Scorched

Idly, he calculated the position and angle of each man, estimating their vulnerabilities and strengths. If he jumped from here to there, landing in the center of the table, he could probably take all four in eight sword thrusts or less.

That’s the demon talking, and it’s an optimist. There were at least forty other guardsmen to consider, and a major bloodletting got him no closer to finding Connie’s boy. Mac gave a quiet sigh, resigned to pursuing his mission the hard, dull, smart way.

The fair-haired man sitting across from Bran was talk ing.”... got there and the passageway was collapsed. We’re cut off from the north quadrant. It’s bad. We’ve lost communication with Captain O’Shea, and he’s got the trolls on his hands. We can’t send reinforcements. He’ll have to battle it out for himself.”

“What about Sharp?” Bran asked.

“He can’t get through, either. The bridge is down.”

Bran swore. “This whole damned place is coming apart. I’d hoped it was nothing but tall tales.”

Mac stiffened in surprise. So it was true. Something was wrong with the Castle.

The red-faced guardsman spoke up. “O’Shea said that’s why the trolls were coming up from down below. The places they made their dens are gone.”

“Fine for the trolls,” said blondie. “We’re stuck here. We can’t leave. We’re cursed.”

“We know what we have to do,” said red face. “It’s not pretty but it’s the only way.”

“Enough,” growled Bran.

“You said so yourself!”

“The captain doesn’t want to hear that kind of talk.”

But I do. Mac leaned forward a little, taking a better look at the guardmen’s rooms. From here, he could see into a few. About half looked like dormitories, each with a number of beds. The others were empty. Had they once been filled? If so, what happened to the men who’d slept there?

The fourth guardsman spoke up. “You’re too young to remember, but once the Avatar brought rain and sun. Nothing’s the same now.”

Avatars again. Holly’d said the Avatar had been stolen.

The others groaned and shuffled, as if this was a story they’d heard a thousand times. Blondie stood. “I’m off to patrol. Coming, Hans? Edward?”

The two others got up and joined him, walking away to leave Bran on his own. In the distance, another group of three guardsmen were wrestling a huge, misshapen creature up one of the staircases carved into the stone wall. What the heck is that? A troll?

All Mac could see from that distance was that it wore a tunic of some kind and was bald. Shackles around its wrists, ankles, and waist made climbing the stairs awkward. It lurched, nearly falling. One of the guards poked it with the butt of his spear, saving it from tumbling down the cliff face, but clearly hurting it at the same time. Mac scowled. He hated guys who took advantage of their authority that way. It wasn’t like the prisoner had been trying to escape.

The guards opened the barred door to one of the caves and shoved the creature inside. Well, that answers that question. Some of these caves are indeed cells.

Fuming, Mac returned his attention to the table below. Bran sat like a disgruntled lump. The only thing lacking was a beer to cry in.

The Castle didn’t have beer. Or bratwurst sausages. It truly was hell.

Reynard appeared, walking out from the room below.

“I’m tired to death of writing up the log,” said the captain in his la-di-da accent. He’d always sounded to Mac like he’d just quit his job as an announcer for the BBC. All he needed was a Rolex and a polo pony to complete the GQ picture.

The captain slid onto the bench, his back to Mac. “There are times I’d give anything for another one of those perpetual pens. We need to catch another smuggler and confiscate his wares.”

Perpetual pens? Was he talking about a ballpoint?

“Why not simply do business with the rats?” Bran asked with what came close to a sneer. “Then you could have all the pens and log books you want.”

Reynard’s answer bit the air. “Because smugglers also bring in weapons for the warlords to use against us. I won’t tolerate their presence.”

Bran shrugged. “As you say.”

Mac’s mind skipped away from the conversation. If Reynard had been doing paperwork, the room below was the captain’s office. That would be well worth a look. There might be some indication of where Sylvius was being held— like in the log book. Most officers would record anything of significance, and capturing an incubus surely counted.

If Reynard was sitting outside, that meant the room was probably empty. It was a risk. There might be others there, or supernatural traps he couldn’t anticipate. Still, he’d walked into equally dangerous places as a mere human.

Mere human? His demon was getting carried away again. If there was the slightest chance, he would strive to be human again.

Was that the best thing?

This wasn’t the time to think about it.

Mac dusted and trickled down the rock face, stretching himself out to be as inconspicuous as possible. He reassembled in a crouching position, hiding in the corner.

He got an immediate case of the creeps. Nerves tightened his shoulders to the point of pain. I wish I had backup. Or a warrant. Standard operating procedures. A nice jail cell to pop the bad guy into when the day’s work was done. Dream on. Suck it up.

Staying perfectly still for a long moment, he listened, felt for any movement in the air. Nothing. He could find no reason for his sudden case of nerves, but he knew enough to trust his gut. Cautiously, an inch at a time, he rose from his crouch.

Again, he was in luck. He was alone. The room was dark, all the lights extinguished. Despite good night vision, Mac found himself straining to see detail.

The space was average, about the size of a large bedroom. Two walls were floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with thick, leather-bound tomes, each bearing a number. Were these old log books? For how many years? Were they all Reynard’s work? If so, the guy’d been in the Castle a long, long time.

Anxious, Mac turned to the other side of the room. A comfortable-looking armchair filled one corner, but it was the only sign of rest and relaxation. Beside it was a drab green metal filing cabinet, dinged and scraped in a way that said office surplus. More smuggler’s wares?

At last, his gaze lit on a desk that stood at a right angle to the door. Its surface was cluttered, a candle lamp and inkstand framing an open book the size of a jumbo cereal box. Yes!

Mac inched toward the desk, bracing his sword to his side. It would be just his luck to knock something over and give himself away.

Then he froze. It was so dark, he’d almost missed them. On the bookshelf, poised like knickknacks, was a series of three boxes. He leaned closer, trying to see by the trickle of firelight that found its way through the open door.

The middle box was red lacquer, exactly matching Connie’s description of the demon-catcher. Instinctively, Mac’s fingers sought out Holly’s charm. It was still there, safe beneath his shirt. With every sense peeled, he reached out, sweeping the air above the boxes.

C’mon, demon, if you’re listening, how about some help here? It answered instantly. There were indeed sentient beings inside those tiny cubes.

Yes! Mac snatched the red one and stuffed it into the pocket of his plaid shirt. The fit was tight, but at least that would keep it from falling out.

“Helping yourself?”

Mac wheeled. Reynard stood in the doorway. Whoops!

Wasting no time, Mac willed himself to dust. Nothing happend. He tried again. He was trapped.

Inside, the demon yowled in panic, but Mac’s will held on, doggedly trying to put two and two together. Why won’t it work?