Scorched (7 page)

Gritting his teeth, Mac backed away.
I’m still too much a cop to kill a man when he’s down. Even this one.
He clutched at that thought, holding it like a talisman that would preserve his slipping humanity.

But in the Castle, every moment was fight or die. Here, he needed his demon side to survive. Staying human would be a losing battle.
I have to get out of here, or lose my soul again
.

A flicker at the edge of his vision made him look up, reflexes poised.

Mac glimpsed a face, all wide eyes and pointed chin. It was a woman, barely more than a girl, with a thick fall of midnight hair long past her waist. Every line of her thin body looked startled.

All was silent but for the sound of Bran’s faint, slow breathing. The woman just stared, her mouth pulled down at the corners.

She’s afraid
. He stepped over Bran and toward the woman. With a birdlike hop, she whisked around the corner. After a second’s hesitation, Mac sprinted after her. Until he knew whether she was running from simple fear or running to get Bran’s friends, he couldn’t let her get away.

By the time he got to the corner, she was already out of sight, but he could smell a trace of sweet perfume. He followed it, mapping this new direction in his mind so he could retrace his steps.

She hadn’t gone far, only down another turning. There she hovered, her back to Mac, peering anxiously around the far corner. He came up behind her, his movements utterly silent.

He hadn’t realized how much noise a human made—breathing, rustling, swallowing—until, as a demon, he’d stopped. He’d made no sound, no scent, moved no air when he passed by. Now, partially human again, he could switch the ability on or off. Going stealth mode freaked him out a bit, but it came in handy.

He was close enough now to see the woman clearly. Her dress fell to the floor and was made of a heavy indigo fabric worn threadbare along the hem. She was small—barely five feet, small-boned, and almost frail. He could have picked her up in one hand. Most of her weight was surely in that thick, straight hair.

Just when he was close enough to notice a strip of dusty lace peeking out from beneath her skirt, her shoulders stiffened. She’d made him. Soundless or not, even demons couldn’t hide from that sixth-sense survival instinct that makes a deer run before the cougar breaks cover.

She whipped around to face him, eyes wide with fear, white edging their deep blue centers. With the jerking motion of a cartoon character, she looked around the corner again, then back to him.
Caught between two bad choices
.

“What’s there?” Mac asked in a quiet voice, wondering whether she spoke English. The Castle didn’t have a universal language, unless one counted despair.

“More guardsmen,” she answered, almost whispering.

“Three of them, heading toward their quarters.” Her words lilted. Irish, perhaps? She searched his face, clearly measuring the level of threat he presented. “Who are you?”

“Conall Macmillan, ma’am.” Somehow it seemed right to use his best manners, as if the shade of his great-grandmother was cuffing him on the ear. “At your service.”

“At my service, now, is it?” There was a flash of irony in her eyes. “And how is it that anyone who defeats a guardsman would serve the likes of me? Guardsmen are made stronger than us. We can’t beat them, and yet there you were looming over Bran’s broken body.”

Uncertainty squeezed Mac’s chest. He didn’t want to hear from a pretty woman how he wasn’t quite normal, much less that he loomed. “I’m just passing through. Maybe the rules don’t apply to me.”

Her gaze caught his, deadly serious. “No one just passes through here.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“You have a key, then.” She said it naturally, as if it was no great marvel.

There’s a key? Maybe more than one?
Mac didn’t answer, wondering what else she might reveal.

“Well, then.” She was calming down, but still looked like she was expecting a dirty trick. “That would answer why I’ve never seen you before.”

“I hope that means you wouldn’t forget me if you had.” He sneaked a glance at the neckline of her dress. Her lowcut gown was laced up the front, the tight crisscross of ribbons making the most of her slender shape. Besides a pendant on a leather lace, she wore a scarf of thin white fabric around her shoulders, the ends tucked modestly down her front and foiling any clear views of cleavage.
Damn
.

She caught the look. “And if I remembered you, would that be on account of your smooth tongue and practiced smile?”

“I have better souvenirs.”
Careful, the last woman you thought was cute turned you into a demon
.

But she ignored his comment and looked around the corner instead, this time letting her spine sag with relief. “They’re gone.”

“Good.” The sword, once so important, now felt cumbersome in his hand. He wanted an excuse to touch this woman. It was pure instinct. She was beautiful and achingly young. The fact that she was hiding from the guardsmen only added a protective urge to the mix. “What’s your name?”

“Constance,” she said, then added, “Moore,” as if it was a piece of information she rarely needed.

“Were the guardsmen chasing you?” he asked.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m a patient man.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” She gave him a bold look that almost contradicted her earlier caution. “You men never make it to the climax of a tale.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “You must be one helluva storyteller.”

She gave a sly, close-lipped smile that would have shamed the Mona Lisa. Her eyes dared him right up until they shifted away, a nervous tell. “I am. Ask any warm-blooded man.”

Mac folded his arms, an awkward process when holding a sword. “Oh, yeah?”

She leaned against the stone wall, all fair skin, black hair, and cherry lips. Snow White in a reckless mood. “Indeed.”

“But are you Scheherazade or Jane Austen?”

“I don’t know those names. Which would I like to be?”

Despite the taunting jut of her chin, he could see the tremor in her fingers, the quick pant of her breath. His demon side licked up her fear like a cat lapped cream. He reached out with his free hand and cupped her jaw, tilting her face up to him. “What do you know about a key?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I know they exist. This place isn’t as air-tight as one might think.”

He dropped his hand, but didn’t move away. “You got one?”

“No.” She tried to hold his gaze, but failed. “You can trust my word on that.”

“Worried that I might search you?”

“You’d probably like that.”

“You think so, eh?”

“You’re male, aren’t you?” The words were more defeated than bitter, and somehow that made them worse.

“Yeah, but I’m not a ravening beast.”
Not the human part, anyway
. “Trust me, undressing a woman is more fun when you’re invited.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t mirthful. “And you’re an expert, I suppose.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“I’m sure it does.” Again, the Mona Lisa smile. There was a history that went with that sweet, self-mocking sadness.

Definitely more temptation than he could handle. He bent and pressed his lips to hers, perhaps to taste that puzzling smile, perhaps to kiss it away. Or maybe just to prove his expertise.

Constance inhaled, a quick, light gasp ended by his capture of her mouth. Her lips were cool and soft, returning his kiss with surprised hesitation. That perfume he had smelled earlier, something flowery and old-fashioned, wafted up from her silken skin. He felt the tentative brush of her fingers in his hair, light as a moth’s wings. Finally, her hand settled on his cheek, a girlish, uncertain touch so gentle that it tickled.

She was no practiced flirt, and he’d just called her bluff.

At a twinge from his conscience, he drew back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

She used both hands to pull his head down, bringing his mouth back to hers.

Okay
. Mac wasn’t about to argue. Heat surged through him, thick and electric. He drew his hand up her spine, over her ribs, up the side of her breast. Constance flinched, as if he’d touched a bruise, but then murmured in pleasure, rising onto her toes. Her body brushed against his.
Oh, yeah. Unexpected, but oh, yeah
.

He felt the tip of her tongue meet his, a shy inquiry. Constance tasted as sweet and wild as blackberries still hot from the sun. He couldn’t drink down her soul as he could have in his demon days, but he could savor it, sad and pure, like her smile.

He already ached in his body, but that taste of her spirit made him ache in his heart. He caught the salty tang of loneliness.
That’s just not right
. Was there no one to look after her? A tiny creature like Constance shouldn’t be out wandering the halls of the Castle by herself. She was so small, he could nearly span her waist with his hands. The fabric of her dress felt rough, too coarse for such tiny perfection. And there was far, far too much clothing for satisfactory exploration.

Heedless, Mac’s fingers slid beneath the flimsy fabric of her scarf, finding soft, cool skin and the gently rounded tops of her breasts. He kept his touch feather-light and was rewarded with a delicate shiver. Tracing his thumb over her collarbone, he caressed the satin flesh of her shoulder.
Nice
.

He deepened the kiss, but kept his beast tightly leashed. Whoever this girl was, she wasn’t ready for his demon side. Hell, most of the time, neither was he.

So sweet
. She knew about a key, a way for Mac to escape. It was almost a shame. This moment, so full of new promise, almost justified an eternity in the Castle.

And yet . . .

Something was not right.

Mac winced, suddenly going very still.
Women. There’s always something.

Yeah, Constance was sweet. The teeth, however, were a surprise.

Gently, he pulled away. Her eyes were closed, her lips flushed and slightly parted to reveal tiny, perfect fangs.
A vampire
. But an innocent one that sent off none of the usual vampiric vibes. There was only one way that happened.

Constance had never tasted blood.

Pheromones
. That answered why she had fascinated him so completely, sent him head over heels in less time than it took your average speed date.

But it raised still another interesting question.

A really good one.

C
onstance let her eyes drift shut, swamped by the absolute wonder of her changing luck. A human male, wandering alone in the Castle, beating the odious Bran into the very stones of the floor? And then kissing her? She couldn’t have ordered up a fantasy more to her liking.

And to make it even better, he was the key to rescuing her son. She had to grab hold and make the most of this chance. And even through her sizzling fury with Atreus, Reynard, and the perverse curse that was her very Undead existence, she didn’t mind the grabbing.

This Conall Macmillan was devouring her, his hands roving down her back with a strength that hurt her stillhealing ribs. She didn’t care about the pain. In all her days, no one had kissed her like this—all male and rising to the call of her feminine charms.

His fingers brushed her breasts. Such big hands, and yet he was so gentle.

He fit her idea of a proper man—tall, strong, and square-jawed. His dark eyes were direct, his thick brown hair just long enough to curl. She liked the mischief that lurked around his mouth, showing itself in a darting grin. Constance bet many a girl had made herself a fool over this fellow.

She would do no such thing. She would be sober and serious. All she had to do was bite him. The instinct was in her, made part of her when she was Turned.

At that thought, her fangs felt enormous, lethal and sharp. She tried to focus on that, instead of her aching breasts, the burn between her thighs.
Sober and serious
, she reminded herself.
Dour as a bloody nun. Just bite him
.

He cupped her backside, squeezing. A little mewing noise escaped her.

All right, if she had to sink her teeth into him, there was no reason not to enjoy the experience. She didn’t want to hurt him any more than she had to. He seemed, well, nice. Warm. Hard in all the right places. His skin tasted hot and smoky, like an exotic spice. Most of all, she approved of his enthusiasm.

Get on with it, Constance! You can’t afford to stall
.

She felt his lips part from hers, cool air replacing the heat of his mouth. All her senses reached for him, clinging to his hard, male warmth. She let her eyes open a slit, just enough to make out his silhouette.

On second thought, he doesn’t smell right
. It had been a long time since she’d encountered a human, but there was something decidedly off.

Bite him! If he’s not human, he’s close enough. Bite him! Bite him for Sylvius
.

Her head spun. She tried to focus on the hammering beat of his heart. It echoed along her every nerve.
Delicious
. She was ready.
I’m sorry, Conall Macmillan, but I need to do this for my boy
.

She moved in for the strike.