Unknown - Scorched

The demon was present, flowing through every fiber and bone, but it felt natural. Rather than two adversaries in the same body, it felt simply like the darker side of himself: dangerous, wild, and full of heat.

How dangerous? Demons destroy. It’s their nature.

He sensed his own potential for savagery with every breath, every movement of his new muscles. It was tempting—a corked bottle of the finest vintage, just waiting to be poured out and savored. The demon thirsted for it like a drunk in the gutter.

But I’m staying stone-cold sober.

Bold words, but it wasn’t going to be easy. He had begun by thinking that the clues to regaining his humanity lay in the Castle. That was why he had gone back in the first place, after his conversation with Holly at the U. Ironically, every time he went inside the Castle, he came out a little—or a lot—less human. This last time was no exception. Now his demon was making itself comfortable in its upgraded home.

But he hadn’t exactly lost. He could not have rescued Sylvius without his demonic powers. If he rejected his demon side, he would be turning his back on the Castle residents who needed a protector, such as the hellhounds and their stranded family members. And what about the missing Avatar? What about Connie?

If demons destroyed, how come he was being so darned helpful? Caveman and all, Mac was confused on levels he never knew existed.

He switched on the coffeepot and went to take a shower. It was only after he dressed that he remembered the answering machine. Holly had left all the messages. He phoned her back.

“Oh, Mac, thank the Goddess you called. Were you inside in the Castle?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see Ashe?”

“No.”

“Damn it!”

Mac remembered Ashe’s reaction to the door. With everything else that was going on, he’d forgotten about that. “How’d she break in?”

“She didn’t. Alessandro threw her in there.”

“Heh.”

“Mac, it’s not funny.”

He cleared his throat. “Of course not. Any particular reason he, uh, sent her on vacation?”

While Holly talked, Mac wandered out onto the balcony. Traffic was hopping below. A corner of his mind wandered back to Connie, wondering what she’d make of it. She’d probably never seen cars.

I’m going to fix that. His demon flexed, heating his flesh, firing his imagination. Oh, yeah.

“After we couldn’t reach you, Alessandro went into the Castle himself,” Holly was saying. “He had to come out this morning. He ran out of ammunition. He couldn’t find her.”

“Don’t worry,” Mac replied. “I’ll look for your sister. I probably know the lay of the land a bit better. I might have more luck.” So Caravelli didn’t kill Ashe, even though she tried to stake him. Isn’t he getting all mellow in his domestic bliss? “When I find her, I’ll tell her to play nice. I don’t want her running around with pointy objects inside the Castle, either. Someone might lose an eye. If she says please, I’ll even let her out.”

Holly sighed. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Nah, I owe you several. And I’m about to owe you another. I know this sounds a bit, uh, trivial given what you’ve said about your sister, but where do women buy nice, y’know, date clothes?”

“Um. That depends on what they like. Mac, what are you up to?”

“A gift.” With Lore moving in, he suddenly had a modest amount of free money. Enough for one night of fun, anyway.

“Uh-huh. What kind of gift for what kind of person?”

“The lady in question has retro tastes.”

And a taste for blood. Would that be a problem? Nah. After all, she would be with him. If things got bad, he could always whisk her off to one of the freaky bars where vampires fed on the willing and stupid. Those joints would know how to handle a newbie vamp, right?

“How retro?” Holly’s curiosity oozed from the receiver. “Is this for your fair lady in the Castle?”

Mac grinned, enjoying the moment. “She’s into these old fashion magazines from the thirties and forties. Kinda Greta Garbo. If I could find something up to date but with that feel...”

“Do you know her size?”

“Not the manufacturer’s size, but I could figure it out.”

“That’s what all men say, and they can’t. Their fantasy lives interfere.”

“I have a good memory for spatial relationships.” “Mac!”

“I’m just saying...”

“Put yourself in my hands.”

“Caravelli would have my head.”

“Let me rephrase. Put your shopping experience in my hands. I’m a woman, and I’m a witch. When do you need this for?”

“I’ll let you know. Right now I have to go see a sorcerer about a Castle.”

Lore had given Mac directions to Atreus’s chambers. Mac peered around the corner into a big square hall. He was still hoping for a polite Q and A, but didn’t have high hopes. He’d left the sword at home—if Atreus was unbalanced, showing up armed could cause more problems than it solved—but he wasn’t about to wander into the lion’s den completely helpless. He had a well-hidden boot knife, and he’d worn the flannel shirt like a jacket to cover his gun.

He’d come alone. He wasn’t going to risk Connie. Not with so much chance of ugliness.

Mac slipped into the room, concealing himself behind one of the massive, fluted pillars dotting the room. He did a quick visual sweep. It was a huge space with upward-thrusting stone ribs, and he found his gaze drawn higher and higher. Banners hung from the vaulted ceiling like falling leaves, the jagged, rotting edges of the bright silk trailing cobwebs fringed with dust. A breeze made them stir, like they were eerily alive.

He circled the pillar to the right, trying to get a better view of the room itself. There wasn’t much furniture. Chests and chairs, mostly. In the middle of the hall was a carved wooden throne. It was empty.

He was about to give up when he heard a noise, the bar est shudder of an indrawn breath. Instinct made him draw the Sig Sauer and cock it, the harsh sound echoing like a bouncing ball. He paused, wondering whom it would alert.

Nothing stirred. Had he imagined that breath?

The noise had come from the far corner, behind the throne. Mac crouched and glided with demon silence to the next pillar, getting closer. And waited.

Nothing.

He straightened and turned, holding his weapon lightly, focusing on everything and nothing, every sense peeled. In an instant, he found what he was looking for. There was a tall man standing with his back to Mac, so still that it would have been easy to mistake him for part of the room.

Mac barely got an impression of blue robes and dark hair before his attention swerved to the thing the man seemed to be staring at: Ashe Carver, in all her biker-leather glory, hanging on the wall like a weird modern sculpture.

Holy crap! A jolt of adrenaline thumped his pulse into high gear. Mac stared for a long moment, not sure if she was even alive. Arms spread above her head, legs dangling, she was utterly still. There was no blood, no weapon poking out of her. What was keeping her up there?

Then her eyes slowly moved to meet his. Cold filled him from the bottom up, rising like a foul tide. He could see her breathing now, short, shallow pants, sucking in mere mouthfuls of air. She was choking to death.

Her bright green eyes glittered with knife-edged terror.

“You,” Mac barked, raising the gun. “Back away from her.”

The robed man took a step backward, turning just enough that Mac could see his face. Not an old guy with a big white beard and magic wand, but a much younger-looking man—hooked nose, high cheekbones, and long raven hair. The man held one hand up, fingers spread, like he was holding an invisible sheet of paper against an invisible wall.