Unknown - Scorched

She had awakened alone, and that worried her. He had asked how to find the guardsmen, but how could she be sure he had gone to keep his promise to bring back her son?

Candles bathed the room in a topaz glow. Constance stared at the ceiling, curling into the warmth left by Mac’s body. He could not have been gone long. His heat still bathed the sheets, and she nestled down like a chick in the nest. She was utterly, thoroughly satisfied in ways she hadn’t known existed. But being awake meant facing the future. Emotions crowded in like street hawkers, all shouting for attention. What should I feel?

During her life, she would have known fear. Girls who. gambled their maidenheads away on love risked losing everything: their good name, their employment, their futures. No work meant no food. An unwanted baby all too often meant utter ruin. But that wouldn’t happen now. For one thing, she was Undead, already about as fallen as a woman could get.

He’s a demon. Yes, but she was a vampire, more or less. They were on even footing there.

He’s a stranger. That had more meaning. Some might accuse her of naivete, of falling prey to temptations of the Summer Room. Her appetites had been muted for far too long, only to burst forth like some unseasonal hothouse blossom.

It was true, she had been quick to surrender, but it had felt perfect. It had been the right combination of gentleness and need, wild demon dominance and pleasure. Conall Macmillan suited her through and through, better than any romantic fantasy she had spun for her own amusement.

But would he keep his promise to find Sylvius? Constance dangled one hand over the edge to pick up the Castle key tangled in the mess of garments she had tossed to the floor. It felt cold, hard-edged, the opposite of the fine, soft sheets that still bore Mac’s imprint. She turned it over and over, watching the glint of gold in her palm.

She could tell he was in trouble. His demon had taken hold, and there was no telling where that transformation would lead. What had been a mere streak of danger was now barely in check. He needed an anchor, a home. Something to tip the balance between beast and man. Someone with a claim on him.

In the course of their lovemaking, she had made up her mind about one thing. Love was far more important than innocence. The bonds to her dear ones meant more than anything else.

She prayed Mac felt the same. She’d surrendered to their mutual pleasures that night, falling under the spell of his expert caresses. In the most primal ways, he’d made a gift of the womanhood so long denied her. My demon lover.

And yet, as much as she wanted to drown in the languorous haze of lust, her next thoughts had to be of her boy. Whatever Lore said, abandoning Sylvius would make her more of a monster than any blood hunger. If Mac failed her, she would have to find the courage to save her son all on her own. She wasn’t a servant anymore. She didn’t have the luxury of someone else’s protection, nor could she wait for someone to tell her what to do. It was up to her.

She rolled onto her back, holding the key up to the candlelight. If she left the Castle, would she truly become the ravening beast Lore feared? She could not wait long to put her fate to the test.

Please, oh, please, keep your promise.

When Mac rematerialized, he whipped around, sword ready, but saw the cave he was standing in was a storeroom. He was alone.

The first thing he noticed was that it was noisy, sound pouring up from the plateau below. After the silence of Connie’s corner of the Castle, the clamor felt like a physical blow. Most of it was male voices, booming and loud, and the occasional clank of weapons and armor. The context was different, but the mood was a lot like a busy squad room.

Mac looked around the cave. There were piles of old armor, shields, and breastplates emblazoned with the six-pointed sun that was the guardsman’s symbol. A rough wooden rack held ranks of spears. A trunk with no top overflowed with dusty uniforms. The place smelled like leather and oil.

Mac thought about changing into some of the clothes, but decided it was pointless. After hundreds of years of serving together, these guys all knew each other too well to count on a disguise. Besides, his plans were too vague. He had no idea what he needed yet.

On the other hand, he did poke around until he found a scabbard and shoulder belt for his sword. His hand was getting stiff from carrying it around. He’d even considered ditching it now that he had his Sig Sauer with him, but there were some critters a bullet wouldn’t stop.

It took a while until he found a rig that didn’t interfere with the gun holster, but finally he found something that did the job. Surveillance was the next step.

Mac settled near the mouth of the cave, burying himself in shadow and pulling the dark plaid shirt closed over the white of his T-shirt. From this angle, he could watch the tops of the heads of people coming and going from the busy room below. A dozen feet from the doorway, four guardsmen sprawled around a table. One, he saw with a flicker of annoyance, was Bran. He didn’t know the other three, but he could see the round, ruddy face of the man sitting next to Bran. There was enough firelight that it was almost bright.

Idly, he calculated the position and angle of each man, estimating their vulnerabilities and strengths. If he jumped from here to there, landing in the center of the table, he could probably take all four in eight sword thrusts or less.

That’s the demon talking, and it’s an optimist. There were at least forty other guardsmen to consider, and a major bloodletting got him no closer to finding Connie’s boy. Mac gave a quiet sigh, resigned to pursuing his mission the hard, dull, smart way.

The fair-haired man sitting across from Bran was talk ing.”... got there and the passageway was collapsed. We’re cut off from the north quadrant. It’s bad. We’ve lost communication with Captain O’Shea, and he’s got the trolls on his hands. We can’t send reinforcements. He’ll have to battle it out for himself.”

“What about Sharp?” Bran asked.

“He can’t get through, either. The bridge is down.”

Bran swore. “This whole damned place is coming apart. I’d hoped it was nothing but tall tales.”

Mac stiffened in surprise. So it was true. Something was wrong with the Castle.

The red-faced guardsman spoke up. “O’Shea said that’s why the trolls were coming up from down below. The places they made their dens are gone.”

“Fine for the trolls,” said blondie. “We’re stuck here. We can’t leave. We’re cursed.”

“We know what we have to do,” said red face. “It’s not pretty but it’s the only way.”

“Enough,” growled Bran.

“You said so yourself!”

“The captain doesn’t want to hear that kind of talk.”

But I do. Mac leaned forward a little, taking a better look at the guardmen’s rooms. From here, he could see into a few. About half looked like dormitories, each with a number of beds. The others were empty. Had they once been filled? If so, what happened to the men who’d slept there?

The fourth guardsman spoke up. “You’re too young to remember, but once the Avatar brought rain and sun. Nothing’s the same now.”

Avatars again. Holly’d said the Avatar had been stolen.

The others groaned and shuffled, as if this was a story they’d heard a thousand times. Blondie stood. “I’m off to patrol. Coming, Hans? Edward?”

The two others got up and joined him, walking away to leave Bran on his own. In the distance, another group of three guardsmen were wrestling a huge, misshapen creature up one of the staircases carved into the stone wall. What the heck is that? A troll?