Scorched

“I’m flattered that you think I have cause to boast.”

“I think you have a smooth tongue.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I wonder how often you’ve whispered that in a maiden’s ear?”

“I’m not sure I’ve known that many maidens.”

“And next you’ll tell me that was your doing.”

As they retraced their steps, Mac couldn’t help but look down at the goblin he had shot, or the spear that lay across their path. Constance skirted the carnage, lifting her skirts to keep them clean. How can she live in this place, with so much violence, and still seem so innocent?

Because she’s not. She’s a vampire. You’re playing with fire.

As they crossed the cavern, the ropes of fog clung like spiderwebs, dewing Constance’s hair like a mantilla of jewels. Then they started up the uneven steps, ascending into a mass of shadows that billowed where the ceiling should have been. The soles of Mac’s ankle boots slid on someting slippery.

“What is this crap?”

“Moss,” Constance replied. “Be careful.”

“I didn’t think anything grew in here.”

“The tales say once there were gardens.”

Mac gave her a disbelieving look.

She shrugged. “There are dead trees in one of the great halls. The stories might be true.”

He reserved judgment on that one.

When they reached the top of the stairs, they started down a corridor that looked different from the others, the walls polished to a dull sheen. It opened into a vast space ringed with balconies. In the center was a dark pool, the sparkling black surface rippled by a faint wind. White marble rimmed the water, the carved lip fluted and curving outward. The overall shape of the pool was geometric, squares overlapping squares, reminding Mac of a Chinese design. Rather than torches, fires burned in four braziers that ringed the space. Beautiful though it was, the hall echoed strangely, making Mac think of people and places he had lost.

“Where are we?” Mac asked, looking over his shoulder. Something about the open space put all his senses on alert, as if the lightless corners had eyes.

“This place doesn’t have a name that I know of,” she said. “Atreus used to come here to meditate.”

No wonder he’s nuts.

Constance looked around. “I was hoping Viktor would be here. He always finds his way home, but he likes this place. With Miru-kai’s soldiers around, I’d rest easier if I knew where he was.”

Mac started to follow her gaze, searching the inky shadows, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him along like a child. He allowed himself to be led, his eyes following the way her skirts swirled around her knees. All those layers of cloth made a swishing rhythm that had a seductive music all its own.

They crossed out of the open space of the hall and entered a long corridor mottled with patches of torchlight. The passageway angled, then branched into three. Constance went to the left. Finally she stopped at the entrance to a large room. Mac reached around her, opening the door. She nodded, accepting the courtesy, and walked in. Mac followed.

A waft of sweet-scented air greeted him. Mac looked around in wonder. It was like walking from Frankenstein’s castle into the Arabian Nights. “This is called the Summer Room,” she said. “I don’t think anyone knows it’s here.”

It didn’t look particularly summery, but it was extraordinary. The space was gently lit by a scatter of pillar candles. Tapestries hung on the walls, strange-looking birds and animals glittering with silver thread. Swaths of silk draped the high ceiling, giving the impression of a tent. There were couches and chairs and a canopied bed in the corner, piled with a mountain of gold and black velvet cushions. Books were scattered everywhere. A violin case on one shelf. A waterfall ran down one corner of the stone wall, splashing into an enormous marble basin that drained away below. Expectation hung in the air, like words formed but not yet spoken.

“This isn’t like anything else I’ve seen in the Castle,” Mac said, his voice hoarse. He turned around, and around again, trying to take it all in. “This is the opposite of the Castle. It’s beautiful.”

Then he remembered Holly’s description of the room she had found, and wondered whether this was the same place. The one place in the Castle where natural appetites were not repressed. This could be interesting.

Constance trailed her fingers down one of the tapestries, making the silver threads glitter in the candlelight. “There are a few havens like this. Remnants, I think, of another time. I found this place not long ago. It belonged to Atreus’s household once, but he doesn’t come here anymore. He left everything under a spell so that it wouldn’t decay.”

Mac touched the arm of one of the chairs, feeling a faint ants-over-the-skin vibration of magic. It went straight for the gut. Growing more and more curious, he looked around again, taking in additional details this time. A wardrobe, the door ajar to reveal feminine clothes hung on hooks. Soap, towels, a silver-backed hairbrush. Everything had a careful neatness.

“Do you live here?”

“I’ve always come here as much as I could, but now I... Yes, I live here now. I needed a new place to stay.” Her eyes seemed to go dark, as if she was retreating from him. Whatever Constance was thinking, it was painful.

Mac’s gaze fell on a stack of women’s magazines—Vogue and Chatelaine—that looked like they dated from between the two World Wars. A few were later, perhaps from the early sixties. “Do you read these?”

An inane question, but as he’d intended, it snapped her out of her thoughts.

Constance looked momentarily sheepish. “Oh, um. I found them. Sometimes people smuggle things into the Castle. I like to read them to see what people wear now. How they talk, what words they use. I don’t like to feel like I’m old-fashioned.”

Never mind her clothes look like they came from Colonial times. And her pronunciation was sometimes off—though some of that might have been the Irish lilt. It didn’t matter. He could understand her well enough.

Now she was busy as a model homemaker, straightening the ornaments on a dainty side table. There was a fleck of goblin on her skirt, which she cleaned off with a fussy little grumble. No, I can’t say I’ve met anyone quite like her before.

Mac picked up one of the magazines. It had been read so often it was nearly in shreds. “What do you think of the new styles?”

“Oh, they’re lovely, but clothes that fine would be wasted on this place. What I have is good enough for me.” Constance turned away and rearranged the cushions on the couch.

Mac set the magazine down. At least by his standards, Constance had been too young to begin living when she was trapped in the Castle. Now she was trying to catch up vicariously with magazines a good seventy years out of date. That was just wrong.

He slid the Jane Austen out of his jacket pocket and beneath the top Chatelaine. The gesture felt good, especially after blasting the goblin to chunky soup. Not that he had a big choice when Tusky came yodeling out of the shadows, but his karma still felt like a twelve-car pile-up.

Constance turned to face Mac, extending a hand to the chair where she’d just fluffed the cushions. “Please, sit.”

Mac sat down in the chair. The Castle’s magic felt thick in this room, almost touchable. Conscious. The vibes—or maybe it was the aftermath of the fight—were making him feel light-headed, as if he’d had one too many shots on an empty stomach. Which reminded him he’d skipped lunch.

Wait a minute. If he was hungry, that meant the lid was indeed coming off his appetites. This must be the same room Holly’d been talking about, the one that let a person’s natural desires run free. Keep an eye on your impulses. Keep an eye on the pretty little vampire.

His gaze traveled to Constance, who was pacing back and forth, her slim, straight back a fierce exclamation. Her hips swayed when she walked, twitching her skirts like a cat’s tail. Mac blinked, fascinated by her curves. It