Scorched (32 page)

Ashe lowered her arm. “We’re still sisters, aren’t we? Looking after each other is what they do.”

They stared at each other a long moment.

“Will you leave Alessandro alone?”

“Okay. Unless he screws up. Then I’ll kill him twice over.”

“Okay.” Holly laced her fingers together, almost like she was praying. “Y’know, I want to meet Eden and she’d love Grandma. You should bring her here for a visit.”

Ashe stared at the grimy acoustic tiles on the ceiling. They seemed to press down, pinning her to the lumpy bed. “That would be nice. But, y’know, Eden’s going to ask questions.”

“About her witch heritage?”

“About where Mom and Dad are.”

Holly sank back into her chair, deflating. “Ashe . . .”

Ashe sighed. She was broken, inside and out, and she so wanted to hand the jagged bits of herself to some other responsible party to figure out. Sadly, it wasn’t anyone’s job but hers. “I know. I’ll bring her around. Someday.”

Ashe turned her head, studying Holly’s face. There was still the echo of that sweet—though sometimes bratty—kid inside the woman. Not everything was lost in the passage of time. Ashe relaxed a tiny degree. “I love you, Holly. I hope you get that.”

“Yeah.” A slow, sly smile stole over Holly’s face. “And you always kept a secret better than anyone. I remember that about you.”

Ashe narrowed her eyes. “What?”

 

 

“I thought for sure your sister’d punctured a lung,” Mac said.

“She didn’t, but that was sheer luck. You saved her life.”

Holly flipped through the rack of dresses at Tiger Lily Vintage, Fairview’s raging-hot boutique for recycled fashion.

“But Ashe is doing okay, right?” Mac asked.

The sun fell through the dirty window like weak tea. The place was decorated in basic Victorian Bordello, with a lot of worn velvet and faded purple fringes.

“Sure. Witches heal fast. Even if Ashe doesn’t have active magic, she’s still one of us. Lucky for her.” There was a frustrated edge in Holly’s voice. “I think she’s coming around about Alessandro—I mean not killing him—but I don’t think they’ll ever be BFFs, y’know?”

“Uh, no,” he said. “She’s trying to protect you.”

Holly flipped another hanger. “So why am I the one doing bedside duty?”

“When are visiting hours?”

“I was up there this morning. I’ll drop by again later. They’ve got her so doped up she sleeps most of the time. It’s great for hitting the books.” Holly sighed. “Poor Ashe.”

“Hmm, yeah, aren’t you supposed to be studying and not shopping?”

“I’m in denial. Aren’t you supposed to be figuring out why you’re a demon again?”

“My best source of information tried to turn your sister and me into liverwurst.” Bored with watching her flip through the procession of garments, Mac started to look for himself. He wasn’t one of those antishopping guys, but this was moving too slowly.

“Aren’t you chock-a-block with demon strength?”

“That guy, Atreus, is packing a whole lot more. How about this?” He held up a red dress with a poofy skirt that rustled. Mac liked it, but he wasn’t sure whether that shade of red was the thing.

“Hmm, no,” she said. “That looks like Shirley Temple meets
Saw
.”

He put it back with an exasperated grunt. He never had this much trouble buying clothes for himself. “Okay, I admit defeat. What does every girl want for her first date?”

Holly gave him one of her squinty looks that said he was being an idiot. It was kind of comforting, because it meant nothing between them had changed. He was a normal-sized human idiot. He was an extra-large demon idiot. It was all the same to Holly.

“Little black dress,” she said. “Every woman needs one.”

“Okay,” said Mac.
A plan. We have a plan
. “Do they have those in vintage shops?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of Audrey Hepburn? Look, this is perfect” Holly pulled out another dress. This one was black and so plain, it looked almost severe.

Boring
. “Isn’t that kind of basic?”

“That’s the point. It’s all about the accessories. Strappy shoes. Evening bag. I bet you haven’t even thought about lingerie.”

“Ha-ha. Not touching that one.”

“Beast.”

“You bet.”

“But a sweetie.” She held up another dress, plain black with a neckline that plunged almost to the waist. “Whoa, that one makes a statement.”

His inner caveman went on alert, definitely feeling more beastly than sweet. “We’ll take it.”

 

“B
aba Yaga’s Restaurant offers fine dining in the old world tradition in the heart of historic Fairview. With a wide and varied menu, we guarantee an unforgettable dining experience. Although we specialize in poultry, all dietary requirements are discreetly supplied. Please reserve in advance.”

 

Constance clung to Mac’s arm, unsteady on her beautiful, damnably dangerous shoes. Everything about the clothes he had given her made her feel exposed, from her ankles all the way up to her neck. Her upswept hair left her nape bared to chance breezes, shivering not from cold but from the sensuality of the promiscuous air.

She might as well have gone walking abroad in her shift. Except her shift wasn’t silky and black as sin. This was a woman’s dress. Not a girl’s. His eyes had told her so.

He’d brought her flowers. Red and white roses. She hadn’t seen, or smelled, or touched the velvet petals of real flowers for hundreds of years. They still ravished her senses, the scent of them clinging to her hands.

And he looked so handsome. Like the men in the magazines but better because it was him, Conall Macmillan, dressed like a prince but with a devil’s twinkle in his eyes.

He took her out of the Castle in a cloud of dust. The first sensation on becoming solid again was the wash of rainfresh space around her. The next was Mac sliding her arm over his, as if she was worthy of the finest courtesy. For that night, she would believe she was. He had promised to look after her. To make this night her own.

Her memory of his promise quieted the butterflies in her stomach. She felt awestruck, intimidated and giddily happy—but no hint of monstrous hunger.

Oh, the bliss! There were lights everywhere as they strolled around the corner and a street or two away to a building with BABA YAGA’S hung in bright, glowing pink letters above the door. She tried not to stare open-mouthed at the fiery sign—so strange and pretty!—just as she tried not to gape at the cars or the tall buildings or the other people striding so confidently past. She didn’t want to look like a baby bird stretching its beak for worms. She had to look like she belonged on Mac’s arm. Oh, the bliss!

Once they had passed beneath the pink sign, a man dressed in black and white, his clothes every bit as fine and formal as Mac’s, greeted them with, “This way, please.” He shepherded them through a maze of tables draped in white. Constance allowed herself one look around, telling herself not to stare.

“What do you think?” Mac whispered in her ear.

The high-ceilinged room was filled with people in fine clothes, and there were flowers and candles everywhere. Serving men and women hovered nearby, just as they had in her day in houses of the rich. Or so she’d been told. What did she know? She’d lived her life in the barn with the cows. “It’s beautiful.”

He smiled down at her, giving her hand a squeeze. She would have died of joy if she wasn’t dead already. They settled at a table by the far wall, and the servant disappeared. Constance glanced around again. Some of the other diners were human, some weren’t. She could smell werewolf.

Her attention settled on Mac. His hair was freshly trimmed. Every other female was turning to stare at him, and so they should. He was good to look at but, more than that, he had a dark, electric presence that turned heads.

And his gaze was on her, his eyes both hungry and soft. His expression promised, well, everything. Constance was eager to see where that slight curve of his lips might lead.

Another servant arrived and asked about wine. Mac gave his order and turned back to her, his focus like a physical weight.

They had barely spoken a word. It was as if they were both tongue-tied, talking only with glances and the occasional squeeze of the hand. None of the magazine articles—not even the new, modern magazines—had made a date sound this good. None of those silly writers had ever been with Mac—though they had invaluable advice about many things, like how to shave her legs. It was a good thing she healed fast.

The man came back with the wine. At the end of the ritual of tasting and label reading, he poured some into Constance’s glass and left. She looked at the straw-colored liquid doubtfully.

“Can I drink that?” she whispered.

“Vampires seem to like a little bit of wine,” Mac said. “I wouldn’t drink too much all at once.”

She tried it. It tasted odd, but then, she’d only ever drunk ale. Of course, after a few hundred years of nothing to eat or drink, her memory might be off.

“There are humans eating with nonhumans,” she said in an undertone. “Is that usual?”

Mac picked a stick of bread out of a napkin-covered basket. “Here it is. Some humans like to be near supernaturals. Some don’t. Some think it’s, uh, trendy. Kind of a walk on the wild side.”

“Wild side? What do they think will happen?”

“Who knows? Most of the supernaturals here just want to get on with their lives.”

Constance took another glance around, amazed at the number of nonhumans casually chatting over their meals. She could run away from the Castle. She could find work and make a life for herself.

The possibilities, and perhaps the unfamiliar wine, were making her giddy. Licking her lips, she tasted the perfumed flavor of her lipstick. Mac’s gifts had included a tiny pot of bright red gloss. Blood red. Another detail that made her feel wanton and just a little bit dangerous. Had that been Mac’s idea?

She smiled at Mac, who was systematically demolishing the bread. “Tell me about this lady friend who helped you find my clothes.”

“Holly is a good friend. She enchanted your new clothes so that they would be sure to fit, and then she enchanted my old clothes so that I could still wear them. A practical woman.”

“She’s a sorceress?”

“A witch.” Mac smiled back. “And she’s very much in love with a vampire.”

“Oh.”That made Constance feel much better, both because Holly was spoken for—and also that vampires were loved.

“Say,” Mac said, sliding his thumb over the back of her hand. The gesture of gentle possession sent a thrill to her core. “We need to pick which movie to go to. What kind do you want to see?”

Constance felt a wave of confusion. She’d read about movies and knew they were a pleasurable entertainment, but only had a tenuous understanding of what they actually involved. She grabbed at the only title she could remember. “I want to see
Gone with the Wind
.”

Mac’s face went carefully blank. “I think that one might have left town already. We can rent it later, but let’s try for something else tonight.”

“Perhaps we should see something you like,” she suggested, hoping to appear gracious rather than hopelessly out of touch.

“Hmm, well, there are what they call girl movies and boy movies. If we went to something I picked, you probably wouldn’t like it.”

Constance let herself be distracted by one of the servants setting a dish of food alight. “Now why would they burn their food like that? Didn’t they leave the meat on the spit long enough?” She turned back to Mac. He looked like he was trying not to laugh, which irritated her. “What do you mean, I wouldn’t like your choice? Why wouldn’t I like what you like?”

“I could be wrong. I look forward to sitting with you over a long, relaxing evening and finding out. But first, maybe we should try for a romantic comedy.”

“Which is what?”

“Something funny with a happy ending.”

Constance was mollified. “I think I’d like that.”

“See? I know something about these things.”

“What’s to say I wouldn’t like something weighty and serious?”

“You probably would, but then I’d fall asleep. I’m not good with that sort of film.”

“Not even to improve your soul?”

“My soul is warped beyond what a movie can fix.”

“I believe it. The last book you brought me has things in it my mother wouldn’t approve of.”

“Do you disapprove?” He gave her a quick grin.

Constance struggled not to smile. “I don’t know. I’d have to try them out before I could make up my mind. You’re corrupting me, Conall Macmillan.”

“I am a demon.”

“That’s no excuse not to live right.”

The servant sailed by, took Mac’s food order, and refilled their glasses. It seemed like a good signal to change the subject. Constance asked questions about the food she saw pass by, the clothes of the other patrons, the buildings on the street outside, and anything else that caught her eye. Mac answered each one so patiently she began to feel sorry for him. She worked the subject around to a topic he might find more interesting.

“Did you find anything out from Atreus?” Constance had eventually heard about Mac’s rescue of the woman named Ashe, but he hadn’t said much more than that.

Mac shook his head, putting one hand over hers again, slowly caressing it with his thumb. The feel of it sent shivers all the way up her shamefully bare arm. “I wasn’t sure what was real.”

“What did he say?”

Constance leaned closer to the table, careful to keep her shoulders back. The dress, with so little fabric to keep it in place, kept inching toward full disclosure. Mac’s gaze slid toward the fall of black silk over her breasts, as if will alone could nudge it aside. She glimpsed the hot, red glitter in his eyes that seemed to surface when Mac was aroused. The demon was stirring just below his skin, bringing an almost scalding heat to his hand.