “Be careful.”

“I didn’t think anything grew in here.”

“The tales say once there were gardens.”

Mac gave her a disbelieving look.

She shrugged. “There are dead trees in one of the great halls. The stories might be true.”

He reserved judgment on that one.

When they reached the top of the stairs, they started down a corridor that looked different from the others, the walls polished to a dull sheen. It opened into a vast space ringed with balconies. In the center was a dark pool, the sparkling black surface rippled by a faint wind. White marble rimmed the water, the carved lip fluted and curving outward. The overall shape of the pool was geometric, squares overlapping squares, reminding Mac of a Chinese design. Rather than torches, fires burned in four braziers that ringed the space. Beautiful though it was, the hall echoed strangely, making Mac think of people and places he had lost.

“Where are we?” Mac asked, looking over his shoulder. Something about the open space put all his senses on alert, as if the lightless corners had eyes.

“This place doesn’t have a name that I know of,” she said. “Atreus used to come here to meditate.”

No wonder he’s nuts.

Constance looked around. “I was hoping Viktor would be here. He always finds his way home, but he likes this place. With Miru-kai’s soldiers around, I’d rest easier if I knew where he was.”

Mac started to follow her gaze, searching the inky shadows, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him along like a child. He allowed himself to be led, his eyes following the way her skirts swirled around her knees. All those layers of cloth made a swishing rhythm that had a seductive music all its own.