Unknown: Scorched

Not something. Someone. Oh, no. As if he had come at the mention of his name, Sylvius paused in the arch of the doorway, the gray stone framing him against the eternal dark beyond. He was as tall as Atreus, but pale as moonlight. He wore only loose trews of dark silk. Muscles rippled under his fair skin, but his was the lean body of a youth, not a seasoned warrior. Silver hair fell thick and straight to his hips. Startling dark eyes dominated a long, angular face that was softened only by a wide, expressive mouth.

Just sixteen, Sylvius had never set foot outside the Castle. A foundling, Constance had raised him from a babe.

His posture was drawn tight, like a bow about to fire, or a bird about to take flight. She could see from his face he’d heard every word. Her lips parted. Instinct made her want to call out—to warn Sylvius, to comfort him, to bring him to her side—but caution won out. Every second he remained unseen by the guardsmen, he remained safe. Constance dropped her eyes and forced her face into a neutral mask.

She wasn’t a good enough actor. Reynard raised a brow and turned his head slowly toward the doorway. “And there he is.”

Calm, almost casual, Atreus sat again, rearranging his robes with a careless flick. “Why do you want the boy?”

The question was a stall. Even Constance knew the nauseating answer. The Castle took away hunger, thirst, and lust—no doubt a safety spell to keep the inmates from reproducing or feeding on one other. The result was an eternity devoid of basic, pleasurable drives.

The antidote was the power of the incredibly rare incubi—like Sylvius. For an hour or two, their intimate touch—or blood—gave back passion. Not just the urge to mate, but gusto, energy, the gleeful frenzy of spring. This was the treasured drug the warlords were willing to kill for. With it, they could promise anything, bribe anyone.

At sixteen, Sylvius was just coming into his power. His newly adult blood was a treasure and a weapon. And it would take no time at all to bleed him dry.

Run! Constance willed the word with all her soul, but telepathy had always been beyond her talents.

“The incubus is a rarity. Too dangerous to leave unprotected,” said Reynard. “My plan is to put Sylvius under lock and key. Now that he is grown, the Castle will go to war over your pet. He is the Holy Grail that could kill us all. I won’t allow it.”

That was too much for Constance. “No! Sylvius, listen to me!” She dodged out of the reach of Atreus’s restraining hand. Every nerve in her body burst with angry excitement. “Get out of here! Run while you can!”

“But where would I go?” Sylvius looked at his master, confusion in his eyes. He had known only kindness in his short life. Constance had protected him too well.

Atreus cast a sideways look at Reynard, and then turned his gaze on the youth. “There is no place to run to. Do not listen to Constance, my boy. Your first duty is to obey me.”

Atreus is taking the guardsmen’s side! Constance gaped for a moment, shocked. It was as if the universe moved, the stars and planets spinning awry. To blazes with that! She bolted forward, grabbing Sylvius’s arm, swinging him toward the door, but she was too slow. The guardsmen closed around them with the lethal swiftness of a well-tied noose.

“Constance!” Atreus snapped.

She ignored him and drew her knife. Centuries of obedience could not trump the instinct to protect her child.

“Constance!” Atreus bellowed. His voice bounced off her, meaningless sound.

“They always say it’s the women who rule any household,” said Reynard dryly.

“Let me give her a fight,” put in a big, tattooed guardsman named Bran. “She looks energetic.”

“Silence, Bran,” said Reynard. “We’re here as men of honor.”

Bran closed his mouth, but his expression made Constance’s skin shrink against her flesh. She tried to put her body between Sylvius and the men who threatened from all sides. There just wasn’t enough of her, but she’d fight any way she could. No rules. This was her family, her child, at stake. Constance bared her teeth—her hated vampire fangs—in a snarl.

“She can’t hurt you,” said Reynard to his guards. “She’s never tasted blood. Her powers are barely more than human.”

But I’m a mother. Don’t underestimate mothers.

A swarthy-faced guardsman tried to grab past her to get at Sylvius. She could hear Sylvius moving, feel his solid weight as he bumped against her. He was young and strong, but she doubted that he’d ever thrown a punch. He needed to have brothers, like I did.

The guard lunged again. Ruthlessly, she swiped at the soldier with the blade. His arm came away coated in blood that splashed down his long green tunic. “Fanged whore!”

Viktor growled, reacting to the blood or the angry words. He ripped free of Bran’s hold on his ruff and joined the fray, grabbing the guardsman in his jaws.

“Atreus, control your minions!” Reynard roared.

“Constance!” Atreus flicked his fingers, threads trailing from his cuff like wisps of smoke.

An invisible weight hurled into her, smashing her to the stone wall behind. Her spine took the impact, her arms and legs flopping like the limbs of Viktor’s toy. The knife dropped from her hand. She barely noticed. Her ribs felt as if they were bending inward, crushing into her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. She became one with the stone, sinking into it for a split second before she realized it was her own bones that gave.

A moment later, Constance crumpled to the floor like a rag, waiting for the waves of pain to come crashing home. If she were a human, she’d be dead. Instead, she felt the eerie crawling feeling through her flesh that said her body was already healing. Her mind was like a clean white page, empty, blank. Stunned.

When her senses returned, she had her first thoroughly disloyal thought, and it burned. Atreus, you bastard.

Reynard picked up her knife, carefully sliding it through his own belt. The captain paid attention to detail.

She smelled as much as heard Viktor bound to her side. The werebeast straddled her, as if sheltering her with his body. Then there was the rough wetness of his tongue, licking at her face. The blunt affection melted her resistance to the pain. It swamped her like bad whiskey, tides of nausea and dizziness and hot, brutal agony. She willed her eyes open and managed a sliver of vision.

They had Sylvius, bewildered and passive, a guardsman holding each arm. Reynard stood before the youth, a considering look on his face.

Sylvius looked from the captain, to Atreus, to where Constance lay. “What are you going to do with me?” His voice shook.

Reynard took a tiny red lacquered box from his pocket and set it on the floor between them. He depressed a catch and the lid sprung open. “Do you understand what this is?”

Constance tried to scream, but couldn’t draw enough breath.

Sylvius nodded, turning deathly pale. “It’s a demon trap.”

It’s a prison, four inches square.

“No one can harm you inside there. Nor can your influence cause harm to others.” Reynard spoke with the air of someone doing a difficult but honorable thing. Of course, he wasn’t the one getting inside the torturously small box. Evil, devious prig.

Sylvius suddenly flung up his arms, surprising the guardsmen into letting him go. Through the haze of her injuries, Constance felt a stab of terror and fierce pride. He’s going to fight back.

Instead, he unfurled the wings he kept folded tight against his back and leapt into the air. Sylvius landed on a ledge high above them, crouching so his hands and one knee touched the stone. His wings spread above him, boned and webbed like a bat’s, but finer and more elegantly arched. Like all of him, they were pale and beautiful, a translucent white flushed with the heat of his blood.