Scorched

He materialized in the very back of the balcony that curved above the entrance. From here, he could see that the balconies circled the whole space, forming a small, round theater with a clear view of everything below. No bad seats for the sacrifice.

Guardsmen sat at the front of the balconies, but over to the side Mac noticed a handful of figures standing to the back, half hidden by the darkness. A jolt of anger ran through him. He recognized one of the figures, hawk- nosed, black-haired, garbed in robes heavy with gold embroidery. An exotic figure, like some tribal leader who’d fought Genghis Khan, or the Turks, or Vlad Teppes. It was the half-fey warlord and Atreus’s sorcerer rival, Prince Miru-kai.

So that’s how Bran pulled this off. The rogue guardsman had help.

But the how didn’t matter anymore. What counted was the drama below. Mac looked down.

Although he’d braced himself, momentary shock robbed him of breath. Beside the pool stood a wooden scaffold three times the height of a man. Sylvius hung from one side by his wrists, his white flesh scored by dozens of angry wounds. Beneath him, a wooden bucket collected the blood.

Directly across from him, a cage was suspended from the ceiling. In it was Atreus, captive and forced to witness his son’s execution. Silver chains bound him to the bars, the metal robbing him of all magical power. The sorcerer was crumpled in the bottom of the cage, his face clasped behind his hands.

Mac started to shake with anger, his skin searing hot, but he slammed the demon down, forcing his mind to take in every detail, any scrap of information that might be of use. Think. What do you see?

Lit by the fire from the four braziers that marked the corners of the space, the scaffold’s wood looked dark and stained with age. Wood wasn’t plentiful in the Castle. It had probably been saved for use time and again, stored away between atrocities like a macabre Christmas tree.

Half a dozen figures stood around the base of the scaffold, one reading from a grimoire. He looked like a sorcerer, complete with gray beard and staff. The others were guardsmen, including Bran. They were standing in a loose circle around the base of the scaffold, repeating lines from whatever spell the sorcerer was reading. The charred-toast smell of magic hung in the air.

The sorcerer dipped a goblet in the bucket, then raised it to his lips. He drank slowly, letting the blood linger for a moment on his lips before he licked them clean and passed the cup to Bran. The guardsman took it, drank more hastily. Took two swallows instead of one before passing it on. Mac watched Bran’s face flush. The guardsman shuddered, breathing deeply, and clenched his fists.

Blood of the incubus, bringing desire and appetite back to these ancient, trapped, frightened men. They were taking a last hit before sacrificing their high to save their Castle from annihilation. If it wasn’t all so insane, Mac might have sympathized.

The shackles at Sylvius’s wrists looked ordinary, both hands bound together directly above his head. The guardsmen had been cruel. He hung limp and broken, wings dangling like tattered rags, the broken shaft of an arrow still protruding from his side. From what Connie had said, Sylvius had been struck down before he could dust to safety. In too much pain, he had been unable to transform.

Demons—even the incubi—were often thought impossible to kill, but draining their energies did make them vulnerable. Last year, Holly had blasted Geneva’s powers away with magic, allowing the master demon’s own henchmen to tear out Geneva’s throat. Likewise, between the guardsmen’s magic-enhanced weapons and his wounds, Sylvius could be slaughtered as easily as a mortal.

Judging from the amount of blood in the bucket, the kid was barely still alive. Mac’s demon rose up again, searing with anger. Again, he yanked it back under control.

The first thing was to get Sylvius to safety.

He holstered his weapon. This was going to take more stealth than firepower. After studying the scaffold a moment, he dusted beneath the square of wooden slats that formed its top surface and re-formed clinging to its underside.

Remaining perfectly still a moment, he waited for a roar of protest from the guardsmen as he materialized. When there was none, Mac concluded he was hidden from the balconies by the top of the scaffold. He still had to worry about the half dozen men on the ground, but he had surprise on his side. Slowly, he slipped his hand into his pocket and slipped out Connie’s key. Then he put it in his mouth. Hope demon spit doesn’t mess up the magic.

The sorcerer chose that moment to gesture to two of the guardsmen participating in the spell. They picked up the bucket with Sylvius’s blood and emptied it on the dark water of the marble pool. The blood swirled, feathering the water with the motion of the splash, staining the hp of the pool with pink wavelets. The sorcerer said a word, and the surface of the pool bloomed with flame.

Mac took advantage of the distraction to crawl down the scaffolding, spit out the key, and press it to the lock of Sylvius’s shackles. The sudden flare of power jarred the incubus back to consciousness.

“Go!” the youth said, his voice raspy with pain. “You can’t save me!”

“If I leave here without you, Connie will kill me,” Mac said, wrestling with the lock. “I may as well go for the brass ring.”

“Stupid,” was all Sylvius could reply.

The shackles released. Using all his strength, Mac caught him in one arm.

“There!” roared Bran. “The demon!”

Gripping the scaffold in one arm and Sylvius in the other, with angry guardsmen all around, Mac had a sudden flashback to King Kong. Then an arrow pierced his thigh. Jolting pain loosened his grip and he fell, Sylvius with him, to the stone floor.

His shoulder took the brunt of the fall. Releasing the youth, Mac tried to stand, but his left leg was rubber. He drew his gun. Bran kicked him, a smash to the jaw that sent him tumbling over, the gun spinning away.

“You dare to interfere!” Bran roared.

Get over yourself, tattoo boy. Mac braced himself on one knee, his head throbbing. His demon was rising, flaring up with heat. Magic rolled off the burning pool like a fog, swamping his senses. Sylvius’s blood was boiling from the water, releasing something as it turned to steam. Whether it was the Avatar or not was anybody’s guess.

Mac tried to crawl to Sylvius, but Bran kicked him again, sending him sprawling on his back. Miracle of miracles, he landed with the gun only a few feet away.

Guardsmen were pouring down from the balconies, swarming to stop the invader bent on destroying their last hope. Mac groped for the gun, fired, kept firing until it was empty, but there were too many guardsmen coming.

Mac looked up to see another arrow just before it pierced his shoulder. The slither of a drawn sword whis- pered to his left.

Shit, they’re going to kill me. Mac’s vision went red with fury.

In a last, desperate move, he surrendered utterly to his demon.

Chapter 28

The instant Mac vanished, Constance grew scared and impatient, the empty, lonely darkness around her closing in like a wall of ice. She was so cold she shuddered, as if her bones had forgotten they had ever held heat—as if she had never been a living woman, just a shadow of hunger. You’d think all this shaking would keep me warm.

It wasn’t fear for herself that choked her, but for her loved ones. She had to know what was going on. Mac had gone for a quick look around, but she knew very well he meant to leave her in the safety of the shadows. Well, bollocks to that. She crept around the pillar and up the staircase to the right, crouching below the level of the solid stone balcony rail to stay out of sight. When she reached the top, she shrank into the corner. The nearest guardsmen were only a stone’s throw away, but their attention was firmly on the scene below. She turned her back to them, counting on her dark hair and clothes to melt her into the shadows. Just in case, she held the knife hidden in the folds of her skirt, the handle firm in her chill hand.