Scorched

“You must make those in power understand that the Castle is the responsibility of all the paranormal species. We will only survive in a human world if we work together. That is why I sit and eat with you. Someone must begin bringing us together. It may as well start with me.”

Mac had a vision of Count Dracula leading a rousing chorus of “We Shall Overcome.”

The hound stopped, looking exhausted by the effort of speaking for so long. Shadows from the overhead light showed the strong bones in his face. “Will you help me?”

How the heck he was going to pull this one off? But the job needed doing, and Mac couldn’t think of anyone else who’d seen the side of the Castle he had—the part with innocent people who would like nothing better than to lead ordinary lives. Someone had to speak for the everyday main-street monsters, and he’d been hardwired to help folks in need.

“Sure.”

October 6, 11:00 p.m. The Castle

Ashe crept down yet another Castle corridor, a stake clutched in one hand, her boot knife in the other. Not nearly weapons enough, but she’d run out of bullets a thousand susurrating caverns ago.

She’d never seen anything like it—corridor after corridor, each gaping entrance like the last. Magic hung like a fog, sending the tattered remains of her witch-born senses into dust devils. When the spell she’d cast as a teenager blew up in her face, Ashe had lost the ability to manipulate energy—but she could feel power. Here, it pounded in her head like a migraine.

The flickering torches didn’t help. For a while they’d seemed kind of funky, like being sucked into a bad horror film. Now she’d had more than enough of the mood lighting, and—ugh!—the Goddess-knew-what creatures she’d blown to smithereens. Four of them, so far. Ashe had seen a lot of monsters in her day, and she wasn’t sure these even had a species—just bad tempers and worse breath.

She’d needed her gun and her hand-to-hand fighting skills to get rid of them. Tough beggars, with tusks. She’d pulled a muscle in the back of one knee.

It was a good fight, though. She’d liked that part. The rush never got old.

Needing to rest a moment, Ashe stopped at a corner. Every route away from this spot looked the same. She was lost. Time and direction had lost meaning back when ... well, she had no idea. How long did it take to get chased away from the door, bag your pursuers, and then figure out you were completely turned around? But after that, time had passed. How much, she couldn’t say. She wasn’t hungry or thirsty, but she was getting incredibly tired.

How on earth was she going to find her way out?

I’ll get out. I always land on my feet.

And when I get out, I’m going to kill Caravelll for sure.

When I get out.

Doubt sloshed in her stomach like bad plonk. She started to think about her daughter and stopped. Eden was her joy and her weakness, and she couldn’t afford either right then. Now was time for the hard-assed attitude, because that would get her home.

This shouldn’t be happening. I’m a good person. I kill monsters to make the world a better place. It’s a valuable job.

She savagely clung to her last shreds of calm. Raiding a house full of bad guys was so different. For one thing, there were doors. Where the hell is that door?

Something howled. Ashe jolted in fright. The sound echoed, pounding off the walls with ululations of such poignant despair that her knees turned to water. The cry rang in the stones, wave after wave, the aftershocks humming even when the sound itself had died away.

She hauled in her breath, sweat trickling down her ribs. Then she heard the scrape of nails on stone, the drag-flop of enormous paws, and panting like the bellows of hell’s own blacksmith. Worse, there was wet, thick snuffling.

An animal of some kind. Close.

Just around the corner.

No doubt she stunk of fear, like a nice, juicy, PreyBurger. And if I run, I’ll be a fun-filled meal. She barely worked up enough spit to swallow. Ashe was no coward, but she was no fool, either. Gripping her weapons, she prayed whatever it was would just go away.

A nose came around the corner, wet, black, and huge. It was followed by a head caked in matted brown fur. Drool trailed from its jowls in strings of slimy pearls. Oh. My. Goddess. It looked like a mastiff had mated with a prehistoric bear. And the mother of all dust bunnies.

“Viktor!” cried a young man’s voice.

The rest of the mountainous beast came around the corner, nearly brushing Ashe with its reeking fur. Reflexively, Ashe ducked. The beast gave a deep whuff and thumped her on the shoulder with a whack from its tail. Nerves tingled from the force of the blow, nearly making her drop the stake. Ashe danced to the side, taking up a defensive crouch, prepared to sell her life dearly.

A white shape swooped from the ceiling, too quick to make out. Ashe jerked back, one arm flung up to protect her face. The thing went past, air rushing with the snap of a kite in April breezes. The beast barked again, bounding into the air. The flying creature seemed to nearly collide with the beast’s head, then did a somersault midflight.

“There you are, old boy! You’re lucky we heard you! Why’d you come wandering back here? So what if it was home; don’t you know this isn’t a good place anymore?”

Ashe slowly came out of her crouch, her mouth open in raw amazement. A bat-winged angel was roughhousing with the huge, monstrous dog-thing. The angel? Boy? No, youth was a better word—had the thing by the ears and was half flying, half wrestling with it, laughing like a maniac.

It was one of the oddest sights Ashe had ever seen. She had an irrational urge to ditch her weapons and start taking pictures with her cell phone.

“Who are you?” said someone behind her. Ashe whirled, stake poised. Her mind blanked, cold and ready to kill.

A small woman, barely more than a girl, stared back at her. She was dainty, with long, thick hair the midnight shade of Chinese ink. Pale as a ghost. Ashe’s heart started to pound. Vampire.

The little vamp looked puzzled, and sniffed the air delicately. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous for a human.”

“Said the cat to the mouse,” Ashe said in a voice of ice water. “Well, news flash, girlie, this mouse bites back.”

The vampire raised one fine dark brow. “Well, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the most powerful of my kind, but if I really wanted to make a meal of you, I’d have caught you already.”

Her voice was light, her accent all Irish charm. Her eyes, though, were full of irony. “But I’ve learned my lesson. My last catch turned out to be a demon. Quite a disappointment.” The vampire gave an enigmatic smile. “But only in the culinary sense.”

Okay, why do vamps always insist on sharing too much information? Ashe held her position, every sense on full alert.

The vampire tilted her head. “But you do smell very, very tasty.”

Ashe felt every hair on her head standing up to do the wave. Goddess, get me out of here. She could jump the vamp, but the dog-thing was behind Ashe. Bat-boy was blocking the entrance to the corridor. She was pinned against the stone wall without even a mouse hole in sight.

The youth was approaching, his hands on his hips, silver hair falling loose around him. He wore nothing but what looked like silky pajama bottoms, his chest all bare, pale, lean muscle. The perfect picture of a Goth teen heartthrob. He would have been locker door material except for the huge beast shuffling along in his wake, drooling like Niagara Falls.

“Is the slayer bothering you, little mother?” he asked. Mother?

The vampire tilted her head, eyeing Ashe as if she might make a meal of her yet. “Nothing to worry about,