Scorched

Silvertail Wolf Pack.

“First, we have Dr. Ruby Yaga here to give us the lowdown on safe sex and all that means for us supernatural types—plus, what products are on the market to make those moonlit nights a little less scary.

“We’ll get started with a word from our sponsor, the Wily Wolf Delicatessen.”

Mac seeped through the Castle door, pausing to spiral into a column before assuming his human shape. He had his eyes squeezed shut in concentration, so he didn’t notice Constance until a moment later when he looked around to get his bearings.

Constance gave him a gimlet stare. “How did you do that, demon?”

“I went poof,” he said, but wasn’t really thinking about his answer. He was staring at her, trying to decide whether he was delighted to see her or disconcerted by what he saw.

She was sitting slumped against the wall opposite the door, her knees drawn up under her chin. He didn’t need sensitive-guy training to see she’d been crying. She was a mess, her eyes red-rimmed and her hair mussed where she’d jammed her fingers through it.

Oh, crap. He could already feel the horns of a dilemma poking him in the backside. Beautiful, crying woman. Homicidal maniac who’d tried to bite him. Comfort or run like hell? His inner caveman was confused.

“Bitten anybody yet?” he asked.

She gave him a baleful glare. “It’s not a joking matter.”

“Um. No, I’d say not.”

She crammed her fingers back into her hair. “Oh, off with you. What would a demon know about it?”

“Off with you,” he mimicked, pinning the accent perfectly. “My gran used to say that. I’m too old to shoo away now.”

“Well, I’m bloody old enough to be your gran’s gran’s gran. And a bloody lot of good all those years have done me. Just call me the bloody vampire queen.”

Mac raised his eyebrows. That was a lot of bloody, even for a vamp. “I dunno. I met the queen once. She was a couple of millennia of bad-assed scary. I think you and I are still in the minor leagues.”

“What league?” she asked crossly.

Apparently there was no baseball in hell. Figured.

She looked up, loops of hair standing on end where she’d been kneading her scalp. There were fresh tears on her cheeks. Clear, like a human’s. Vampire tears were pink. She hadn’t tasted blood yet. He’d never seen her eyes flash gold or silver the way a vampire’s usually did, either. She was stuck in between two species. They were two of a kind.

Mac walked over to the wall where she was sitting. Despite her fangy performance the day before, he wasn’t too worried. His gun was loaded with silver ammo, plus he had three stakes, two knives, his demon talents, and a werepar tridge in a pear tree. Besides, he wanted to be close to her. Her presence gave him the same warm, smooth buzz as a good single malt. Careful—you think she’s way too cute.

And he had a copy of Pride and Prejudice in his pocket. Now he just had to make up his mind to give it to her. Not the move of a clinical, detached cop. It was straight from his eighth-grade-crush self, the uncool kid who loved his mom and wrote thank-you notes after Christmas.

But the little vampire was so clearly unhappy, she obviously needed cheering up. “You look like you’ve been sitting here a while.”

“I’ve come and gone.” She looked sullen. “Does it matter?”

“Something about a dusty piece of hallway keep bringing you back?”

She didn’t answer, but kept fiddling with a gold coin, turning it over and over, rubbing at the design. She saw him look at it, then dropped it down her front with a defiant glare.

He looked at her for a long time, considering that softly rounded hiding place. “Let’s keep this simple,” he finally said.

“Keep what simple? Who says I even want to talk to you?”

Her tone was hostile, with a go-away-I’m-feeling-sorry-for-myself chill. Mac’s fingers hovered near the holster of his weapon, relaxed but ready just in case she was really serious about the go-away part. One never could tell with vampires. So here I sit, gun in one hand, Mr. Darcy in my coat pocket. Romantic conflict, anyone?

He could smell that old-fashioned perfume. It beckoned, soft and sweet. Dangerous. “You seem like a nice girl. Something’s obviously bothering you. Maybe I can help.”

“What makes you say that?”

Mac paused for a moment, pondering that. He didn’t feel like explaining the whole cop-but-not story. Who knew if they even had police where she came from? “It’s what I do. I interfere in people’s lives for their own good.”

Constance furrowed her brow. “Aren’t you a demon?”

He shrugged. “Half. I’ve been this way for a while.”

“Impossible. Either you’re a demon or you’re not. There’s no two ways about it.”

“Women frequently tell me I’m impossible.” He slid down the wall until he was sitting next to her. He was still a head taller. “But I’m human enough to care about somebody in trouble.”

She stared at him, obviously unsettled by his casual air. “You’ll be riding to my rescue like Sir Galahad?”

“Nah, I’m not that good with horses. I’m better with dogs.”

“My dog ran away.”

“Is that why you’ve been crying?”

She blew out her breath, the sound bloated with sarcasm. “What are you doing here, half demon? What brings you back to a place you were so desperate to leave? Surely it’s not just to make me feel better.”

He hesitated, then decided to get to the point. “I have a problem. I need to speak to someone who’s been in the Castle for a long time. Someone who knows its history and how it works.”

The question caught her off guard, as if she hadn’t expected him to say anything serious. Her lips parted slightly, reminding him how soft they were. Being so close to Constance was reminding him why he couldn’t banish her from his mind. She was the type of woman you couldn’t kiss just once.

“Let’s make a deal,” he said. “I help you, you help me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why should I trust you?”

“You’re the one who tried to bite me, sweetheart.”

After giving him a speculative look, Constance ducked her head, hiding her face behind her long, dark hair. “All right. Atreus has been here longer than anyone else that I know of, but I don’t know how much help he would be.”

“Why not?” Mac knew Atreus’s name from his previous stay in the Castle—one of the thugs who had muscled his way to a position of dominance. Gang leaders who called themselves kings. “He rules a lot of the prison, doesn’t he?”

“Once.” Constance pursed those full lips. “Not anymore. He’s gone quite mad.”

Mac looked around at the stone walls and lugubrious torchlight. “Yeah, this place could get to somebody after a while. How long has he been here?”

“He was here long before Viktor and Josef came. They were here before I came.”

“When did, uh, Viktor and Josef arrive?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Can we ask?”

“Josef is gone. Viktor can’t tell you. He’s gone mad, too.”

Mac swore.

“It was Viktor’s beast that made him that way. Eventually he gave in to his animal side.” Constance hugged her knees with her slender arms. “It was too hard for him to stay human.”

That sounded unpleasantly like Mac’s first demon transformation. “What kind of creature is Viktor?”

“Viktor is my dog.” Mac stared.