Her touch alerted every male cell in his body.
She was beautiful and in trouble. A double threat.
“Where are we going?” he asked. “I know a secret place.”
An arrow hummed by his head, the wind brushing his ear.
It skittered harmlessly to the stone floor, but Mac and Constance jolted into a sprint. Someone shouted. It wasn’t any language Mac knew, but the guttural, angry tone was clear.
Constance darted around a corner, leading them into a nearly identical hall. Mac risked a glance at their pursuers. They were closer now. He could see four. All wore what looked to him like medieval battle gear. One had tusks.
Mac had a fleeting thought about werebacon.
He turned and scrambled after Constance. She led him through the maze, going deep into an area where Mac hadn’t been before. Except for their pursuers, this part of the Castle looked deserted. This was not at all like the busy, thronging territories Mac had been in before, each with its own ruling bully. This was a wasteland.
“Hurry!” Constance waved him forward, heading for a path that inclined gently downward. The rigid crisscross of corridors was breaking into longer, curving paths, the stonework ragged and natural. Drips of stone hung from the ceiling, frozen in time. It was like the masons of old had gone for coffee and never returned to finish the job.
For a moment, Mac could feel the magic of the Castle like a breathing presence, watching, considering. Then it was gone, the random bump of a shoulder in a crowd, but the vastness of that consciousness was enough to make Mac stumble, grab the wall for support.
No time to think about it. Constance flitted down the path, pulling a small but efficient-looking knife out of a belt sheath. Mac trailed after her, listening for their pursuers. They were getting closer, heavy footfalls echoing in the gloom. The air was cold and damp. Mist clung to the floor, long fingers swirling over Mac’s feet as he moved.
Then the ceiling rose, the corridor widening until it formed a huge cavern ringed with torches. It could have held a gymnasium with room to spare. Ropes of fog floated in the air, twisting like something alive.
Mac stopped cold, grabbing Constance’s arm. “There’s no cover here. We can’t cross open ground. They’ll shoot us.” He could dust and float across, but that wouldn’t do her any good.
“We have to get over there.” Constance pointed. Ahead was a stairway. The light barely touched it, showing only a few horizontal edges highlighted against the prevailing murk.
Another arrow whirred over their heads, slicing into the mist. In a single motion, Mac crouched, pulling Constance down with him, turned, and fired two shots in the direction of their pursuers.
Someone—something—screamed.
Mac’s heart hammered, adrenaline raging through his veins. His demon flared, sharpening sight and hearing, burning through muscle and nerve.
Was that it? Were they gone?
Darkness. Footfalls.
The thing with tusks burst out of the darkness with a feral roar, brandishing a spear over its head.
Images flew at Mac, sharp and lurid. Torchlight lit the creature’s metal-studded tunic. Tiny eyes under a massive brow. Tusks jutting from the lower jaw, ringed with heavy bands of gold. It was huge, twice as big as a man, looming like a truck.
The spear left its hand, flying with ferocious speed toward Mac’s chest.
Training kicked in. Mac dove to the side, rolled, and emptied three roaring blasts into the thing’s chest. It flew backward, chest shattering to gore, spraying the darkness with a ruddy mist. The spear smashed into the stone where Mac had been a moment before, showering a fountain of sparks into the air.
Constance yelped, scrambling backward, knife ready to stab.
“You okay?” Mac bellowed. “Bloody Bridgit’s toenails!”
If she could curse, she was okay. Mac scrambled to his feet and down the tunnel, weapon at the ready. Hot demon rage warred with a cooler demand for caution.
He stepped around the creature he’d shot, feet skidding on things he didn’t want to name. It reeked, an unfamiliar putrid stench worse even than a dead werewolf. Mac held his breath as long as he could. The passageway flickered with torchlight, the irregular stonework casting gnarled shadows.
Mac slowed. A second body sprawled on the ground, limbs at random angles. The body was melting to a puddle of slime, rotting in fast-forward. He’d seen that before.
Changelings—the twisted, malformed children of the vampire world. Those that hadn’t Turned right. They made the Hollywood
It wasn’t easy to kill a vamp, but he’d hit it in the head.
Mac looked around. There was no sign of the other two. He finally took a deep breath but instantly gagged at the stink of foul blood.
Mac wiped the sweat from his palms, then his face. A tremor passed through him as the adrenaline left his system, leaving him hot and queasy. The Castle offered far too many chances to die.
He turned, looking again at the body of the first creature he’d shot.
“They were Prince Miru-kai’s followers. I’m sure of it.”
He looked up. Constance was standing nearby, the knife still in her hand.
“It was a goblin,” she said. “They’re fierce, but they’re not very brave if you put up a fight.”
“The others were changelings.”
“I know. Turned wrong. Like me, but I was luckier.” She held out a hand. “Come. They won’t be back today.”
Mac stared at her. She was solemn, but far from terrified. “You sure we’re safe?”
Some of her poise faded. “What they really wanted was Sylvius, and we don’t have him.”
“Right.” He still kept his grip on the Sig Sauer. He wasn’t putting it away quite yet. “Attacks like this happen much around here?”
“Not here. There are many in the courts, of course.”
“Were there many goblins in the courts?” He didn’t really care, but it was something to distract them from what had just happened.
She lifted one shoulder. “A few. I spent plenty of time hiding behind the throne. It was good, sturdy oak.”
Mac met her gaze. Her eyes were steady, but he thought he caught a slight curve of the lower lip.
“The werecats were the worst. If they got in a temper, you could say goodbye to the upholstery.” She turned and beckoned him to follow.
Mac complied, his heartbeat almost back to normal. They were out of the corridor before she slid the knife back into its sheath. Mac watched her. “You’re a vampire. Surely you’re strong enough to use a sword?”
“And what would I do with a great blade, like a Highland clansman? I’m too small. Besides, it’s hardly ladylike.”
“Even a small sword would give you greater reach.”
“Stealth and accuracy are just as important. You men are all about size. Sadly predictable creatures.”
“Guilty.”
She smirked, then took a glance at the Sig Sauer. “Mind you, something like that would come in handy.”
“Women always like the big explosions. Delightfully predictable creatures.”
She tossed her head. “Now you sound like you’re boasting.”
