Scorched

“What’s that stink?” Mac said suddenly.

Constance heard a footfall, so faint it might have been no more than the shadow of a sound. She jumped to her feet, listening, her fingers curved into claws. “Who’s there?”

“That stink would be eau de dragon.” Ashe Carver swaggered—or perhaps staggered—out of the shadows, her weapon propped casually on her shoulder. She looked terrible—dirty and blistered, like she’d been through a fire. “You wouldn’t believe the adventure Caravelli and I had a little while ago.”

She stopped, looking down at Reynard. “Who’s this?”

“A friend,” said Mac.

“I’d hate to see your enemies.”

“What happened to you?” Mac asked.

“Not as much as what happened to this dude.”

“Captain Reynard needs a surgeon,” Constance said.

“Now, there’s an understatement.” Ashe bent, taking a look at the wounds. “Holy chain saw.”

She set her gun down and dropped to one knee, examining the bandage Mac had ripped from Reynard’s shirt. “He’s bleeding through. How clean was the wound?”

“Not very,” said Mac. “His guardsmen locked him in one of their cells.”

“Ah, so this is the mutiny guy. I thought the guards’ quarters were far to the east of here.”

“They are.”

“And you’ve brought him all this way?” Ashe stood and looked at Mac, her brow furrowed with surprise. “Aren’t you supposed to be, like, saving the world or something?”

“That’s after coffee,” Mac returned.

“Whatever.” Ashe pulled out a water flask. “Caravelli’s gone to fetch his puppy dogs, but they’ll be back this way in minutes. I’m just here to chase the dragon away if it comes back.”

“Dragon?”

“Long story. Leave your captain with me. Caravelli and I’ll take him along when we move the hounds out.”

“Are you sure?” Mac said dryly. “There’s not much action in watching a man bleed to death.”

“Maybe if I’m lucky the dragon will come back. Relax. My husband was a bullfighter. I’m used to pulling medic duty.” She knelt, wetting the captain’s lips with the water. His eyelids fluttered.

Constance felt a sudden flood of relief, indescribably thankful. The woman had arrived like a knight from a fairy tale. A very strange knight, but Constance wasn’t about to argue. She’d take what good luck they could get.

She watched Ashe raise the captain’s head, giving him another swallow. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but we don’t need to eat or drink here.”

“Uh-huh. Well, aside from the whole blood volume thing, there’s the fact that this guy looks like he could use some TLC. We’re not all immortal.”

Although Reynard was even older than Constance, she let it go. She wasn’t going to argue about that, either.

Mac rose. “Then if you’ve got this covered, we’d better get going.”

“Go get ‘em, Sparky,” said Ashe, standing over the captain like a feral cat guarding her kitten.

Connie and Mac ran until they began seeing guardsmen in the corridors. Mac recognized the area by the fact that the stone of the walls had been polished to a faint sheen. He had approached this place from the other side before, climbing up a staircase slippery with moss.

They ducked into the shadows as a pair of guardsmen passed. They looked Roman, with short red capes and leather armor with plates of dull metal sewn on. He held his breath as they marched by, sandals clumping on the stone.

Both vampires and demons had a talent for hiding in plain sight, but he wondered whether his body heat would eventually give him away. Ever since the council meeting, his core temperature fluctuated between mild curry and extra-strength jalapeno. It wasn’t uncomfortable—he wasn’t even sweating—but he was conscious of radiating warmth like a bipedal pocket warmer.

The guardsmen passed. Mac and Connie slipped back into the corridor, silently ghosting through it. The hall with the black pond lay just fifty yards ahead. He could just see the outline of steps angling away from either side of the arched entry, leading up to the balconies above. The guardsmen that had passed them turned to the left, mounting the steps and disappearing from view.

The noise level was growing, not the clamor of happy anticipation, but a low murmur of anxious expectancy. It snaked through the dark spaces, brushing Mac’s nerves with a cold and flicking tongue. He could almost taste the panic in the voices, sour as bile.

Fear was a powerful motivator. All of this—mutiny and sacrifice—was happening because the guardsmen were afraid of being trapped in a disappearing prison. They thought this was the answer, and Mac was set to rip that last hope from them. I hate this.

He felt the same knot in his stomach as he’d felt before kicking down the door of a drug house. A mix of righteous anger and please-don’t-shoot-me. He drew his weapon. Connie drew hers, the sound of the blade on the leather sheath raising the hair on his arms.

He inched along the remaining yards to the entrance. Through the doorway, he could see a slice of what lay ahead. He caught a glimpse of the white marble edge of the pool, the stark color warmed by the braziers that lit the cavernous space. Mac’s gaze traveled up. When he had seen the space before, the balconies had been empty, but now guardsmen watched from the front rows, filling perhaps a quarter of the space. Had there once been enough guards to fill every seat?

It didn’t matter. There were too many of them for a straightforward fight. He looked for cover. There were pillars beside the twin stairways to the balconies. When he got close enough, he eyeballed the pillar on the right. Its angle to the wall made a small but effective hiding place. He pulled Connie into it.

“Stay here,” he breathed. “I’m going to take a closer look at what’s going on. I’ll be right back.”

Connie nodded silently, her features lost in the shadows. She gripped his shoulder, pulling him down and brushing his lips with hers. She melted under him, soft and sweet, but with the bite of her teeth against his tongue. Fierce, dark Connie. He felt the rush of heat in his blood, licks of fire under his skin.

She drew back quickly, as if his touch had burned her.

He stepped away, his gut gripped by a sudden, contrasting freeze. Those licks of fire hadn’t just been inside him. They’d flared along his skin.

Desire burns. Great as a metaphor, but his life would be sheer hell if that started to happen for real. I’m losing control.

Reynard had predicted this: Whatever you touch will be scorched to ashes. Dear God, no.

Connie shifted. With a quick flash, her hunter’s eyes caught a scrap of light. He caught her arm, pulling her deeper into the shadow before she gave herself away. He felt her flinch under his touch, and he tried to let her go, but she put her hand over his, holding him despite the heat of his flesh.

“Don’t let me hurt you,” he whispered.

She replied simply by putting her finger against his lips, hushing him. Scorching herself.

Mac’s heart broke.

She still clutched him, pressing her comfort into his burning skin. Vampires weren’t immune to fire. He could feel it in the tremor of her fingers. She’s in pain.

“Come back to me,” she pleaded. “Promise.”

Mac stepped back. Not if I’m going to hurt you.

He didn’t speak, but somehow she understood. Tears stood in her eyes. Despite his silence, she could sense he was pulling away.

Mac ached. All of him. The feeling was too big to punish just his heart.

He loved her. It was up to him to make her world better, not worse.

Demons destroy. I’m not going to destroy her. Without a word, he faded to dust and went to save Connie’s son. It’s the only thing left I can do.