Unknown: Scorched

What was a teenage ex-love god going to do when he finally discovered the twenty-first century? If ever there was a need for adult supervision, this was it.

Mac spun on his heel, hurrying into the Castle. He had to fix this invisibility problem pronto—but first he had to see with his own eyes that Constance was all right.

When the worst was over—and that had gone on and on, with battle and injury and death—Constance went back to the Summer Room, She needed solitude, if just for a minute or two.

I should be with Sylvius. He needed her. But they’d grieved together for hours. She had nothing left. If she could only gather her strength and fumble the pieces of her heart together—then, maybe, she could help someone else.

The Summer Room was just as she had left it, violated and broken. It had become her home—the home she had ached and longed for—and it was destroyed. Like everything else. Crying felt useless. She’d already sobbed until her ribs ached. There had been so much to cry about—but weeping did no good. It changed nothing.

Atreus had finally found respite from his madness. Someday she would find the energy to wonder whether his madness was guilt at what he had done to the Avatar, or if his love for the Avatar had been the result of insanity. Right now, all that mattered was that he had destroyed, and destroyed, until he finally destroyed himself.

She had been, in the drama of the great Atreus of Muria, what they called collateral damage. After two and a half centuries of service, her master had destroyed her world without a thought for her happiness. And not just hers. If she had let him go at the end, it was only to stop the carnage yet to come.

She was done with masters.

Her servant’s tale was so small, it could be written on a handkerchief.

A man had loved her. He had loved her despite her human weakness and her vampire strength, her innocence and her bloodlust. He’d kept coming back despite the fact that she asked him to lay down his life for a child not his own.

And then he died, and left her. Mac was dead. It was her fault.

Events had followed, one after the other, like a string of beads, and it all led back to her. Lore had warned her about wanting her vampire powers, but she had fallen prey to temptation. The first time she had really used those powers, she had released Atreus. He had killed Mac.

And she was left empty of all but a stunned, silent grief.

She fell onto the sofa, trying not to see the splintered wound left by Bran’s sword. She could feel the shards of wood under her hand, digging through the cotton of Holly’s skirt. Constance put her hands over her face, hiding from the candlelight. Bran might have broken all the furniture, but the magic candles still burned on, their length never altering one bit.

All the wrong things seemed to go on forever.

Cold air wafted through the room. With the door caved in, there was nothing to stop the unpredictable Castle breezes. Connie shivered, mourning Mac’s heat. Mourning Mac.

The cold came again, more acute now. She shuddered, somehow finding enough will to get up and drape one of the tapestries across the door.

Connie?

She started, looking around. She had heard Mac’s voice, but there was no one, nothing in the room but her. Grief is driving me mad.

“Connie!”

Astonishing. Mac’s voice was coming from the candlestick next to the hearth.

Constance sighed. Well, all right. Everyone else in the Castle seemed to have lost their minds—Viktor and Atreus, for instance. Now it was her turn. She sat back down on the sofa.

“Connie.”

She gasped, shrinking back. That had come from right in front of her face!

The light flickered, all the candles guttering. Slowly, slowly, Mac emerged into view, leaning over the sofa to stare down at her.

“I can see right through you,” she whispered.

“So my mother always said.”

His voice caressed her, a wave of tiny shocks that brought her feelings back to life. After such sudden loss, her relief was beyond description.

And then he was gone. “Mac?” She was clearly losing her mind.

A cold breeze stirred the room, making her shiver. Then she felt his lips, soft and hard at once, familiar and warm. Not burning now, but still filled with all the heat of a man reunited with his mate.

And he was there again, bending down to hold her, a filmy shadow of himself. Constance held very still, seeking only with her mouth, connecting again and again. She drank him in, closing her eyes, tasting his smoky, spicy flavor. Eyes shut, she could imagine him fully there, his big, hot body curling around her, cherishing her, giving her back the life she had lost. Forgetting that, no, he was only madness, or a ghost, or a memory, she reached up with one hand to cup his cheek. First her fingers touched only warmth, a tingle that somehow resolved into the rough, whiskered angle of his jaw.

She let her eyes flicker open. “Mac?”

His hand was on her arm, solid, warm, and heavy. His dark eyes were laughing, as if he were playing the most wonderful joke. “The Avatar said the only thing that matters is the joy that gives me life. Who knew she meant it literally?”

Constance felt her mouth drift open. He was laughing. A sudden hot wave of emotion erupted. “What do you think you’re doing to me?” She jumped to her feet, nearly bumping his chin. “Do you think this is a jest?”

He fell back a step, his eyes round and wide at her temper. For a moment, she saw the boy he must have been. He opened and closed his mouth, obviously groping for something to say. “I came back from the dead for you, sweetheart.”

Constance burst into tears. “You could have told me you were going to do that!”

“Oh, it was just a setback,” he said, taking her in his arms. “I would have called, but y’know, reception sucks in here.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” she muttered into his chest, absolutely dizzy with the wonderful, warm feel of him. He wasn’t too hot. Just toasty-right, warming her through and through.

He hugged her. “It’s a long story, but I’ll be here to tell it.”

She sniffed. “You died and it was my fault.”

He chuckled, looking over the top of her head. “How do you figure that?”

She pushed him away. “I set Atreus free. And then he killed you. And then he fell.”

He sobered. “It wasn’t your fault that he was crazy, and letting him go might well have saved us all. I think his magic thunderbolt gave a helluva boost to the Avatar’s spell, plus it did stop the battle.”

Constance put her hand to his cheek. “How are you here? I saw ...”

“I made a deal with the Castle. I’m part of it now. I gained a lot of control over my powers, and I, uh ...” He paused. “I got a job here. I mean, I can come and go, but this is it for me. I’m home.”

“Like the guardsmen?”

“No, I’m better off than they are by a long shot.”

“A job?”

Mac shrugged. “Kind of part-cop, part-gamekeeper, part-troubleshooter. The Avatar needs a go-to guy to keep the place running. Someone to do the day-to-day work.”

“And you don’t mind?”

“Strange as this sounds, I think it might be my dream job.”

She lowered her head, her hands still wrapped in the thick fabric of his sweater. “Was that the only reason you came back?”

She could hear the smile in his words. “Why do you think? I love you. Besides, you brought me back to life with a kiss. After something like that, a guy’s gotta stick around.”

Constance looked up into his face, touching his cheek, his arm, his hair, convincing herself he was there. He didn’t move, just let her reassure her senses, a trace of demon red in his dark, laughing eyes.