Unknown - Scorched

Mac didn’t get the attraction of the literary brood fests like Wuthering, but whatever. He’d put up with her blow-by-blow analysis of Heathcliff and Cathy if she forgave him for introducing Sylvius to the joys of the outside world. Strictly supervised, of course.

It was almost working.

Most recently, Mac had bought Sylvius and Lore ticets to Sedona to see his old friends there. He was hoping Sylvius would stay for a while. He knew the New Agers wouldn’t lead a first-time human too far astray.

Besides, they’d always wanted an angel. Sylvius had lost his win but he was still a better candidate than Mac.

He hoped the kid liked tofu.

“Mac,” Connie said, breaking his concentration.

He looked up from his list. “Yeah?”

“How do you feel about throwing a dinner party? It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. We could invite Holly and Alessandro and Reynard and that nice young werewolf Perry Baker and, well, whoever else you’d like.”

“We can do that.”That meant he’d be doing the cooking, but that had always been a hobby of his, so that was okay.

She reached across the table, touching his hand. “Thanks.”

“Happy to oblige.” Mac smiled, turning back to his list. She went back to her book.

“Not sure what to do about you vamps, though,” he said. “It always feels weird with half the guests not eating.”

She blushed faintly. She was still shy about the whole feeding issue. A few times a week she had to head into Fair-view for a proper meal. All neatly arranged, of course, by her protective sire. “For us, it’s the company that matters.”

“More for the rest of us, I guess.”

She looked over the top of her book, one eyebrow raised. “Are you going to work all night?”

He put down his pencil. “I’m done.”

“What are you working on?”

“Just some wishful thinking.”

“What about?”

He waved dismissively at the page. “Just goofing around.”

“Let me see.” Vampire-quick, she snatched the notepad to her side of the table and set Emily Bronte aside. “What is this?”

He chuckled. “Well, there’re so many rules in a place like this, it would be a lot easier if they could be boiled down into a few simple principles. Short and sweet.”

She giggled, a girlish sound he liked. “Oh, this is good. One: Don’t frighten the humans. Two: Don’t annoy the dragon. Three: Don’t annoy Mac. Are you sure you don’t want to put the last one on top?”

“Am I that hard to live with?”

She leaned over the table, bracing herself on her elbows. He glanced down a moment, well aware of the drape of her V-necked shirt. Oh, yeah.

“There should be a number four,” she said, giving him that Mona Lisa smile.

He leaned forward, meeting her lips. “What’s that?”

“Come to bed when I say so.”

“Are you sure that one shouldn’t be on top?”

“We can take turns being on top.”

He felt the smile in her kiss, the laugh trembling on her tongue, and he knew who really ruled the Castle—or at least who really ruled him.

Oh, Snow White, you’ve come a long way.

Reynard fell to his knees in the dirt beside Ashe. He put a hand on her shoulder—a hot, firm touch. “Are you hurt?”

“Get down!” she barked, dragging him to the ground by the collar of his fancy coat.

The next shot missed his head by a whisker.

She could smell his sweat, the dirt, and the tang of crushed plants. She’d landed in a herbaceous border, destroying the gardeners’ careful work. A mound of thyme was bleeding spice into the night air.

She could hear the clock tower of the main building chiming eleven. She should have been home watching the late news, not chasing monsters around a botanical garden tourist trap. Wait, they’d bagged the monster. So why was someone still shooting at them?

Reynard gripped her arm. “Are you hurt?” he repeated.

“No.” She turned to look at him, careful not to raise her head too far. “How about you?”

“No.”

They lay still for a moment, breathing, listening to the dark spring night.

“Anyone trying to kill you these days?” she asked. “Not outside the Castle.”

His eyes glittered. It might have been humor. She couldn’t quite tell. He was too closed, too different, like a map with no street names or landmarks. Just a lot of really nice geography.

Ashe swallowed hard, willing her jackhammer pulse to slow down. “Then the shooter must be after me.”

“A common occurrence?”

“Not since I moved to Fairview.” Shit. Shit. This was all supposed to be in the past. She had relocated, given up life on the road, scaled down the hunting to almost nothing— just the odd case. She’d let the word go out that she was retired. Sure, there’d always be some unhappy campers-friends and relatives of the supernatural monsters she’d exterminated—but even they’d grown quiet.

Quiet enough that Ashe had taken the risk of sending for her daughter.

Shit.

Ashe crawled backward, a slithering motion that brought her to the shadow of a thick bush. She rose into a crouch, molding her body to the shape of the greenery, hiding in the dense leaves. She guessed at the angle the bullets had traveled. That put the shooter high up the tall column of rock that formed the lookout in the center of the sunken garden. She knew there was a nearly vertical staircase that led up to the platform at the top, but it wasn’t lit at night. All she could see was the dark spire of stone that blotted out the stars.

Reynard moved around to her left, noiseless as a phantom. Wisps of dark hair framed his face. His neck cloth had come untied. Ashe couldn’t help notice that messy looked good on him.

He rested on one knee, raising the long musket. “Stay down,” he said quietly. “I’ll take care of this.”

A sour burn of impatience caught in Ashe’s throat. “There’s no way to make the shot at this distance.”

“No?”

“It’s dark.”

“I live in a dungeon. I’ve adapted to the dark.” He sighted down the long barrel as confidently as if it had one of the supercalifragilistic nightscopes Ashe had seen in the latest mercenary’s mag.

They were wasting time. Firing would give away their position. They’d be better off sneaking up on the sniper. “That thing has a range of two feet. A crooked two feet.”

He sighed lightly and cranked back the hammer. It was at that moment she saw it had a real, honest-to-Goddess flint secured in the jaws of the mechanism. This thing relied on sparks and naked gunpowder. They’d be lucky if it didn’t blow up.

“They won’t be expecting us to return fire,” he said evenly.

“Because it’s not possible! I have a real gun, and I can’t make that shot.”

Thoroughly ignoring her, Reynard pulled the trigger, jerking as the musket recoiled. It banged like a giant cap gun and smelled like a chemistry lab gone wrong. Ashe opened her mouth to protest and got a mouthful of foul-tasting smoke.

And there was a distant, sharp cry of pain. Reynard had hit his mark.

“That’s not possible!” She realized she sounded annoyed. He made a noise that was almost a laugh. “Just a touch of a spell. I thought witches were open to magic.”

“I’m not a witch anymore.”

He gave her a look, grabbed the musket, and slipped into the darkness. Swearing, Ashe ran to catch up. The entrance to the staircase was on the other side of the tall spire of rock, forcing them to circle its base. The colored lights that illuminated the flower beds dwindled, then stopped as soon as they left the footpath. Ashe tripped, nearly going down on one knee before she bumped into Reynard.