Scorched

Chapter 4

Outrage jolted Constance so hard that she gripped the arm of Atreus’s chair to keep from staggering. Her one instinct was to stay upright. If she was standing, she could defend her child.

Something moved behind the guardsmen, gliding through the shadows.

Not something. Someone. Oh, no. As if he had come at the mention of his name, Sylvius paused in the arch of the doorway, the gray stone framing him against the eternal dark beyond. He was as tall as Atreus, but pale as moonlight. He wore only loose trews of dark silk. Muscles rippled under his fair skin, but his was the lean body of a youth, not a seasoned warrior. Silver hair fell thick and straight to his hips. Startling dark eyes dominated a long, angular face that was softened only by a wide, expressive mouth.

Just sixteen, Sylvius had never set foot outside the Castle. A foundling, Constance had raised him from a babe.

His posture was drawn tight, like a bow about to fire, or a bird about to take flight. She could see from his face he’d heard every word. Her lips parted. Instinct made her want to call out—to warn Sylvius, to comfort him, to bring him to her side—but caution won out. Every second he remained unseen by the guardsmen, he remained safe. Constance dropped her eyes and forced her face into a neutral mask.

She wasn’t a good enough actor. Reynard raised a brow and turned his head slowly toward the doorway. “And there he is.”

Calm, almost casual, Atreus sat again, rearranging his robes with a careless flick. “Why do you want the boy?”

The question was a stall. Even Constance knew the nauseating answer. The Castle took away hunger, thirst, and lust—no doubt a safety spell to keep the inmates from reproducing or feeding on one other. The result was an eternity devoid of basic, pleasurable drives.

The antidote was the power of the incredibly rare incubi—like Sylvius. For an hour or two, their intimate touch—or blood—gave back passion. Not just the urge to mate, but gusto, energy, the gleeful frenzy of spring. This was the treasured drug the warlords were willing to kill for. With it, they could promise anything, bribe anyone.

At sixteen, Sylvius was just coming into his power. His newly adult blood was a treasure and a weapon. And it would take no time at all to bleed him dry.

Run! Constance willed the word with all her soul, but telepathy had always been beyond her talents.

“The incubus is a rarity. Too dangerous to leave unprotected,” said Reynard. “My plan is to put Sylvius under lock and key. Now that he is grown, the Castle will go to war over your pet. He is the Holy Grail that could kill us all. I won’t allow it.”

That was too much for Constance. “No! Sylvius, listen to me!” She dodged out of the reach of Atreus’s restraining hand. Every nerve in her body burst with angry excitement. “Get out of here! Run while you can!”

“But where would I go?” Sylvius looked at his master, confusion in his eyes. He had known only kindness in his short life. Constance had protected him too well.

Atreus cast a sideways look at Reynard, and then turned his gaze on the youth. “There is no place to run to. Do not listen to Constance, my boy. Your first duty is to obey me.”

Atreus is taking the guardsmen’s side! Constance gaped for a moment, shocked. It was as if the universe moved, the stars and planets spinning awry. To blazes with that! She bolted forward, grabbing Sylvius’s arm, swinging him toward the door, but she was too slow. The guardsmen closed around them with the lethal swiftness of a well-tied noose.

“Constance!” Atreus snapped.

She ignored him and drew her knife. Centuries of obedience could not trump the instinct to protect her child.

“Constance!” Atreus bellowed. His voice bounced off her, meaningless sound.

“They always say it’s the women who rule any household,” said Reynard dryly.

“Let me give her a fight,” put in a big, tattooed guardsman named Bran. “She looks energetic.”

“Silence, Bran,” said Reynard. “We’re here as men of honor.”

Bran closed his mouth, but his expression made Constance’s skin shrink against her flesh. She tried to put her body between Sylvius and the men who threatened from all sides. There just wasn’t enough of her, but she’d fight any way she could. No rules. This was her family, her child, at stake. Constance bared her teeth—her hated vampire fangs—in a snarl.

“She can’t hurt you,” said Reynard to his guards. “She’s never tasted blood. Her powers are barely more than human.”

But I’m a mother. Don’t underestimate mothers.

A swarthy-faced guardsman tried to grab past her to get at Sylvius. She could hear Sylvius moving, feel his solid weight as he bumped against her. He was young and strong, but she doubted that he’d ever thrown a punch. He needed to have brothers, like I did.

The guard lunged again. Ruthlessly, she swiped at the soldier with the blade. His arm came away coated in blood that splashed down his long green tunic. “Fanged whore!”

Viktor growled, reacting to the blood or the angry words. He ripped free of Bran’s hold on his ruff and joined the fray, grabbing the guardsman in his jaws.

“Atreus, control your minions!” Reynard roared.

“Constance!” Atreus flicked his fingers, threads trailing from his cuff like wisps of smoke.

An invisible weight hurled into her, smashing her to the stone wall behind. Her spine took the impact, her arms and legs flopping like the limbs of Viktor’s toy. The knife dropped from her hand. She barely noticed. Her ribs felt as if they were bending inward, crushing into her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. She became one with the stone, sinking into it for a split second before she realized it was her own bones that gave.

A moment later, Constance crumpled to the floor like a rag, waiting for the waves of pain to come crashing home. If she were a human, she’d be dead. Instead, she felt the eerie crawling feeling through her flesh that said her body was already healing. Her mind was like a clean white page, empty, blank. Stunned.

When her senses returned, she had her first thoroughly disloyal thought, and it burned. Atreus, you bastard.

Reynard picked up her knife, carefully sliding it through his own belt. The captain paid attention to detail.

She smelled as much as heard Viktor bound to her side. The werebeast straddled her, as if sheltering her with his body. Then there was the rough wetness of his tongue, licking at her face. The blunt affection melted her resistance to the pain. It swamped her like bad whiskey, tides of nausea and dizziness and hot, brutal agony. She willed her eyes open and managed a sliver of vision.

They had Sylvius, bewildered and passive, a guardsman holding each arm. Reynard stood before the youth, a considering look on his face.

Sylvius looked from the captain, to Atreus, to where Constance lay. “What are you going to do with me?” His voice shook.

Reynard took a tiny red lacquered box from his pocket and set it on the floor between them. He depressed a catch and the lid sprung open. “Do you understand what this is?”

Constance tried to scream, but couldn’t draw enough breath.

Sylvius nodded, turning deathly pale. “It’s a demon trap.”

It’s a prison, four inches square.

“No one can harm you inside there. Nor can your influence cause harm to others.” Reynard spoke with the air of someone doing a difficult but honorable thing. Of course, he wasn’t the one getting inside the torturously small box. Evil, devious prig.

Sylvius suddenly flung up his arms, surprising the guardsmen into letting him go. Through the haze of her injuries, Constance felt a stab of terror and fierce pride. He’s going to fight back.

Instead, he unfurled the wings he kept folded tight against his back and leapt into the air. Sylvius landed on a ledge high above them, crouching so his hands and one knee touched the stone. His wings spread above him, boned and webbed like a bat’s, but finer and more elegantly arched. Like all of him, they were pale and beautiful, a translucent white flushed with the heat of his blood.

Sylvius gave a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “My apologies, Captain Reynard, but I’d rather not spend the rest of eternity as a paperweight.”

“That is not your decision,” said Atreus. “You are mine to dispose of as I please.”

“No,” the youth said quietly. “Not about something like this.”

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.

Her child was at stake.

She would find a victim.

She would become the necessary monster.