Unknown - Scorched

“You mean those people who say that if you really, really try hard, you’ll suck in those fangs and go back to being a good little human?”

“Why, Dr. Hooper, don’t you buy into the power of positive thinking?”

Mac eyed the big purple and yellow Victorian with a cautious eye. The last time I was here, the house sucked me out like a spider up a vacuum cleaner hose. Then the garden tried to kill me. Of course, I was trying to eat Holly’s soul at the time.

He wondered whether the house would notice—or care—that he wasn’t a soul eater anymore. He was still a demon.

Mac unfolded himself from his car, an old black two-door Mustang he’d finally gotten back on the road that afternoon. He reached into the backseat, picked up the bouquet of roses and carnations he’d brought, then slammed the door, enjoying its solid sound. He’d missed his car.

He climbed the stairs to the porch and rang the bell. His shoulders hunched, feeling the house watching him.

Caravelli answered. “Come in.”

Mac stepped over the threshold. The door closed behind him of its own accord. He had an irrational urge to shoot it.

“It took me a long time to get used to that,” Caravelli said.

It was the first time since Mac had gotten back to Fair-view that he’d seen Caravelli in decent lighting. For a vampire, he looked pretty healthy these days—more pale than pasty. He also seemed to be doing more breathing than most vamps. Interesting.

He’d heard about Holly putting some magical whammy on him, bringing to life the legend of the Chosen that gave a vampire the power to exist on sexual energy rather than blood. Forced to have sex on a regular basis. Doctor’s orders. Lucky bastard. “How’s Connie doing?”

Caravelli waved him into the living room. “She’s well. Holly is with her.”

“Isn’t that risky? For Holly, I mean?”

“Holly has enough magic to control a newly made fledgling. Sit down a moment.” He caught Mac’s expression. “This won’t take long.”

Mac complied, setting his flowers on the coffee table. The living room was old-fashioned, with shelves of books reaching the ceiling and dark brass floor lamps with silk shades. “What’s up?”

“Lore came to see me. He told me why the hellhounds have been so lax about their duties. I could have broken his neck for not speaking to me sooner, but I understand his motivation.”

Mac smirked. “You tore him a new one?”

“Only verbally. Once I ran out of breath, he asked for my help with the council as coolly as if I’d been giving a weather report. He said he also asked you.”

“He did. I think we—you—need to convene a council meeting. I’ll be there to speak for him.”

Caravelli leaned back, stretching out his long legs. “Gathering the leaders is something I would only do in a, dire emergency. I wonder if there’s an easier way to address this.”

“It’s not just the hellhounds we have to worry about. The Castle as a whole is failing.” Mac told him what he had found out about the Avatar and Sylvius.

“Sylvius,” Caravelli mused. “The name fits for a creature born from the natural world of the Castle. The same root word as ‘sylvan’—something that comes from the woods.”

“An incubus born of a love slave. Sounds like soft porn.”

Caravelli snorted. “Sounds perverted. We all want to possess our lovers, but it’s quite another thing to actually force one into being and then lock her up.”

Mac sat forward. “There’s more. I talked to Lore after I left you last night. He’s been trying to tell me all about this hellhound prophecy for days. He took me to one of their elders.”

“Really? Nobody speaks to them.”

“Well, he talked to Lore and Lore talked to me.”

“What did he say?”

“They think I have something to do with this prophecy. Mumbo-jumbo aside, here’s the facts. There’s a ritual to return the blood of the Avatar to the Castle. The guardsmen have somehow put their hands on the instructions.”

“What does returning the blood to the Castle involve?”

“Sacrifice.” Mac went stone cold as he said it. “Of the Avatar’s son.”

Caravelli looked stunned. “What? Is that what the guardsmen really wanted with Sylvius in the first place?”

“I think that’s what Bran and his supporters want. Others simply want a hit of incubus blood. They’ve been there so long they don’t care if the Castle falls down.”

“And the prophecy?”

“The Castle made me a demon so that I can put everything back to the way it was before Atreus started messing around.”

The vampire’s face was growing more and more drawn. “Do you think that’s true?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think or how I feel. People are going to die if the prison collapses.”

“Where does that leave the boy?”

“I know. Kill Sylvius, or let the Castle fall.”

Caravelli was silent a moment. “Merda.”

Mac grimaced. “I’m not killing the kid.”

The vampire lifted a brow. “I’d say that was a given.”

“I tried talking him into leaving—I mean, I had to tell him. He had a right to know. But he won’t budge. He’s afraid if he goes, the Castle goes.”

“Is that so bad? How many residents could we rescue?”

“Even if we rescued every last hellhound, thousands of people live in there, and most of them aren’t safe to let out.”

Caravelli sighed. “Yes, it’s time we gathered the council.”

Mac felt a sudden pang of doubt. “They never agree on anything. Think a big old group hug will work?”

“We’ll find out.” Caravelli stood. “I still have Queen Omara’s ear, and the fact I have a fledgling—that there is now a Clan Caravelli—will help my standing among the Undead.”

Inside Mac, the demon stirred, his skin flaring with heat. “What does being part of your clan mean for Connie?” She’s mine. You can’t have her.

Caravelli gave a smile calculated to turn even a demon’s blood to ice. “Everything, but I have no intention of choosing her lovers. She’s a woman, not a child. Nevertheless, I’m here to help her, and I’ll break your neck if you hurt her. I am her kin now.”

The warning hung like smoke in the air. Mac bared his teeth. In-laws. Great. “I want to see her. Now.”

With a half smile, Caravelli stepped back and made a graceful sweep with his arm. “She’s in one of the guest rooms upstairs. Follow me.”

He did, his bouquet in hand. They passed through the messy kitchen—Mac remembered once cooking a meal for Holly there—and crossed to the large curved stairway that wound to the upper floors.

Caravelli turned. “You understand she was not a true vampire before.”

“Yes.” But I’m not sure what you’re getting at. “Good.” Caravelli started up the oak steps, his feet noiseless on the patterned runner that carpeted the stairs.

They passed the second floor, going all the way up to the third. A stained glass window looked out from the landing, the colors dark against the night sky beyond. They walked down the hall, dark wainscoting emphasizing the gloom. The only light was the faint glow from a couple of wall sconces made to look like candles. Everything in the old house looked straight out of a Victorian novel, down to a landscape painting of what looked to Mac like hairy cows standing in a marsh.

It was a long hallway and most of the heavy paneled doors were shut, adding to the claustrophobic feel. Mac wanted to bolt for bright lights and freedom. “It’s kind of dark.”

Caravelli gave him an amused glance. “New vampires are particularly sensitive to noise and light. It was more comfortable for her to rest up here, where there’s little commotion.”