Scorched

This Conall Macmillan was devouring her, his hands roving down her back with a strength that hurt her still-healing ribs. She didn’t care about the pain. In all her days, no one had kissed her like this—all male and rising to the call of her feminine charms.

His fingers brushed her breasts. Such big hands, and yet he was so gentle.

You’re not here for pleasure. You’re here to hunt. To become a true, powerful vampire.

He fit her idea of a proper man—tall, strong, and square-jawed. His dark eyes were direct, his thick brown hair just long enough to curl. She liked the mischief that lurked around his mouth, showing itself in a darting grin.

Constance bet many a girl had made herself a fool over this fellow.

She would do no such thing. She would be sober and serious. All she had to do was bite him. The instinct was in her, made part of her when she was Turned.

At that thought, her fangs felt enormous, lethal and sharp. She tried to focus on that, instead of her aching breasts, the burn between her thighs. Sober and serious, she reminded herself. Dour as a bloody nun. Just bite him.

He cupped her backside, squeezing. A little mewing noise escaped her.

All right, if she had to sink her teeth into him, there was no reason not to enjoy the experience. She didn’t want to hurt him any more than she had to. He seemed, well, nice. Warm. Hard in all the right places. His skin tasted hot and smoky, like an exotic spice. Most of all, she approved of his enthusiasm.

Get on with it, Constance! You can’t afford to stall.

She felt his lips part from hers, cool air replacing the heat of his mouth. All her senses reached for him, clinging to his hard, male warmth. She let her eyes open a slit, just enough to make out his silhouette.

On second thought, he doesn’t smell right. It had been a long time since she’d encountered a human, but there was something decidedly off.

Bite him! If he’s not human, he’s close enough. Bite him! Bite him for Sylvius.

Her head spun. She tried to focus on the hammering beat of his heart. It echoed along her every nerve. Deli-cious. She was ready. I’m sorry, Conall Macmillan, but I need to do this for my boy.

She moved in for the strike.

“Whoa, sweetheart,” Mac said as Constance leaned into him again. “I never open a vein on the first date.”

She reached up, stroking his cheek with dainty, cold fingers. “But I have to...”

He flinched and pushed her back, staying gentle but firm. “That’s what they all say. Y’know, I’m sure there’s a support group for this sorta thing.”

She pushed his hand aside as if he were no stronger than a kitten. “I need help.”

“You have no idea.”

“I need your blood.” She was closing in again. “Uh-huh, and I need a key out of this cozy piece of hell.”

Less gently now, Mac shoved her out of his personal space. He had the sword in his hand, but he couldn’t see himself using it. Constance was dangerous, but didn’t exactly radiate evil—just desperation. That was odd, he thought. In the Castle, there was no reason she should be hungry. She closed the gap again, her eyes glinting in the uncertain light. “F6rget leaving. I don’t have a key.”

“Then who does?” Mac felt the hair on his neck lifting. The animal part of him was fast heading into the fight or flight zone. She was spooking him far worse than either Caravelli or the hellhounds. No one that soft and pretty should have such a predatory look in her eyes.

She shrugged. “Right now? I don’t know. No one ever admits it if they do. Not if they want to keep it for their own.”

Mac backed away. “If you don’t have a key and can’t tell me how to get one, then I’m outta here.”

“You can’t go. We’re not done.”

She reached for him, but he dodged her fingers. A she-vamp’s nails sliced as sharp as talons. Years in the supernatural crimes unit taught him that lesson fast, right along with just how well vamps could mess with their victims’ heads. Should’ve remembered that nugget of info five minutes ago. Then again, Constance hadn’t hit his radar as a bloodsucker, just a really pretty girl. Just his luck she had to embrace her inner Babe of Doom right when he came along.

He had to wind up this fiasco and move on. “Look, really, I’m flattered you want to drink my blood—”

She stamped her foot in frustration. “I don’t want to, you great idiot. I need to. Stay still!”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Right. Why?”

“That’s a very personal question.”

“Biting is a very personal act.”

“Oh, be quiet! This is hard enough as it is.”

“Look, I’m walking away. You stay. I go.”

“No!”

He could feel her will pushing on his mind. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but more than he would have expected. “Back off.”

“Come here.” She sprang like a cat, fingers crooked into claws. Whoa!

In an instant, the demon took over. Pure reflex. There was a sudden flash of ice cold, like a freezer door had opened beneath his ribs, and every one of his senses cut out.

Black. Silent. Stifling.

The rush of blood in his veins just...vanished. The spaces where his pulse should have been beat in his mind, but not his body. The terrifying silence beat...and beat...

And he was back, as if a switch had tripped.

Constance was still leaping toward the spot he had been standing a moment ago. Somehow he had moved a good twenty feet down the corridor. He grabbed the wall, disoriented. Huh, that hasn’t happened in a while.

She stumbled, grabbing nothing but thin air. “You turned to dust!”

Mac shook his head, although he knew it was true. Poofing to an insubstantial black cloud was a demon talent. He had done it fast, too, the way he had when he had been at the top of his game. A cold, greasy unease slithered in his gut.

Constance balled her hands in fury. “You’re a liar; you’re not human at all!”

The words hit with all the subtlety of a city bus. “Never said I was!”

He turned before a weird impulse to apologize could overtake him. I’m sorry I turned out to be a less-than-tasty treat.

“What are you? Vampires know a demon’s stink, and you barely smell!”

He was walking now, not so fast as to excite the predator in her, but not wasting any time, either. He suddenly felt hot, as if he had spiked a fever. “Flattery still won’t get you into my jugular, sweetheart.”

Mac glanced over his shoulder, making sure she wasn’t coming after him. She looked beside herself, eyes round with anger and disappointment, but she wasn’t moving. Maybe that meant she’d given up. Maybe it was because he still clutched the sword. That was one of the bizarre things about the demon-dust-travel thing. Pretty much anything he was touching came with him. Handy, but strange.

Don’t go there. If he was going to keep it together, thinking about what just happened was taboo. He wasn’t supposed to have major demon mojo. That could only mean really bad news, and the last thing he could afford to do was work himself into a panic.

Think happy thoughts. Puppies. Kittens. Beer.

Doggedly, Mac kept striding. He focused on the immediate problem of getting out of the Castle. He worked his way back to the door without passing the spot where he’d flattened Bran—neither of them needed a rerun of that encounter.

The door looked as impenetrable as ever. Mute. Solid. A scar in the endless vista of stone walls. What do I do now? Sit down and wait for someone with a key to come along?