Unknown - Scorched

“But why ... ?”

“You won’t have a pretty end, I’m afraid. Its appetites— fed by your emotions—will eventually get the upper hand. Then, whatever you touch will be scorched to ashes.”

“Bullshit!” Mac growled. That can’t be true. I’m not that out of control. But fear and anger blazed inside, bringing his skin to a slippery sweat.

The captain watched him, his expression neutral. “I don’t need to argue the point. I’ll wager you already know the truth of it.”

As he spoke, Reynard reached beside the door, picking up a long, wicked-looking firearm at least as old as Reynard himself. You gotta be kidding me. A musket?

Mac reached for his Sig Sauer just as the muzzle of Reynard’s weapon swung his way. Reynard beat him to the draw. “I’m using silver shot.”

Mac paused, his hand hovering above his holster, eyeing the big, ugly bore aimed at his head. Those old firearms were never as accurate as a modern weapon, but at this range it was impossible not to blow Mac to smithereens.

Mac feinted, grabbing another one of the demon boxes.

“No!” Reynard barked. “Don’t touch that one!”

“Why not?” Mac said, suddenly feeling his chances improve. “Was this one a bad boy? How about this one?” He picked up the last box and tapped the two together just hard enough to make a clacking sound. He felt vaguely foolish, but Reynard looked terrified.

“Why don’t you put down the musket and we’ll talk.”

Clearly reluctant, Reynard lowered the weapon, his eyes deadly. “You fool. Either one of those two demons would tear us all apart. The incubus is a temptation. The creatures in the other two boxes are holocausts.”

Mac looked from one box to the other. “Just the thing to keep around as paperweights. Buy a safe, dumb ass.”

“They need to be seen by the men. They need to be reminded of our victories.”

“Right. Good thinking. Whatever. All I want is the incubus.”

“He’s dangerous.”

“He’s a kid.”

Reynard gave a dry smile. “He’s a monster, just like you. Worse, he’ll make monsters of the rest of us with his seductive powers. The Castle’s hold over our base instincts is slipping already. The influence of an incubus is all that would be needed to turn us into a den of savages.”

The guardsman had been holding his musket in one hand, but the other had reached to the desk behind him, pressing a catch beside one of the drawers. A compartment sprang open.

Mac held up one of the boxes, a black cube of heavy, dense wood. “Don’t try anything stupid. You know, monster that I am, I could crush this in one hand.”

“You would die as quickly as I.”

“So what? If what you say about my future is true, I’m already as good as dead.”

Reynard had withdrawn another box from his desk, this one painted green. He pressed a catch, and the lid sprang open. “It’s a little hard to threaten me from inside here.”

Mac’s heart cartwheeled in alarm.

“I command you to enter!” Reynard barked, just like he would to a wayward private.

Crap!

Mac felt a yank of gravity, as if a dozen vacuums were sucking at his skin. The air around the box flared with cold, brilliant light, vibrations humming just beyond what Mac could truly hear. It rattled his teeth, crushed his temples like someone grinding their knuckles into his skull. He squeezed his watering eyes shut against the light and leaned away from the fierce pull, roaring a protest. Where it lay against his bare chest, the charm bag burned like acid.

But Holly’s magic held. Mac felt the light wink out before he even opened his eyes. Gradually, the pull on his flesh faded. He stumbled a little, adjusting as he no longer needed to dig in his heels.

Reynard had one arm lifted to shield his eyes. As he lowered it, his jaw dropped a little as he saw Mac still standing there, a box in either hand and the red one in his pocket.

“Surprise, Merlin. The mojo ain’t working,” Mac said in a low, warning voice. “Now stop fooling around and let me go. That incubus has someone waiting for him at home.”

“Did Atreus send you?” Reynard hissed.

“No way. I sent me, because it was the right thing to do. But let’s not get sidetracked.”

The door flung open. Bran hulked in the doorway. “You!”

“Don’t come any closer. I’m armed,” Mac waggled one of the little boxes, and felt ridiculous.

“Obey him, Bran,” said Reynard, not taking his eyes off Mac. “He’s taken hostages.”

Great. I’m in an armed standoff with demonic gift boxes. He held the black box in the palm of his hand, curling his fingers around it. “What’s the magic password out of here?”

Bran looked at his captain sharply. Reynard’s eyes were on the box.

“Don’t make me do this, Reynard. I just want to correct a mistake.”

“Demons lie,” said Reynard. “So do humans.”

“Demons have no honor.”

“You broke a heart when you took this boy. I’m setting that right.”

Reynard gave him a long look. “You won’t smash those boxes.”

“So you’re willing to gamble that I’m a good monster? You can’t have it both ways. I’m evil or I’m not.”

“You argue like an attorney.”

“Low blow, Captain, but I’ll tell you one thing. I’m no coward. Call my bluff and I’ll play my cards.” A beat passed.

Reynard said a word in a strange tongue. Mac felt the atmosphere in the room lift, as if someone had thrown open a window. Whatever spell had kept him from dusting away was gone.

“Captain!” Bran roared, and launched himself at Mac.

The guardsman was too quick. Mac went sprawling, the boxes flying from his hands. His head cracked against the bookcase, but he rolled Bran over, smashing a fist into Bran’s jaw. Roaring to the surface, his demon flooded his mind with a need for scalding, red violence. Mac’s skin flared, fiery-hot. Seizing Bran like an overpacked gym bag, he tossed him across the room with a snarl.

Reynard’s musket went off with a boom. Mac twisted, dancing away from the silver shot that slammed into the filing cabinet. A plume of acrid smoke clogged the air. Reckless with rage, Mac grabbed the musket by the barrel, ripping it from Reynard’s hand and flinging it behind him. Then he grabbed the captain by the arm, wrenching him closer.

Reynard was a strong man in his own right, but his feet left the floor with the force of Mac’s one-handed tug. Mac slammed him against the bookcase, holding him by the throat, forcing him to teeter on his toes. The buttons on the captain’s coat had come undone, and his shirt gaped open to reveal the blue tattoos beneath. The mark of the guardsmen. It looked incongruous against the oh-so-civilized officer’s skin.

Anger was as surf in Mac’s ears, and he rode it, savoring the power of his muscles, the giddy sensation of his own strength. These men were as feeble as toys.

He’d taken what he came for. He hadn’t even drawn a weapon. Why should he? With his brain, brawn, and the willing violence of the demon, he was the perfect weapon.

Reynard was choking, his breath coming in rasping gasps. His skin was turning red from the heat of Mac’s hand.

With all his force of spirit, Mac fought for control. As good as it felt, he would not surrender to his darker side. Slowly, let Reynard ease back to the ground.

He heard Bran rushing him from behind. Just as the guardsman leaped, Mac dusted out.

The last thing he heard was the two men smacking together.

He’d always liked Wile E. Coyote cartoons.

Mac materialized without a sound, bypassing the heavy bolts that kept the Summer Room safe. Or should keep it safe. Once again, he worried whether those bolts would be enough to keep the place secure. What if Reynard made a return trip to retrieve Sylvius?