Unknown - Scorched

He’s in a cage, chained with silver. There’s nothing he can do to me.

A cry came from the scene below. She lurched to the balcony, nearly toppling over in her haste. The battle was worse. Mac was surrounded.

“Constance!”

The command in Atreus’s voice jerked her head up again. Obedience was still a habit. Habits can be broken.

Atreus grasped the bars, staring at her through the gaps. “I can help them, if you will get me out of here!”

“Why would you help us now? You gave away my child— your child !”

He pointed to the ground. “Reynard should have been able to keep him safe!”

“Against all his guardsmen?”

“The past is gone. Sylvius needs help now. Constance, please! Open this cage!”

“I don’t trust you.”

He jerked the bars in wild frustration. “Can you fight all those men? I can! Get me out! We both love Sylvius. I will protect him!”

It was the one argument she couldn’t withstand. She would do anything for Sylvius. For Mac. She looked around wildly. “How can I get up there?”

“Fly! You are a vampire!”

Of course. Fly. I have my powers.

She’d paid dearly enough for them. She remembered the taste of blood in her mouth, and felt a jagged wrench of hunger. The cost of power is always more than we expect.

Doubt seized her. She was only newly Turned. But this is why I wanted these gifts—to protect those I love. Now is the moment when-everything I’ve endured will all make sense.

She sprang onto the stone railing. It took a moment to find her balance. The top of the rail was barely a handspan wide. Concentrating, she drew in a long breath. Atreus’s cage wasn’t far—about six feet up and about twenty feet away. Not far at all for someone like Alessandro to leap.

Then she made the mistake of looking down. Sylvius was lying in a bone-white heap. Bran kicked Mac in the face. She gave an involuntary jerk at the sight.

“Bloody hell!” She started to wobble. Her curse echoed in the high cavern.

Atreus cursed. “Look at me; don’t look down!”

An arrow shot by, skimming the hem of her skirt. She felt the rush of feathers pass her ankle. She began to lose her balance, slowly, almost gracefully. She fell forward while her arms windmilled backward, her feet trying to mold themselves to the rail through the soles of her shoes.

She slipped, trying to catch herself in empty air. Atreus was kneeling on the floor of his cage, reaching his hand as far as he could through the bars. It was useless. Until he was freed from the silver bonds, he had no power.

But still, he reached out his hand. The gesture was enough to give her courage. In the split second before she plummeted, Constance stretched her arm toward his, wishing she could catch those familiar fingers with her own.

And then she felt herself drawn upward, like a fish on a line.

I’m flying!

“Aaah!” She crashed into the bottom of the cage. It swung wildly, spinning on the chain that suspended it from the ceiling. She grabbed the bars, feet dangling, just as another arrow whistled by.

“Careful, girl!” Atreus roared, trying to steady himself against the violent rocking. “Now get this door open!”

Constance felt like a spider dangling from a broken web. She pulled herself up, doing her best to find a foothold but tilting the cage with her weight. Another arrow pinged against the bars and shattered.

“Make haste!” Atreus demanded.

The lock was old, but she still had to brace herself before even vampire strength could tear open the door. Finally, Constance slid one foot between the bars, grasped the bars of the door, and hauled with all her strength. She had possessed more than human strength before fully Turning, but now she could feel added power. On the other side, Atreus drove his shoulder against the lock.

The door flew off, nearly taking her with it. She let go, sending it spinning to the courtyard below. It landed on someone aiming his sword at Mac. Good.

Atreus grabbed her arm and dragged her inside the cage. The space was just large enough for them to crouch side by side. It felt weirdly familiar to be so close to her old master, surrounded by the scent of incense that always clung to him, hearing the rustle of his robes. Constance studied his face. His eyes were clearer than they had been for months. The madness seemed to have retreated like an outgoing tide—but Atreus could be convincing if there was something he wanted. She didn’t trust this sudden return of sanity.

“Why are you up here?” Constance asked.

“Bran is in league with Miru-kai.”

Constance caught her breath at the name of her master’s old enemy.

“They put me here so that I would be forced to watch them murder my boy. And they call me insane. But the jest is on them. Look.” Atreus pointed. “Your demon draws the guardsmen away from Sylvius. He is clever.”

Mac! “What are you going to do?”

Atreus held up his hands. The silver chains bound his wrists with thick cuffs, then wound around one of the bars of the cage. “I can do nothing chained here like a parrot to his perch. Ah, they tricked me with bowing and fine speeches, and like a fool I listened to their poisoned words.”

Constance grabbed the links, meaning to tear them apart.

“You can’t do that. They’re cast from silver. We’ll need the key.”

“The key?”

He placed one long finger on her chin. “You took it. You shed your blood on my box. It always tells me who steals my treasures.”

Constance met his eyes, shame flooding her body. “I confess I did it, but Mac has the key. He used it to unlock Sylvius’s chains.”

Atreus let his hand drop. “The key is the only tool in the Castle that can circumvent silver chains. Then the guardsmen have it, I am trapped, and all is lost.”

I won’t believe that! Gritting her teeth, Constance reached over, grabbed the bar that held the chains, and yanked it from its moorings. “Then we cheat.”

Mac surrendered to his demon. He meant to turn to dust. Instead, he burst into flame.

Bran reeled back, shock blanking his expression. Mac levered himself up, grabbing the sword someone had dropped when the door to Atreus’s cage fell from the ceiling. Flames licked down the length of the blade, making it one with Mac’s hand.

Then his mind went empty. All his demon was meant for, designed for, was to fight.

He took a step forward, and it became a killing dance. Suddenly, his body was immune to pain, immune to the fatigue of carrying Reynard, to blood loss, to the knowledge that he was one against the entire force of guards.

With a sweep of the sword, Bran was dead, his reactions too slowed by the euphoria of Sylvius’s blood to even block Mac’s blow. And then the sorcerer leading the ritual. Wherever the sword touched, flames burrowed, their searing, intimate touch making sure no healing followed. Blood puddled where they fell. The others fell back.

Mac followed, and then flames followed as he scythed through his attackers. He was pure demon. He didn’t feel joy, revulsion, elation, or pity—just satisfaction, like a thirst finally quenched. It was the pure poetry of combat, violence stripped of excuses. No honor. No grudges. Just the killing act.

Perhaps this was what Reynard had meant when he said Mac’s demon would eventually get the upper hand. He was fire. Brutal. Cleansing. Mac gave the spell to restore the Avatar many deaths to feed on, fulfilling the words that he himself had spoken at the council.

Conscious only of cut and thrust, of the geometry of the sword, Mac moved around and around the pack of guardsmen. It seemed to swell only to have him mow through it again. That was fine with Mac. To the demon, one guard was much like the next.