Unknown - Scorched

All Mac could see from that distance was that it wore a tunic of some kind and was bald. Shackles around its wrists, ankles, and waist made climbing the stairs awkward. It lurched, nearly falling. One of the guards poked it with the butt of his spear, saving it from tumbling down the cliff face, but clearly hurting it at the same time. Mac scowled. He hated guys who took advantage of their authority that way. It wasn’t like the prisoner had been trying to escape.

The guards opened the barred door to one of the caves and shoved the creature inside. Well, that answers that question. Some of these caves are indeed cells.

Fuming, Mac returned his attention to the table below. Bran sat like a disgruntled lump. The only thing lacking was a beer to cry in.

The Castle didn’t have beer. Or bratwurst sausages. It truly was hell.

Reynard appeared, walking out from the room below.

“I’m tired to death of writing up the log,” said the captain in his la-di-da accent. He’d always sounded to Mac like he’d just quit his job as an announcer for the BBC. All he needed was a Rolex and a polo pony to complete the GQ picture.

The captain slid onto the bench, his back to Mac. “There are times I’d give anything for another one of those perpetual pens. We need to catch another smuggler and confiscate his wares.”

Perpetual pens? Was he talking about a ballpoint?

“Why not simply do business with the rats?” Bran asked with what came close to a sneer. “Then you could have all the pens and log books you want.”

Reynard’s answer bit the air. “Because smugglers also bring in weapons for the warlords to use against us. I won’t tolerate their presence.”

Bran shrugged. “As you say.”

Mac’s mind skipped away from the conversation. If Reynard had been doing paperwork, the room below was the captain’s office. That would be well worth a look. There might be some indication of where Sylvius was being held— like in the log book. Most officers would record anything of significance, and capturing an incubus surely counted.

If Reynard was sitting outside, that meant the room was probably empty. It was a risk. There might be others there, or supernatural traps he couldn’t anticipate. Still, he’d walked into equally dangerous places as a mere human.

Mere human? His demon was getting carried away again. If there was the slightest chance, he would strive to be human again.

Was that the best thing?

This wasn’t the time to think about it.

Mac dusted and trickled down the rock face, stretching himself out to be as inconspicuous as possible. He reassembled in a crouching position, hiding in the corner.

He got an immediate case of the creeps. Nerves tightened his shoulders to the point of pain. I wish I had backup. Or a warrant. Standard operating procedures. A nice jail cell to pop the bad guy into when the day’s work was done. Dream on. Suck it up.

Staying perfectly still for a long moment, he listened, felt for any movement in the air. Nothing. He could find no reason for his sudden case of nerves, but he knew enough to trust his gut. Cautiously, an inch at a time, he rose from his crouch.

Again, he was in luck. He was alone. The room was dark, all the lights extinguished. Despite good night vision, Mac found himself straining to see detail.

The space was average, about the size of a large bedroom. Two walls were floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with thick, leather-bound tomes, each bearing a number. Were these old log books? For how many years? Were they all Reynard’s work? If so, the guy’d been in the Castle a long, long time.

Anxious, Mac turned to the other side of the room. A comfortable-looking armchair filled one corner, but it was the only sign of rest and relaxation. Beside it was a drab green metal filing cabinet, dinged and scraped in a way that said office surplus. More smuggler’s wares?

At last, his gaze lit on a desk that stood at a right angle to the door. Its surface was cluttered, a candle lamp and inkstand framing an open book the size of a jumbo cereal box. Yes!

Mac inched toward the desk, bracing his sword to his side. It would be just his luck to knock something over and give himself away.

Then he froze. It was so dark, he’d almost missed them. On the bookshelf, poised like knickknacks, was a series of three boxes. He leaned closer, trying to see by the trickle of firelight that found its way through the open door.

The middle box was red lacquer, exactly matching Connie’s description of the demon-catcher. Instinctively, Mac’s fingers sought out Holly’s charm. It was still there, safe beneath his shirt. With every sense peeled, he reached out, sweeping the air above the boxes.

C’mon, demon, if you’re listening, how about some help here? It answered instantly. There were indeed sentient beings inside those tiny cubes.

Yes! Mac snatched the red one and stuffed it into the pocket of his plaid shirt. The fit was tight, but at least that would keep it from falling out.

“Helping yourself?”

Mac wheeled. Reynard stood in the doorway. Whoops!

Wasting no time, Mac willed himself to dust. Nothing happend. He tried again. He was trapped.

Inside, the demon yowled in panic, but Mac’s will held on, doggedly trying to put two and two together. Why won’t it work?

He tried yet again with the same result.

Calmly, Reynard struck a match and lit the candle lantern. The whiff of sulphur seemed almost comically appropriate. The candle flared up, highlighting the captain’s face from below. “Macmillan, isn’t it?” he asked pleasantly.

“Yeah.”

Reynard turned, closing the door. Despite the heat in this part of the Castle, his dark hair was neatly tied back, his uniform buttoned, boots polished, and neck cloth perfectly tied. He was either crazy or had steely self-discipline.

“You were a soul eater, if memory serves.” Reynard’s voice didn’t stray from the pleasant, gentleman-to-gentleman tone. “You’ve changed your appearance. Interesting. Well, you’ll find your demon powers don’t work in this room. You can enter in any form you please, but I’m afraid the only way out is on your own two feet.”

“A trap.” Damn. If his dust-engines were down, Mac would try to talk his way out of this. If that failed, he’d just have to fight all forty-odd guardsmen and hoof it back to Connie with the box.

“A trap?” Reynard shrugged. “A precaution, though I have to say you’re the first to ever dare enter here.”

“Call me precocious.”

“I’ll call you prodigal. I thought you had escaped us. But you’re back, I see, and it seems your demon symbiont finally got the upper hand. Opportunistic creatures.”

Mac felt a flicker of something like embarrassment. His muscular body was evidence of how much ground the demon had gained. “Can you tell me how it happened?”

“Ah, took you by surprise, did it?” Reynard clasped his hands behind his back, a faint smile on his lips. “Demon infections are infinitely adaptable. If you encounter strong magic, one strain can mutate to another, taking advantage of the forces around it. You change to better serve your demon’s needs. You grow into its strengths, if you like.”

Mac leaped at the scrap of information. This wasn’t the time to play twenty questions, but he’d take what info he could get. Plus, he needed time to think about an escape.

“I thought the Castle did this,” he said.

Reynard’s smile faded. “Perhaps. The Castle has grown unpredictable, though what it would want with a fire demon is beyond me.”

“Fire demon?”

“I can feel your heat from here.”