Scorched

Captain Reynard looked sad. “You are a prisoner here.”

“But not in your box.” Sylvius flew to a ledge closer to the door, landing with the grace of a hawk.

Reynard swore under his breath. Things were obviously not progressing according to his well-reasoned plans. “Atreus?”

Constance let her eyes drift closed, riding a cushion of pain. Atreus was old, older than she had ways to measure. Time and the strange magic of the Castle were finally stealing his wits. Still, he had good moments. She prayed this would be one of them. She forced her eyes open again. And was disappointed.

Atreus moved to face the ledge where Sylvius was perched. The sorcerer was pulling at his hair now, twining a few long, black strands around and around his fingers. “Captain Reynard is right. Your very existence is a danger to everyone. It would be better to surrender.”

Sylvius’s reply ached with reproach. “I thought you loved me, my king.”

“It would not be love to let you roam free. Too many desire you.”

“They desire what I could do for them. I do not think it’s me they want.”

The men stood like a tableau, staring up at the demon-angel perched on the stone ledge above.

“Do this out of love, Sylvius,” said Atreus. “You see what damage you’ve caused already. Constance is hurt.”

I have to move. Constance crawled on hands and knees from beneath Viktor’s hairy belly. Every motion made her body scream, but she wasn’t going to give them one scrap of ammunition to use against Sylvius. Her foot got tangled in the hem of her dress, but she got to her feet, raising her eyes to her boy.

“Sylvius.”

They all turned.

“Don’t listen to them. This isn’t about you. They’re afraid.”

The look he gave her broke her heart. “I know that, little mother.”

All eyes bore down on her, waiting to hear her answer. All eyes, except that of the captain. Reynard moved the box with his foot, sliding it forward an inch or two, wordlessly stating his insistence. The sound of the wood on the stone grated harshly in the sudden silence.

Pride more than strength kept Constance on her feet.

She wasn’t used to speaking out, and the very audacity of it was adding to her dizziness. “Put that trinket away, Captain Reynard. You’re not taking him.”

Viktor whined, but she motioned him to stay. She walked toward the men, putting one foot gingerly before the other, but her attention was on Sylvius. He sat still and silent, his eyes fixed on her with the look of someone losing his world. I’m all right. Don’t let them use me to trap you.

She heard the rustle of Atreus’s robe as he raised his hand to strike her again. She wheeled on him, the sudden movement making her head swim. “Threaten me if you like but you can’t kill me. I’m already dead.”

He blinked, looking away. “You will be silent.”

“Think!” she snapped. Insulting a sorcerer wasn’t smart, but she was wild with fury. “You’re letting the captain bully you into betraying the few people left who still love you.”

Atreus raised his eyes and glared. “You know nothing of my reasons.”

“Reasons? You’re my master! You’re supposed to protect me!”

Atreus stared at her a moment, but his eyes grew distant until he looked straight through her flesh.

Constance’s voice grew low and hard. “I don’t know how I’m going to stop this, but I will.”

“You’re a girl. A milkmaid, at that. A nothing.”

“Be careful, Constance,” Captain Reynard warned softly. “Your bravery does you credit, but you will not win this battle.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Atreus blinked, seeming to awaken from a momentary trance.

There was no feint, no warning gesture. She was utterly unprepared.

The sorcerer slammed her into the wall again, this time holding her there with the brute force of his magic. She was pinned six feet above the floor, like a butterfly stuck in a shadow box. He held her hard. Insanely hard. She could feel the compression doing something inside her, something not even vampire bodies were supposed to endure.

Viktor howled his outrage, but Atreus used a second bolt of power to smash the huge werebeast to the floor. The sorcerer may not have had enough power left to rule a kingdom, but he had more than enough to wound those closest to him.

Captain Reynard looked up at Sylvius. The look was almost a plea. “You can end this.”

There was no air in Constance to scream with. She watched, helpless, as Sylvius stood on the ledge, a look of utter devastation on his face. “I’m afraid,” he said.

“I will protect you,” said Reynard. “I give you my word.”

“But will you protect them?” Sylvius pointed to Constance and Viktor.

Reynard nodded. “I will see to it. My men will come here every day to make sure they are well and to supply whatever they might need. That is my pledge in return for your freedom.”

Sylvius said nothing more, but seemed to droop even as he poised on the balls of his feet, balancing on the very lip of the stone. Then he fell forward, wings half opened, arms loose at his sides. His long hair fanned behind him, his eyes closing with all the resignation of death. As he fell, his form thinned and lengthened, melting into an iridescent haze that shone from within. The cloud seemed to be made of dust particles swirling around and around, neither sparkling nor dull but gleaming with the sheen of pearls.

Hardened as they were, the guardsmen still gave a collective gasp of wonder. The spectacle was beautiful, the mere sight enough to revive some of the urge for life that the Castle had stolen away.

Like a glowing finger, the cloud that was Sylvius landed on the demon trap, making the red lacquer dazzle with intensity. The box seemed to inhale, dragging the billowing particles inside itself—more and impossibly more, fitting what seemed like a roomful of pearly cloud inside the tiny cube. At last the lid snapped shut, and the brilliance was snuffed out.

Once again, Constance slammed to the floor as Atreus released her. This time, she didn’t open her eyes. She heard the guardsmen shuffle and talk in low voices. She heard their footsteps as they marched away. She heard Viktor’s low whines. Finally, she heard the rustle of Atreus’s robes as he wandered out of the chamber.

They took my boy.

She lay coiled into a painful ball. If only her mind could slide into the pain and dissolve, but she was a woman. As long as one of her own needed her—be it a stray calf or a foundling incubus—she couldn’t rest. She had to save Sylvius, but how? She had needed a protector to survive in the Castle. How could she possibly save someone else?

Constance braced one hand against the floor, then the other. Experimentally, she pushed herself up enough to slump against the wall. Viktor butted his head against her thigh, letting her know he was there. She rested one hand on the beast’s head, too weak yet to scratch his ears.

Despite Viktor, she felt horribly alone.

She touched the pendant Sylvius had made for her, pressing it against her skin. The feel of it was an anchor in a sea of nausea. A true vampire could heal much faster. A real vampire could fly and had astonishing speed and strength. Constance would need full vampire powers if she was going to rescue Sylvius.

Holy Bridget, what am I thinking?

She had never fully Turned, because she had never tasted human blood. The guardsmen had imprisoned her too fast. So, Constance needed to hunt.

Oh, bollocks.

She’d never considered giving up the last shreds of her humanity before. But then, no one had needed her help so very badly. Even so, could she bear to do it?

Drinking blood was beyond disgusting, and who was there to bite? The guardsmen were the closest thing to human, and they certainly didn’t smell edible. Putting her lips on Bran’s flesh would surely make her retch.

Her fingers stirred the thick fur of Viktor’s ruff. He sighed. She sighed, and it was painful.

All right, maybe not Bran. But she had to be strong, like a warrior queen of old Eire. If she had to embrace her vampire nature to save Sylvius, so be it.