Scorched

Mac’s hand slammed down on the radio button before he opened his eyes. Blessed silence rang like the aftertones of a bell. He did a quick inventory. His stomach had settled and his headache was gone. Whatever bug he’d had yesterday had shoved off. Sleep had done the trick.

Good, because he had a lot to do. He wasn’t awake enough to remember everything, but the list ended with— if he could get it together—rescuing an incubus from the bad guys.

Mac threw the covers off, stifling. He sat up and nearly fell to the floor. Obviously, he was still half asleep. He caught the edge of the mattress, steadying himself. Need coffee.

For a moment, he thought the light-headedness came from smacking his head on the wall when Ashe had buzzed him with the Ducati. Then he realized it was hunger. He hadn’t eaten a lot of that god-awful stew, but he had made himself a sandwich when he got home. That should have been enough to hold him until morning, but he felt like he hadn’t eaten for a week. Time for breakfast, then.

He stood up, feeling thick-headed and oddly clumsy, and padded into the kitchen wearing nothing but his pajama bottoms. The condo felt too warm. Still groggy and feeling all thumbs, he switched on the coffeemaker— he always prepped it the night before—and shoved bread in the toaster, eating another piece untoasted because he was too starved to wait. While he waited for the appliances to do their thing, he shuffled into the bathroom.

When he went to wash his face, he noticed the problem. Mac froze, the water gurgling down the drain as his brain groped with what he was seeing in the mirror.

What the fuck?

His brain backed up and tried again. His reflection wasn’t exactly him. For one thing, he had to duck to a new angle to reach the sink. Not much. Just enough to realize that he was slightly taller than when he’d gone to bed. And he had put on pounds of hard muscle.

Huh?

His mind went absolutely blank. He blinked, the confusion on the Mac-but-not-Mac’s reflected face multiplying his alarm. Aw, c’mon, what the hell am I supposed to do with this? I look like a fucking action figure.

Mac reached under the stream of water with trembling hands—hands that now felt too large—and splashed his face. His basic features, at least, hadn’t changed, though he looked like he hadn’t shaved for three days. Well, he probably hadn’t—and with dark wavy hair that had gotten far too long, all he needed was a loincloth and he’d be good to go for Mac the Barbarian. He sluiced water over his face again, and again, stalling while his brain scrambled for footing. No. No. No. I don’t need this!

Finally, he turned off the taps, grabbed a towel, and blotted the water from his eyes. Then he looked down at himself, shivering with delayed panic. Oh, God. There was too much leg sticking out of the pajama bottoms he wore.

The lightweight pants showed that whatever had happened to his body had left him much more than anatomically correct.

Oh, God. No wonder he’d felt so horny last night. Not enough air.

He stumbled out of the bathroom, throwing open the sliding balcony door. The force of his shove made the glass all but jump the track. Shit.

He stepped outside, the concrete cold under his feet. He sucked in lungful after lungful of the October chill, grabbing the painted iron of the railing to steady himself against the swimming sensation in his head. What’s going on?

Disorientation didn’t cover what he was feeling. It was like going through adolescence all over again, and in eight hours. The big body, clumsy and unfamiliar. The raging hormones. It makes no sense. Why did this happen?

His brain stalled again, crashing under a wave of panic and outrage. What is this? More demon crap? A curse?

All he’d wanted was to be human again. Instead, he got Mac 3.0, manly man edition. He made a fist, watching the play of extra muscle in his forearm. He’d been strong already, fit, in perfect shape, but his demon strength had been limited by his human frame. This body could do so much more. He’d grown into that demonic power.

Maybe that was the point. The demon infection had been stalled by Holly’s magic, so now it had taken a new direction. Under the Castle’s influence, it was still Turning him, just a different way. That makes no sense. People are supposed to renovate houses, not the other way around.

Mac let the fist go, feeling blood flow into the relaxing flesh. Every time he went into the Castle, something bizarre happened. He sucked another lungful of air, now noticing the stronger swell of his chest. He’d been a big- enough man before. This was—well, like he’d spent his life chasing woolly mammoths instead of felons. Most guys would like this. He should be feeling jubilant. Potent. Powerful. What he felt was pissed off. He’d had enough of magic messing around with him.

Anger steadied him. Plus, the cold air had cleared his head a little. Straightening, he looked out over Fairview. At least it looked the same as it always did. The pale morning light showed patches of russet and gold in the trees. The distant strip of ocean gleamed pewter gray. Life woke in the town, pulsing.

It pulsed through him, too. That strange, electric feeling he’d felt before rushed through his blood at full tilt. He was insanely alive. Every muscle and thew of this body wanted to run, fight, and burn off this fierce, hot energy.

Beneath it all, his demon powers hummed like a dark, Gothic chorus. They had gained ground, leaving him feeling far less civilized. I’m so screwed. How the hell am I going to come back from this one? Am I even a little bit human anymore?

Well, the upgrade would make fighting idiots like Bran that much easier.

He noticed the curtain of a neighboring condo twitch. The place had a clear view of Mac’s balcony, which was why he seldom used it. Great. He looked around and noticed a few other female faces in other windows, one with a camera phone.

He thought of a few fresh obscenities, but a corner of his ego did the happy dance. He stomped on it. Mac stalked back inside, feeling the confinement of the apartment like an assault. Hunger was moving on to nausea. He was going to pass out if he didn’t eat something.

He grabbed the cold toast out of the toaster and shoved one piece in his mouth. He put two more slices of bread in the slots and punched the button down. With a sigh of relief, he chewed the dry toast, washing it down with black coffee. Then he felt patient enough to actually butter the second piece. He rummaged in the fridge for a block of cheese, ripped open the pack, and broke off a piece with his hands, not bothering with a knife. By then the next round had toasted, and he started the ritual over again. Mindlessly, Mac kept going until he ate nearly every damned thing in the fridge. Then he checked the freezer. Nothing there but frozen peas. He could go to a restaurant, but he wasn’t sure he was up to facing the world as SuperMac just yet.

Still, more groceries were an urgent priority. Mac refilled his coffee cup. He’d always taken it black before, but now he piled in the milk and sugar, still craving fuel to burn. His bones ached, as though they’d been stretched and pulled. It must hurt to be a werebeast. Never thought about it before.

He slurped the coffee, stalling.

What are you doing? Going through the motions of coping doesn’t mean a damn thing. But that was all he had, outside of running through the streets screaming at the top of his lungs.

Admit it. Who doesn’t want to wake up in a better body? And it’s not like you haven’t switched species before. But this isn’t me. Well, it is now. That’s not exactly a bonus.

He sat down, the wooden kitchen chair creaking beneath his unaccustomed weight. He felt healthy but insanely hot, like the fever he’d had last night had become permanent.

Hunger raged, the same way it had the last time he’d been transformed into a demon. The only positive was that this body didn’t seem interested in eating souls. It definitely preferred meat. Lots and lots of it.

It wanted a fight, the exertion of all this power against another. It wanted to dominate.

It wanted sex, and not the pretty kind.

His mind went to Constance, sleek and small and aching for his touch. He had smelled the desire on her, the