Unknown - Scorched

Constance clung to Mac’s arm, unsteady on her beautiful, damnably dangerous shoes. Everything about the clothes he had given her made her feel exposed, from her ankles all the way up to her neck. Her upswept hair left her nape bared to chance breezes, shivering not from cold but from the sensuality of the promiscuous air.

She might as well have gone walking abroad in her shift. Except her shift wasn’t silky and black as sin. This was a woman’s dress. Not a girl’s. His eyes had told her so.

He’d brought her flowers. Red and white roses. She hadn’t seen, or smelled, or touched the velvet petals of real flowers for hundreds of years. They still ravished her senses, the scent of them clinging to her hands.

And he looked so handsome. Like the men in the magazines but better because it was him, Conall Macmil-lan, dressed like a prince but with a devil’s twinkle in his eyes.

He took her out of the Castle in a cloud of dust. The first sensation on becoming solid again was the wash of rain-fresh space around her. The next was Mac sliding her arm over his, as if she was worthy of the finest courtesy. For that night, she would believe she was. He had promised to look after her. To make this night her own.

Her memory of his promise quieted the butterflies in her stomach. She felt awestruck, intimidated and giddily happy—but no hint of monstrous hunger.

Oh, the bliss! There were lights everywhere as they strolled around the corner and a street or two away to a building with BABA YAGA‘S hung in bright, glowing pink letters above the door. She tried not to stare open-mouthed at the fiery sign—so strange and pretty!—just as she tried not to gape at the cars or the tall buildings or the other people striding so confidently past. She didn’t want to look like a baby bird stretching its beak for worms. She had to look like she belonged on Mac’s arm. Oh, the bliss!

Once they had passed beneath the pink sign, a man dressed in black and white, his clothes every bit as fine and formal as Mac’s, greeted them with, “This way, please.” He shepherded them through a maze of tables draped in white. Constance allowed herself one look around, telling herself not to stare.

“What do you think?” Mac whispered in her ear.

The high-ceilinged room was filled with people in fine clothes, and there were flowers and candles everywhere. Serving men and women hovered nearby, just as they had in her day in houses of the rich. Or so she’d been told. What did she know? She’d lived her life in the barn with the cows. “It’s beautiful.”

He smiled down at her, giving her hand a squeeze. She would have died of joy if she wasn’t dead already. They settled at a table by the far wall, and the servant disappeared.

Constance glanced around again. Some of the other diners were human, some weren’t. She could smell werewolf.

Her attention settled on Mac. His hair was freshly trimmed. Every other female was turning to stare at him, and so they should. He was good to look at but, more than that, he had a dark, electric presence that turned heads.

And his gaze was on her, his eyes both hungry and soft. His expression promised, well, everything. Constance was eager to see where that slight curve of his lips might lead.

Another servant arrived and asked about wine. Mac gave his order and turned back to her, his focus like a physical weight.

They had barely spoken a word. It was as if they were both tongue-tied, talking only with glances and the occasional squeeze of the hand. None of the magazine articles—not even the new, modern magazines—had made a date sound this good. None of those silly writers had ever been with Mac— though they had invaluable advice about many things, like how to shave her legs. It was a good thing she healed fast.

The man came back with the wine. At the end of the ritual of tasting and label reading, he poured some into Constance’s glass and left. She looked at the straw-colored liquid doubtfully.

“Can I drink that?” she whispered.

“Vampires seem to like a little bit of wine,” Mac said. “I wouldn’t drink too much all at once.”

She tried it. It tasted odd, but then, she’d only ever drunk ale. Of course, after a few hundred years of nothing to eat or drink, her memory might be off.

“There are humans eating with nonhumans,” she said in an undertone. “Is that usual?”

Mac picked a stick of bread out of a napkin-covered basket. “Here it is. Some humans like to be near supernaturals. Some don’t. Some think it’s, uh, trendy. Kind of a walk on the wild side.”

“Wild side? What do they think will happen?”

“Who knows? Most of the supernaturals here just want to get on with their lives.”

Constance took another glance around, amazed at the number of nonhumans casually chatting over their meals. She could run away from the Castle. She could find work and make a life for herself.

The possibilities, and perhaps the unfamiliar wine, were making her giddy. Licking her lips, she tasted the perfumed flavor of her lipstick. Mac’s gifts had included a tiny pot of bright red gloss. Blood red. Another detail that made her feel wanton and just a little bit dangerous. Had that been Mac’s idea?

She smiled at Mac, who was systematically demolishing the bread. “Tell me about this lady friend who helped you find my clothes.”

“Holly is a good friend. She enchanted your new clothes so that they would be sure to fit, and then she enchanted my old clothes so that I could still wear them. A practical woman.”

“She’s a sorceress?”

“A witch.” Mac smiled back. “And she’s very much in love with a vampire.”

“Oh.”That made Constance feel much better, both because Holly was spoken for—and also that vampires were loved.

“Say,” Mac said, sliding his thumb over the back of her hand. The gesture of gentle possession sent a thrill to her core. “We need to pick which movie to go to. What kind do you want to see?”

Constance felt a wave of confusion. She’d read about movies and knew they were a pleasurable entertainment, but only had a tenuous understanding of what they actually involved. She grabbed at the only title she could remember. “I want to see Gone with the Wind.”

Mac’s face went carefully blank. “I think that one might have left town already. We can rent it later, but let’s try for something else tonight.”

“Perhaps we should see something you like,” she suggested, hoping to appear gracious rather than hopelessly out of touch.

“Hmm, well, there are what they call girl movies and boy movies. If we went to something I picked, you probably wouldn’t like it.”

Constance let herself be distracted by one of the servants setting a dish of food alight. “Now why would they burn their food like that? Didn’t they leave the meat on the spit long enough?” She turned back to Mac. He looked like he was trying not to laugh, which irritated her. “What do you mean, I wouldn’t like your choice? Why wouldn’t I like what you like?”

“I could be wrong. I look forward to sitting with you over a long, relaxing evening and finding out. But first, maybe we should try for a romantic comedy.”

“Which is what?”

“Something funny with a happy ending.” Constance was mollified. “I think I’d like that.”

“See? I know something about these things.”

“What’s to say I wouldn’t like something weighty and serious?”

“You probably would, but then I’d fall asleep. I’m not good with that sort of film.”

“Not even to improve your soul?”

“My soul is warped beyond what a movie can fix.”

“I believe it. The last book you brought me has things in it my mother wouldn’t approve of.”