Scorched

against everything I stood for.” Heat rushed up his face, but he forced himself to meet Caravelli’s gaze. “I didn’t join her willingly. She corrupted me. You know that. You were there.”

For the first time, Caravelli showed emotion. Damn him, it was pity. “That would’ve been the point, with her.”

Mac used a few pithy obscenities. “Yeah, ain’t that the truth.”

It had taken only one long, hot kiss to infect him with that craving for human life. A hunger he hadn’t entirely lost. Not that he was going to mention that to Caravelli and his meat cleaver.

Now Mac let himself take a step back, then another. “I’m sorry for what I did. I’ve prayed for some means to atone. It’s not enough, but there’s nothing else I can offer.”

“Not so fast.” With a rush of wind and leather, Caravelli sprang into the air, sailing lightly over Geneva’s grave. For a moment, he hung there like a biker bird of prey.

Mac scrambled backward, the instinct to run winning out. His legs felt clumsy, as if he were trying to run on bags of water. Caravelli’s arms stretched out, the moonlight kissing the sword and the studs on his coat and boots. He had barely touched down when he bounded again, right over Mac’s head. Mac spun. The vampire landed with a muffled thud, his boots sinking into soft grass as he turned to face him. The force of his landing stirred up the smell of dew-soaked grass and leaves.

Crouching, Caravelli lifted the sword in both hands, the tip level with Mac’s chest. “You have to pay,” he said softly. “Sorry or not, you broke the law. We can live among the humans only so long as we do not harm them. You drank them down like cheap beer. Perhaps it’s not your fault, but demons destroy. It’s their nature.”

Caravelli said it with the tired cadence of a cop reading a criminal’s rights. Mac wondered whether he’d sounded the same when making an arrest—utterly, remorselessly cold.

“Not anymore. I’ve lost the ability to feed,” Mac replied carefully, keeping his own voice level. He would not beg to live. He would never beg Caravelli, the bloody-fanged poseur, but he had to set the record straight. “I eat spaghetti now. Bagels. Frosty Flakes. No souls. I’m corporeal. No magic tricks. I must be human.”

The lie was ash on Mac’s tongue. They both heard the falsehood.

“But you’re not human, so what the hell are you?” asked the vampire.

I’m hungry. He might have lost the ability to feed, but not the desire. “I haven’t a clue.”

The statement hung between them, the deepening darkness giving a hazy aura of nightmare. “The spell didn’t Turn you all the way back,” Caravelli said neutrally. “It’s not over.”

An involuntary shiver made Mac cross his arms. The pain of the spell’s blast had been surreal, almost beyond his perception. “I was at the edge of the spell’s power.”

“Too bad. I might have been able to pardon you if it had worked.” His regret sounded real.

Mac’s temper snapped like rotten elastic. Blood rushed to his face. “What the hell, Caravelli? Why bother? I’m already dead in any way that matters. Everyone I ever loved is terrified of me. I’ve lost my friends. I’ve lost my family. I’ve lost my job. The very essence of who I was has been twisted and perverted. Anything you do is plain overkill.”

“And yet,” said the vampire, “killing you is why I’m here.”

Fright and anger narrowed Mac’s vision until all he could see were Caravelli’s burning amber eyes. He hated him. Why the hell did this bloodsucker get to pass judgment? Mac stabbed his finger in the air. “Go sit on a stake. Leave me alone. I came back here to figure this out.”

Caravelli hoisted the sword, taking a slow, deliberate practice swing. He was toying with Mac, drawing out the kill. Stalling. “Figure what out?”

“Damn you! Isn’t it obvious?”

Caravelli looked up, eyebrow raised. “What?”

“I want my old life back. I don’t destroy. I’m the guy with the badge who saves people. That’s who I need to be.” Mac sucked in a deep breath. “I want to be human again.”

To his utter fury, Caravelli laughed. He laughed.

That pushed Mac’s misery one step too far. Faster than a human eye could follow, his hand shot out, grabbing the vampire’s sword arm by the wrist. The laughter jerked to silence. Caravelli tried to tear away, out of Mac’s demon-strong grip. Not a budge. Caravelli swore in some other, antique language.

Satisfaction blossomed, an ugly bloom born of frustration. Mac tightened his fingers long enough to make a point, and then shoved Caravelli backward as if he were no more than a boy.

The vampire stumbled, but somehow made it look like a dance step. His look was sharp, as if he had just solved a puzzle. “You were holding back. I thought so. I needed to know.”

“You pushed me till I fought back.”

“Anger doesn’t lie. Now you’ve told me just how dangerous you really are.”

Mac cursed. He’d been trapped by the shreds of demon still festering inside. Brute strength to go with his brutish, voracious appetite.

The vampire slowly shook his head. “We’re all Pinocchio, wishing we were real boys. If only we are good enough, save enough lives, perform the right rituals, sacrifice ourselves— or someone else—we can turn back into the humans we once were. I apologize. I laughed only because what you said was so familiar.”

“Give me a chance.”

“I died when men still thought the world was flat. I didn’t survive by being charitable.”

There was a moment’s pause. Distant traffic merged with the rush of the ocean. The sharp autumn air carried a tang of wood smoke. It was finally cold enough for Fair-view’s residents to stoke up the fireplaces and curl up in the warmth and safety of their homes.

Caravelli passed the huge sword from hand to hand as if it weighed no more than a ballpoint pen—a not- so-subtle show of his own strength. Mac wouldn’t count on surprising him twice.

The vampire seemed to be musing, taking Mac’s measure. The air between them hummed with raw male willpower. Demon rage pulsed against the eggshell of Mac’s human facade. It was hard, so hard, not to revel in it, lap it up and surrender to an orgy of fury.

And get chopped to pieces for his trouble. The silence sawed through Mac’s nerves. “So, are you going to execute me or what?”

Chapter 2

The blade swept out of nowhere, too fast for the eye to track. Mac dodged, more by instinct than by any con-scious decision. Caravelli swung again, using the impetus to wheel in an airborne circle of leather and steel. The follow-through would take Mac’s head for sure.

Except Mac slammed to the ground, using the downward slope of the lawn in a quick roll-somersault-vault maneuver that took him over the low iron railing that enclosed a family plot. He heard the sword whoosh through the grass, the quick scrape of metal on gravestone. Shit! He bounded over a series of low fences and grave markers as if they were track-and-field hurdles.

I’ll take that as a yes on the planning to kill me question. Feet pounding the grass, Mac ran, not daring to turn to look. He knew Caravelli was behind him. Yeah, running looked weak. He could stand his ground—maybe even take Caravelli despite the sword—but the price was too high. If cornered, Mac’s demon instincts would grab control. Those episodes gave new meaning to mood swing.

Breath came sharp, laced with the scent of his own sour sweat. He headed for the roadway north of the cemetery, where there was traffic. Even psycho vamps hesitated to slice and dice their victims in front of human witnesses.

Again, Mac ducked, a sixth sense saving him as a blow lanced out of the sky, perfectly silent. The wind in the trees had masked the rustle of air through Caravelli’s clothes.

Frigging leech!

Mac zigzagged to make himself a harder target. He dodged angels and crosses, urns draped in stone veils and the virgin weeping granite tears. He knew he was running too fast for a human, saving himself through sheer