Unknown - Scorched

The quick move was a mistake. Caravelli leaped forward, sailing over one table and darting between the rest. Mac spun backward, putting the table between him and the vampire. He would have run farther, but the wall was in the way.

Every head in the place turned to stare, the piano music trailing off as if the tune had ripped in two. A couple of the werewolf patrons lumbered off the barstools, hitching up their pants and adjusting their baseball caps. The floor show was about to begin.

“Alessandro, what the hell are you doing?” Holly asked in the voice of a woman pushed to the edges of her patience.

Caravelli was half-across the table, poised to close the distance between him and Mac. The vampire gripped a long silver knife, the casual dress version of the broadsword. Just as deadly for stabbing, much messier and slower for beheading.

Mac held up his hands, showing they were empty of weapons. “I come in peace.”

He said it loudly enough the whole room could hear, and with an edge of sarcasm. His heart was pounding like he’d just run the four-minute mile. And to think he’d been looking forward to a quiet social drink where the only weapons were the little plastic swords that went through the olives. Like I’d ever do anything to Holly.

But he had. Mac had done her serious harm when the demon had been in control. Beneath his disappointment, he couldn’t blame Caravelli for protecting her as best he knew how.

He stole a quick glance away from the vampire, who was still poised like a macabre centerpiece. Holly was furious, her hands on her hips, glaring at the two of them. She was wearing a belted tunic and leggings that reminded Mac of Robin Hood or Peter Pan. The thought of Caravelli as Tinker Bell nearly made him laugh out loud.

Holly pointed to the chairs, her expression no-nonsense. “Sit. Both of you.”

Caravelli slowly backed off the table, sliding the knife into a sheath hidden by his jacket. Once the weapon vanished, the patrons started returning to their seats. The piano man struck up “Skylark.”

Holly threw herself into a chair, her lips compressed. “I said, sit.”

Mac complied, inching his chair back a little. Caravelli was too close for comfort, but he tried for a carefree tone. “Word of warning: stick to the drinks. The menu needs work.”

Obviously reluctant, Caravelli folded himself onto a chair, every inch the graceful predator. His gaze traveled from Holly to Mac, the vampire’s amber eyes glinting in the low lights. He leaned forward, raking his yellow stare over Mac. “I don’t agree with this meeting. You have no right to walk these streets. If you give me any excuse, I’ll finish what I started on Wednesday.”

By way of reply, Mac took a slug of his Bigfoot and stifled a belch.

“Since we’re all such good friends, I think we can skip the small talk,” said Holly, squashing the testosterone fest with a glare.

Caravelli put his hand on Holly’s. “Good. Say your piece and then we’ll leave.”

“Relax.” She looked up into his face. “Have a drink or something. You drive me crazy when you’re like this.”

Caravelli’s expression closed, as if someone had pulled the shutters tight.

Interesting. He’s going all protective, and she’s just annoyed. Vampire men were prone to territorial behavior, but what about the women? He wondered about Constance.

Holly turned back to Mac. “You look kind of ragged. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m okay,” he said, which wasn’t entirely true. “I think I’m just fighting a cold.”

“Demons don’t get colds,” Caravelli said flatly.

“Then I’m only getting half a cold. I’m so relieved.”

Holly gave them both a disgusted glare. “I looked for anything to do with the Castle creating or changing the inhabitants. There’s so little written, it didn’t take that long. The only references I found just covered the usual stuff— no need to feed, no need to drink, and so on. So I tried some other books on demonology.”

Mac sat back, crossing his arms, trying to listen to her and ignore Caravelli’s death-ray stare.

She went on. “There was one unusual reference to the Castle. It said something about an avatar being stolen, but the manuscript was in Bulgarian and so I tried running the text through translation software, but that never works all that well. I’m trying to get a line on someone at the university who can put it into proper English.”

“Avatar?” Mac asked. “As in the incarnation of a god? A concept?” He didn’t think an ancient manuscript would be referring to chat-room icons.

“I don’t know. As I said, the translation was garbled. All I got for certain was that the Castle is decaying somehow.”

“Yeah, well, I heard the place had gardens once,” Mac replied. “I don’t know what could grow there. There’s no sunlight.”

Caravelli narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t stopped watching Mac’s every breath. “Queen Omara reported rumors that the magic of the Castle is fading.”

Mac trusted very little that came out of the vampire queen’s mouth, but this once she could be telling the truth. Dying magic usually meant magic going wonky. Could it be that the remnants of his demon infection were reacting to that?

Holly shook her head. “Unfortunately, theories and rumors are all we’ve got. I’m sorry, Mac, but nothing I found was all that helpful.”

Shit. It was all he could do to control his face and hide his disappointment. It wasn’t her fault..

A waiter stopped, a young weresomething with a name tag that said JOE. Both Mac and Caravelli shifted in their seats, dialing down the glare fest for the benefit of the staff.

Joe was oblivious. “What can I get you?” He cleared away the remains of the stew, then picked up Mac’s empty beer bottle and added it to his tray. “Another drink?”

Mac nodded. Caravelli ordered red wine. Holly asked for mineral water. Joe left with the order. For a split second, everyone seemed comfortable. It was a good act. Too bad Mac had to put a wrinkle in it by asking for more favors. If Holly didn’t have the answer to one problem, he had to move on to the next.

“Holly, I’m really grateful to you for helping me out, but there’s something else.”

Predictably, Caravelli tensed, but Mac forged ahead. “What do you know about demon boxes?”

Holly lifted her eyebrows. “They’re kissing cousins to genie bottles. Sorcerers use them. Y’know, the whole make-the-demon-do-your-bidding shtick.”

“How interesting.” Caravelli looked like he was getting ideas.

Mac grimaced. “What kind of protection does a demon have from getting sucked into one? I don’t suppose they have, like, safety latches on the inside?”

The drinks came, Joe setting out little napkins before placing the glasses on the table.

“Do you think there’s a box with your name on it?” Caravelli asked, his hostile stare veering to the waiter for a moment.

“Don’t sound so hopeful.” Mac picked up his brew, wiping the condensation from the label. He didn’t really want another beer. He was feeling worse as the evening progressed. “There’s a case I’m working.”

Holly blinked. “You’ve gone private eye?”

“Yeah, right. Every ex-cop’s dream job. Nah, this is per sonal. There’s that vampire chick in the Castle—the one I was telling you about—who is trying to rescue an incubus from the guardsmen who kidnapped him. She has an in with a mad sorcerer who might be able to help me with my demon problem. Did I just say that?”

Caravelli took a long swallow of the wine, then set the glass down, looking almost amused. “It took six hundred years, but I think just now I finally heard everything.”