Scorched

“Low blow, Captain, but I’ll tell you one thing. I’m no coward. Call my bluff and I’ll play my cards.” A beat passed.

Reynard said a word in a strange tongue. Mac felt the atmosphere in the room lift, as if someone had thrown open a window. Whatever spell had kept him from dusting away was gone.

“Captain!” Bran roared, and launched himself at Mac.

The guardsman was too quick. Mac went sprawling, the boxes flying from his hands. His head cracked against the bookcase, but he rolled Bran over, smashing a fist into Bran’s jaw. Roaring to the surface, his demon flooded his mind with a need for scalding, red violence. Mac’s skin flared, fiery-hot. Seizing Bran like an overpacked gym bag, he tossed him across the room with a snarl.

Reynard’s musket went off with a boom. Mac twisted, dancing away from the silver shot that slammed into the filing cabinet. A plume of acrid smoke clogged the air. Reckless with rage, Mac grabbed the musket by the barrel, ripping it from Reynard’s hand and flinging it behind him. Then he grabbed the captain by the arm, wrenching him closer.

Reynard was a strong man in his own right, but his feet left the floor with the force of Mac’s one-handed tug. Mac slammed him against the bookcase, holding him by the throat, forcing him to teeter on his toes. The buttons on the captain’s coat had come undone, and his shirt gaped open to reveal the blue tattoos beneath. The mark of the guardsmen. It looked incongruous against the oh-so-civilized officer’s skin.

Anger was as surf in Mac’s ears, and he rode it, savoring the power of his muscles, the giddy sensation of his own strength. These men were as feeble as toys.

He’d taken what he came for. He hadn’t even drawn a weapon. Why should he? With his brain, brawn, and the willing violence of the demon, he was the perfect weapon.

Reynard was choking, his breath coming in rasping gasps. His skin was turning red from the heat of Mac’s hand.

With all his force of spirit, Mac fought for control. As good as it felt, he would not surrender to his darker side. Slowly, let Reynard ease back to the ground.

He heard Bran rushing him from behind. Just as the guardsman leaped, Mac dusted out.

The last thing he heard was the two men smacking together.

He’d always liked Wile E. Coyote cartoons.

Chapter 17

Mac materialized without a sound, bypassing the heavy bolts that kept the Summer Room safe. Or should keep it safe. Once again, he worried whether those bolts would be enough to keep the place secure. What if Reynard made a return trip to retrieve Sylvius?

More locks. There should be warding spells, too. Doorway magic sounded like Lore’s department. If the hounds were willing to help him, this was something they could do besides making useless prophecies. Stop fretting.

He looked around. It’s good to be back. He couldn’t help thinking it, even if he had only been gone a few hours. Constance was curled up in an armchair, her feet tucked under her. She was deep into the pirate book, chewing one thumbnail as she read.

Everything about her was at once innocent and unabashedly sensual. Mac’s thoughts were stalled by a hot flood of memory, of the night they’d spent together. Oh, yeah.

“Connie,” he said.

She started violently, snapping the paperback shut. “Mac!”

“Sorry!”

She ran to him, giving a little bound so that she could reach to fling her arms around his neck. “I woke up and you were gone!”

For a moment, he was lost in the soft feel of her—the silky hair, the strong, lithe arms, the soft scent of her perfume. He held her tightly to his chest, not even wanting to release her long enough to kiss her. “You knew where I was going.”

“I was worried.”

That was nice. Nobody had done that for him for a long time.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s all right. I’m back.” He kissed her, long and thoroughly, and then summoned the discipline to let her go.

“Did you find the guardsmen?” she asked.

“Yup.” He pulled the red box from his shirt pocket with some effort. He’d really jammed it in there. The empty pocket gaped oddly; the soft flannel had stretched.

When he looked up, Constance’s expression was marvelous to see. Her eyes had gone wide, her mouth open. Her hands reached forward in slow motion, taking the box from his fingers and cradling it against her breast.

“You brought him home,” she said in a hushed voice. “You brought him back!”

It wasn’t the first time Mac had returned a lost child, but it was definitely the strangest. He grinned. “Sweetheart, I keep my promises.”

Still holding the box, she gave him a wordless, one-armed embrace. After a moment, he realized she was crying, sobbing silently against him. A relieved mother thing. It was normal. He’d seen it before. He’d tried to take it in stride, not let it touch him too much, but, oh, it was always wonderful.

“Shh.” He stroked her hair. “It’s all good.”

God, she smells great. He could feel heat rising to his skin, prickling like electricity. Reynard was right. Emotion drives the heat.

“Did the captain have him?” she said at last, pulling away.

“Uh-huh. Y’know, I don’t think he likes me much.”

She smiled, her eyes shining with fresh tears. “But he kept him safe from the other guardsmen. He did that much.”

That was true. And I nearly strangled Reynard. Or the demon had. Gotta watch that.

Mac sobered, his mood plummeting. The adventure had taught him much, some stuff he didn’t want to face. He’d come within a hairbreadth of carnage. Worse, he’d liked it. The violence had been a whole new high.

His gaze caressed Constance, who was setting the box on the floor.

I’m in danger of turning into a killing machine. Again.

Constance was probing the box, her slim fingers stroking every surface.

That can’t be me. I’m the guy who does what needs doing. I fix things. I save people. I can’t lose that. It’s all that’s left of me. Not even a demon can take that away.

I hope.

The box clicked, the lid springing open. Constance stepped back. Mac watched, curious despite himself. He’d heard of incubi, but he’d never seen one.

Soft light fountained from the box, coalescing into an iridescent haze that shone from within—dust, but different from the smoky black of Mac’s incorporeal form. This cloud was beautiful, neither sparkling nor dull but gleaming with the sheen of pearls.

Mac watched as it grew and blossomed into a solid form of a tall young male. He was pale, his skin almost truly white, with dark eyes and long silver hair that fell to his hips. But what caught Mac’s attention were the wings, beautifully arched, shot with delicate pink veins.

Holy crap. The kid has bat wings. And to think parents complain about piercings.

What happened next was a silent dance. The young demons—Sylvius—reached for Connie, grasping her hand in his. She turned into him, clutching him to her in a movement made smooth by long years of practice. There was no doubt that, in every way that counted, this was her child.

“It’s so good to see you,” said the incubus, and folded his wings around her. It was the oddest and most