Scorched

vulnerable, he’d lose the edge of cool logic that made him a good detective. Then he’d make mistakes. Like getting his soul sucked out.

Forget it. The job came first. Dead bodies and paperwork...

But that wouldn’t fly as an excuse this time.

I’m not a cop anymore.

The realization hit him afresh.

They’d fired him because he was a freak. Because he’d made that thinking-with-his-dick mistake once already.

Mac buried his face in his hands, an unruly mix of emotions digging a hot ache in his chest. Shame. Despair. Anger. Regret. Disgust. Demons destroy. I used to be the guy with the badge who saved people.

As his emotions raced, he could feel a restless throb of power growing inside him, pounding with every beat of his pulse. He lifted his head, instinctively bracing his hands on the edge of the couch. Heat swept through his body, a sudden, scorching fever. Sweat stung the cuts and scrapes Bran had left on his flesh.

Strong emotion made the demon infection flare up, as if it fed off the extra energy. He lifted one hand and examined it in the dim light. He was solid, not crumbling to demon dust. That was a good sign. It sucked when that happened at random moments, like standing in a supermarket checkout line.

Mac closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, fighting for calm. The throb spread through his blood, following the nerves like a tide. Not painful, not nauseous like it had been during his first infection. Now it was a flush of excitement, as if someone were running through the hallways of his body, flicking on all the lights as they went. As if all his cells were standing at attention.

Why is there no pain?

Last year, when Geneva had Turned him, every organ had hurt like hell. This felt completely different. Mac didn’t know if that was good or bad. He sprang to his feet, pacing the room.

Maybe it’s not the demon at all. Maybe you picked up a whole new monster flu in the Castle. For all he knew, he had giant squid disease and would start sprouting tentacles at any moment.

Crap. He needed a better supernatural immune system.

Geneva and her demon cooties should have been enough to inoculate him against anything else out there. So then what is this? You’re a detective. Detect, already.

The problem was that he’d barely been able to think since the whole demon trip started. It was like his mind was a puddle, and some giant’s boot had stomped in it, scattering his thoughts to the four winds. Pathetic. Think like you’re solving a case.

That meant backing up, starting again from the basics and looking at the evidence with a cool, unemotional eye. A little hard, considering what was at stake. If his demon side got the upper hand, he’d be looking for someone’s life and soul to eat. Many someones. He’d be his own worst nightmare, and he wouldn’t care one little bit.

Grimly, Mac got up and went into the small second bedroom that served as his office. The desk was buried in paper, but he yanked open the drawer and rummaged until he found his notebook and a pen. He missed his partner. He missed the labs and computers and camaraderie that solved cases. He’d been reduced to the simplest tools: paper, pen, and brain. Then make do.

The notebook was black and hinged at the top, the same kind he’d used when he was working a case. Just holding it made him feel better. He walked back into the living room, now turning on a light. He sat on the couch again, flipping the notebook open to a fresh page. He started writing.

1. Return of demon symptoms when in company of hot vampire chick.

2. First instance of dusting was involuntary, under duress.

3. Castle a factor?

4. Not all symptoms same as previous. No pain. Much heat.

It was a halting, stumbling start, but it was something. As he wrote, the throbbing energy running through him sharpened his mind, seemed to help him take control of his ideas. For a moment, he felt like his old self.

5. Not enough data to conclusively determine cause and effect.

He didn’t like the fifth item. It made the whole line of reasoning grind to a halt. Perversely, just because he’d been a demon, that didn’t mean he was an expert—but he refused to believe that Destination: Demonville was inevitable. Time to put on the research shoes.

There was only one person who’d ever tried to help. She had books, resources, and a boatload of magical power. Feeling suddenly hopeful, Mac wrote:

6. Go see Holly Carver.

Then he frowned. It looked good on paper, but that idea sucked. Mac flipped the notebook shut. His stomach felt like a bag of nightcrawlers, writhing with uncertainty. Holly’s stupid magic house had tried to bash him to pulp the last time he’d dropped by. And he really wished he hadn’t tried to eat Holly’s soul the last time they’d met. That made things so awkward. Damn, damn, damn. Bad dates always come back to bite you in the ass.

He sucked in a breath, clenching his teeth again. Once, there had been sparks between him and Holly. A sudden twinge of mirth disrupted his brooding. Caravelli will absolutely hate it if she agrees to help me. Serves him right for chucking me in the Castle.

He pictured the vampire’s unhappy face. Now there was an upside to this whole fiasco.

Hey, if life hands you giant squid disease, make calamari.

Chapter 8

Ashe Carver scowled as the tall, fair-haired vampire stalked away. Slowly, her eyebrows lifted. The view was noteworthy. She could see why Holly was physically attracted, especially from the rear view. What she didn’t get was how her own sister could be so stupid.

Ashe tore herself away from where she had no business looking and studied Holly instead. She hadn’t been home for over fifteen years, and Holly wasn’t a kid anymore. Ashe had been expecting someone weak, in the thrall of a vampire’s venom. Instead, Holly was a perfect Carver: powerful, smart, and in charge.

Something, truth be told, Ashe was still working on. They were two sides of the family genetic coin. Holly took after their mother: short and dark, with delicate features. Ashe was tall, fair, and athletic, like their father’s family.

Holly would know that mostly from photographs. Ashe remembered her parents all too well. Dad standing right where Holly was now, talking to Mom, who’d be working at the counter, making sandwiches ... the memory sunk into Ashe like the fangs of a steel trap. Or a vampire. For a moment, she wished she’d stayed away.

“You don’t know a thing about Alessandro,” Holly snapped the moment the front door banged shut.

Ashe jerked back to the present. “Fang-boy. What’s there to know?”

“Alessandro’s different.” Holly held up her hand as Ashe drew a breath to protest. “He’s my Chosen. It’s an old legend. When a human loves a vampire completely and with free will, that vampire is freed from the blood thirst.”

Oh, please. “Then what does he eat? Doughnuts?”

“Chosen vampires can feed energetically. From the bond with their human.”

Nausea skewered Ashe. “They feed on hot sex?”

Holly blushed.

“Oh, ick.” For a moment Ashe knew she sounded like the teenager she’d once been. Weird how a person reverted the moment they went back to the family home. “Gah!”

“We’re...” Holly sat down again, clearly struggling for words. “We’re happy. It’s working. Alessandro’s more human than other vampires. Humanish.”

“Do you know how messed up that sounds?”