Unknown - Scorched

He tried to call Holly, but she wasn’t home. He’d hung up without leaving a message. He had a sixth sense that this was his problem to solve, anyway. Or maybe he’d listened to Lore too long and all that prophecy crap was curdling his brain.

He was hungry again. Mac piled sliced ham onto a bun, feeling like he spent his life at the fridge door.

There were only two things keeping him focused. One, he’d made a promise to Constance to rescue her son. Two, he needed answers—all kinds of them. He was determined not to let his brain slack off just because his body had gone into overdrive. The slip with Lore had been warning enough.

Mac bit into the sandwich and chewed while he split and buttered a second bun. Ham or beef on this one? Why not both?

His plan was simple: Get Sylvius. Interrogate Atreus. After that he’d find out what Lore was really up to. If the hounds had a clue about what was going on, he needed to know. The Castle had done something to him, and he needed it undone just as soon as he’d rescued Connie’s son. There had to be a way to get back to his life as a human. For one thing, he couldn’t afford his demon’s insane grocery bill.

After eating his third sandwich, Mac slung the charm Holly had sent him around his neck. The shirt he’d just bought already felt tight through the shoulders and chest.

Whatever was happening to him, it wasn’t over. The simple truth was, if he didn’t do something—take charge, act, focus—he would give in to the panic bubbling up inside him. It was hard to hide from the monster when it was the very flesh you lived in.

But turning into a monster didn’t mean he would go back on his word. He’d let the demon infection distract him long enough. It was time to go back to work.

He grabbed the sword he had taken from Bran from the umbrella rack, testing its balance. This body would know how to use it in a way his old one hadn’t, but he still took his semiautomatic—the holster’s seven-way comfort adjustments worked to their XXL limits—and all the ammo he had. No point in giving up the tried and true.

He dusted from his condo to the door of the Castle. The first challenge was finding out where the guardsmen kept their special prisoners. Constance’s advice might cut hours off his search. She’d been following Bran before. She would at least have an idea which corner of this cavernous Goth-o-rama to start with.

No doubt he could find her in the Summer Room, like a tiny, dark pearl in the safety of its oyster shell. He’d made her promise to stay out of trouble, but that didn’t cover the trouble she represented to him. Just the memory of the place—and what had nearly happened there—was intoxicating. That much temptation should have been a warning in itself to stay away, but his body remembered the feel of her pressing against him. It made the decision.

Finding the room involved only a few wrong turns. It was exactly as Mac had left it. The candlelight was soft, glittering in the silver light of the tapestries, casting misty shadows on swooping fabric that draped the ceiling and swathed the great canopied bed.

He lingered for a moment in the doorway, and then closed the door behind him and slid the bolt that locked it home. It was true he had all but fled from the room— and Constance—only days before, fearing what his demon might do to her, what her blood thirst and the room’s lust-filled magic might do to him.

This time would be different. He was in control. He had come for her.

But I didn’t come here for her. Not that way. I came here for information on how to find her son.

Think again.

She had tried to seduce him. By some übermale libido logic, she had offered herself, so now she was his. His dark side applauded. Teach her a lesson for tricking you.

Whoa, there, demon dude. Keep your head on straight. Remember you’re a cop first, even if you don’t have a badge anymore. You have a job to do. No time for anything but dead bodies and paperwork.

But that argument wasn’t working anymore. The cold comfort of human logic was losing ground. He simply wanted.

He should never have come. His demon crumpled that thought like a beer can and tossed it aside.

Like a sentimental memory, Constance’s perfume hung in the air. There she was, stretched out on the dark velvet spread, the wealth of her long, dark hair nearly invisible against the inky background. Mac stood at the foot of the bed, looking down on her through the sheer silk of the draperies. She looked as pale as the dead, her faded dress shabby against the opulence of the gold-tasseled pillows.

Don’t you have to save the kid? Figure out how to be human again? Remember what always happens when you get involved with Babes of Doom?

She was so vulnerable. A wave of possessiveness swamped him, heating his already-pounding blood. Human or demon, Mac was all male. Beneath the pull of her beauty, the two sides of his soul were starting to blur. They both ignited with desire.

Mac set the sword down on a nearby table, then removed his shoulder holster and heavy boots, careful to make no noise. He crept to the side of the bed, and parted the curtain with his hands. The clearer view didn’t disappoint. When she had been bitten, her face still had the soft perfection of extreme youth. He had looked at enough women to know how much Constance stood out.

Intense satisfaction rippled through his gut. She was his for the plucking. She had already asked for what he wanted to give her. There was nothing to stop him.

Except himself. Mac was frozen by the tender innocence of her face. His conquering impulses gentled. If he was going to make her his, there would be no victory without surrender. For that, more than brute lust had to come into play. He needed persuasion, too.

He leaned forward, one knee on the bed, and balanced himself above her. She was so small, he was going to have to be careful. Slowly, savoring the moment, he lowered himself, touching her lips with his. Her mouth was cool, slightly parted, showing the tips of her fangs. He found them even more erotic than before. He drew himself fully onto the bed, then kissed her again, harder. He propped himself on one hand now, using the other to slowly draw away the thin scarf she wore. The ends were tucked demurely between her breasts, a puritanical tease. The fabric slid away with a whisper that shivered along his nerves. The scarf smelled of her perfume.

“Constance,” he whispered in her ear. There was no response. The Undead rested deeply, falling into sleep so deep it was often mistaken for true death. He had no idea how long one would rest in a place that had no sun to hide from, but it could be a while.

Ah, well, that just gave him more time to play.

Skimming a finger along the top of her dress, he admired the whiteness of her skin, the soft way her breasts fell as she slept. The laces that held the front tightly closed tempted him. The tips were frayed, the ribbon soft from time and use. Carefully, he pulled one end, loosening the knot. As it gave, the lacing relaxed, the blue cloth parting to give a glimpse of more layers of clothing beneath. What he thought was a dress was actually a skirt and kind of jacket, petticoats and other cottony bits beneath, and then a stiff vest-thing that laced up the front. He guessed it was some type of corset, except it didn’t look like those he’d seen in men’s magazines.

How the hell could anyone move in all this stuff? Getting her out of it was going to take some determination, not to mention an engineering degree.

“Constance,” he whispered again, but louder.

Her eyes snapped open, her expression one of confusion deepening to desire and then absolute shock. “You came back!”