Scorched tdf-2 Read online

  Scorched

  ( The Dark Forgotten - 2 )

  Sharon Ashwood

  Ex-detective Macmillan has a taste for bad girls, but his last lover really took the cake?and his humanity. Now a half-demon, Mac?s lost his friends, his family, and his job. Then a beguiling vampire asks for his help to find her son. Suddenly, Mac has a case to work?one that leads him deeps into the supernatural prison where Mac learns that cracking the case will cost him his last scrap of humanity.

  Scorched

  The Dark Forgotten 2

  Sharon Ashwood

  October 7, 7:15 p.m. 101.5 FM

  “Good evening to all you fanged and furry listeners out there in radio land. This is Errata, your hostess from CSUP, the FM station that denies and defies the normal in paranormal. It’s October first and a crisp evening up here on the Fairview U campus. Looks like there’ll be frost on the pumpkin tonight.

  “We have our usual dark and dangerous lineup ahead, but first a special alert. It’s come to our attention that a certain demon detective is back in town. Word has it he’s been lying low for the past while, but my informants spotled this local bad boy out and about last night. Welcome back from the dark side, detective, but be careful of all those bridges you burned last year. I think the footing’s a little treacherous.

  “Oh, and by the way, I wouldn’t count on running a tab at the local watering hole—I think a Thanksgiving turkey has a better chance of long-term credit.”

  Chapter 1

  So, they buried her at a crossroads. Some folks just bring that out in people.

  Conall Macmillan shoved his hands into the pockets of his Windbreaker. Autumn dusk closed around him in shades of blue and charcoal, heavy with seaside moisture. It would be dark in minutes. He could hear the wash of waves in the silence. St. Andrew’s Cemetery was empty, except for the dead. And him, of course, though where he fit on the whole dead/live continuum was open to debate.

  The grave lay at the intersection of two white paved walkways, smack in the way of joggers and dog walkers. Not much of a crossroads, but enough to keep her down. It said something that the ones doing the burying had been vampires. They didn’t scare easily, but the woman now resting beneath the earth had been a demon, a monster’s monster, evil pure as... What was the right comparison, anyway?

  Mac looked up at the fading horizon, memories as black and sharp-edged as the cedars etched against the ocean. Sudden, cold nausea invaded his gut, riding a wave of remembrance at once intimate and brutal.

  What could compare to the desperate, terrifying hunger that had flayed him until he shrugged off humanity like a tattered bathrobe? What could compare with the silver sweetness of each human soul as it slid over his teeth and down his throat like a delicate summer wine?

  Each life was a drop of relief in a desert of desperate need. That was the thirst of a demon, a soul eater. A murderer. He knew, because the woman beneath the crossroads had made Mac just like her. Walking evil.

  The brass plaque on the headstone simply read: GENEVA. It had been a year since she was placed, suddenly human and instantly dead, beneath the dirt.

  A breeze hushed through the leaves that littered the lawn, an anticipatory sound. The wind was changing as the sun bloodied the sea, carrying in the smell of brine. Mac walked around Geneva’s last home, viewing it from every angle.

  What am I looking for? To reassure myself she’s really down there—human, deceased, and rotting the way she’s supposed to? Not a good thought. Geneva had been beautiful, for all her wicked ways. The memory of her still brought heat to his flesh.

  He’d always gone for the wrong women, the kind who weren’t interested in forever. After years on the squad, his heart was entombed in dead bodies and paperwork, insulated against a cop’s daily dose of carnage. A quick and dirty grapple in the dark was all he had to give and those mad, bad babes fit him to a T.

  So when a pretty blonde had invited him for a drink, he’d considered it lucky, but business as usual. Bad mistake. Life-ending mistake.

  Now the forever kind of woman was beyond his grasp. Even if he dared to make her his own, one day he might fall off the wagon and then it would be, “Sorry, darling. I scarfed down the kids.”

  A short brick wall encircled Geneva’s plot, holding in the sod. The site was on a hill and had views of everything: the ocean, the acres of yew trees and headstones, even glimpses of the strip mall to the north. It was fitting. Geneva had loved to be in the center of things.

  Dead center, ha-ha, Mac thought bitterly.

  A desolate feeling stole over him. It was bad when you had to laugh at your own lousy puns. Fortunate that he wasn’t a drinker. It would be far too nice to forget everything, even for just a little while.

  Thunk!

  A knife thrummed into the dirt at his foot, silver blade quivering as it struck. The dark steel hilt had the elegant simplicity of all vampire armaments.

  Mac hunched, his spine itching at every spot where the knife might have struck. “What?” he snapped to the empty air.

  The answer was dry with sarcasm. “You finally showed up. It’s been a year.”

  Mac had forgotten how much he hated that low, smooth, arrogant voice. His teeth clenched so hard, pain shot up his left temple.

  Between one blink and the next, Alessandro Caravelli appeared on the other side of the grave, his weight resting on one hip. Yes, it had been a year since they last met. Shrink-wrapped in leather, the vampire still had the rock ‘n’ roll biker vibe going on: boots, studs, and attitude. Curly wheat blond hair fell past his shoulders; his amber eyes were steady, unblinking, and not at all friendly.

  “The sword’s a nice touch,” Mac said. “Very retro.”

  The vampire held the huge blade loosely at his side. “Special edition. It kills everything. Even demons.”

  Despite himself, Mac felt a sizzle of fear. “I’m not a demon anymore. I’m not evil. I’m cured.”

  Caravelli’s chin lifted; he took a subtle sniff of the breeze. “Faint, but the demon stink is there.”

  Mac’s lip curled at the insult. “Oh, yeah, and seeing you brings back all the good times, Caravelli. I’ve so missed your bad-assed sheriff-to-the-Undead routine.”

  “I still keep the law among the supernatural citizens in Fairview.” Without a flicker of expression, Caravelli took a step closer. “And you’re still a danger. You were Geneva’s thrall. Our enemy.”

  “Yeah, well...” Mac trailed off. The events of a year ago were confused in Mac’s mind, but he remembered the essential facts. Geneva picked a fight with Fairview’s supernatural community—werebeast and vampire, demon and fey—in a bid to control the territory. Yes, he had fought with the black hats, being a demon and all at the time.

  His side lost. Holly Carver, a witch, had turned the tide, blasting Geneva with a spell so powerful that it had stripped away the demon’s powers. The moment Geneva became human, her own soldiers had killed her. Drained her blood. Left her corpse to the mercy of her enemies.

  It’s hard to get good help when you’re an archvillain. It’s even harder to change careers from henchdemon to harmless civilian.

  Caravelli frowned, a slight movement of his foot signaling his impatience.

  Oh, crap. Shifting his weight, Mac forced himself not to bolt, though the urge burned along every nerve. Never show a vampire fear. He couldn’t take his eyes off Caravelli’s sword. How come I‘m walking around unarmed? Stupid! He’d lost the habit of carrying weapons during his demon days.

  Mac played his only card. “Hear me out. I was caught by the same spell as Geneva. If she was made human again, so was I.”

  It worked. The vampire lowered the blade an inch or two. “Then tell me this. You disappeared after the battle. We looked for you. T
he queen offered a reward for your return. Where have you been?”

  “Out of my mind.” Mac looked away. “Yeah, I feel guilty. I was a cop, for God’s sake. Geneva made me turn against everything I stood for.” Heat rushed up his face, but he forced himself to meet Caravelli’s gaze. “I didn’t join her willingly. She corrupted me. You know that. You were there.”

  For the first time, Caravelli showed emotion. Damn him, it was pity. “That would’ve been the point, with her.”

  Mac used a few pithy obscenities. “Yeah, ain’t that the truth.”

  It had taken only one long, hot kiss to infect him with that craving for human life. A hunger he hadn’t entirely lost. Not that he was going to mention that to Caravelli and his meat cleaver.

  Now Mac let himself take a step back, then another. “I’m sorry for what I did. I’ve prayed for some means to atone. It’s not enough, but there’s nothing else I can offer.”

  “Not so fast.” With a rush of wind and leather, Caravelli sprang into the air, sailing lightly over Geneva’s grave. For a moment, he hung there like a biker bird of prey.

  Mac scrambled backward, the instinct to run winning out. His legs felt clumsy, as if he were trying to run on bags of water. Caravelli’s arms stretched out, the moonlight kissing the sword and the studs on his coat and boots. He had barely touched down when he bounded again, right over Mac’s head. Mac spun. The vampire landed with a muffled thud, his boots sinking into soft grass as he turned to face him. The force of his landing stirred up the smell of dew-soaked grass and leaves.

  Crouching, Caravelli lifted the sword in both hands, the tip level with Mac’s chest. “You have to pay,” he said softly. “Sorry or not, you broke the law. We can live among the humans only so long as we do not harm them. You drank them down like cheap beer. Perhaps it’s not your fault, but demons destroy. It’s their nature.”

  Caravelli said it with the tired cadence of a cop reading a criminal’s rights. Mac wondered whether he’d sounded the same when making an arrest—utterly, remorselessly cold.

  “Not anymore. I’ve lost the ability to feed,” Mac replied carefully, keeping his own voice level. He would not beg to live. He would never beg Caravelli, the bloody-fanged poseur, but he had to set the record straight. “I eat spaghetti now. Bagels. Frosty Flakes. No souls. I’m corporeal. No magic tricks. I must be human.”

  The lie was ash on Mac’s tongue. They both heard the falsehood.

  “But you’re not human, so what the hell are you?” asked the vampire.

  I’m hungry. He might have lost the ability to feed, but not the desire. “I haven’t a clue.”

  The statement hung between them, the deepening darkness giving a hazy aura of nightmare. “The spell didn’t Turn you all the way back,” Caravelli said neutrally. “It’s not over.”

  An involuntary shiver made Mac cross his arms. The pain of the spell’s blast had been surreal, almost beyond his perception. “I was at the edge of the spell’s power.”

  “Too bad. I might have been able to pardon you if it had worked.” His regret sounded real.

  Mac’s temper snapped like rotten elastic. Blood rushed to his face. “What the hell, Caravelli? Why bother? I’m already dead in any way that matters. Everyone I ever loved is terrified of me. I’ve lost my friends. I’ve lost my family. I’ve lost my job. The very essence of who I was has been twisted and perverted. Anything you do is plain overkill.”

  “And yet,” said the vampire, “killing you is why I’m here.”

  Fright and anger narrowed Mac’s vision until all he could see were Caravelli’s burning amber eyes. He hated him. Why the hell did this bloodsucker get to pass judgment? Mac stabbed his finger in the air. “Go sit on a stake. Leave me alone. I came back here to figure this out.”

  Caravelli hoisted the sword, taking a slow, deliberate practice swing. He was toying with Mac, drawing out the kill. Stalling. “Figure what out?”

  “Damn you! Isn’t it obvious?”

  Caravelli looked up, eyebrow raised. “What?”

  “I want my old life back. I don’t destroy. I’m the guy with the badge who saves people. That’s who I need to be.” Mac sucked in a deep breath. “I want to be human again.”

  To his utter fury, Caravelli laughed. He laughed.

  That pushed Mac’s misery one step too far. Faster than a human eye could follow, his hand shot out, grabbing the vampire’s sword arm by the wrist. The laughter jerked to silence. Caravelli tried to tear away, out of Mac’s demon-strong grip. Not a budge. Caravelli swore in some other, antique language.

  Satisfaction blossomed, an ugly bloom born of frustration. Mac tightened his fingers long enough to make a point, and then shoved Caravelli backward as if he were no more than a boy.

  The vampire stumbled, but somehow made it look like a dance step. His look was sharp, as if he had just solved a puzzle. “You were holding back. I thought so. I needed to know.”

  “You pushed me till I fought back.”

  “Anger doesn’t lie. Now you’ve told me just how dangerous you really are.”

  Mac cursed. He’d been trapped by the shreds of demon still festering inside. Brute strength to go with his brutish, voracious appetite.

  The vampire slowly shook his head. “We’re all Pinocchio, wishing we were real boys. If only we are good enough, save enough lives, perform the right rituals, sacrifice ourselves— or someone else—we can turn back into the humans we once were. I apologize. I laughed only because what you said was so familiar.”

  “Give me a chance.”

  “I died when men still thought the world was flat. I didn’t survive by being charitable.”

  There was a moment’s pause. Distant traffic merged with the rush of the ocean. The sharp autumn air carried a tang of wood smoke. It was finally cold enough for Fair-view’s residents to stoke up the fireplaces and curl up in the warmth and safety of their homes.

  Caravelli passed the huge sword from hand to hand as if it weighed no more than a ballpoint pen—a not-so-subtle show of his own strength. Mac wouldn’t count on surprising him twice.

  The vampire seemed to be musing, taking Mac’s measure. The air between them hummed with raw male willpower. Demon rage pulsed against the eggshell of Mac’s human facade. It was hard, so hard, not to revel in it, lap it up and surrender to an orgy of fury.

  And get chopped to pieces for his trouble. The silence sawed through Mac’s nerves. “So, are you going to execute me or what?”

  Chapter 2

  The blade swept out of nowhere, too fast for the eye to track. Mac dodged, more by instinct than by any con-scious decision. Caravelli swung again, using the impetus to wheel in an airborne circle of leather and steel. The follow-through would take Mac’s head for sure.

  Except Mac slammed to the ground, using the downward slope of the lawn in a quick roll-somersault-vault maneuver that took him over the low iron railing that enclosed a family plot. He heard the sword whoosh through the grass, the quick scrape of metal on gravestone. Shit! He bounded over a series of low fences and grave markers as if they were track-and-field hurdles.

  I’ll take that as a yes on the planning to kill me question. Feet pounding the grass, Mac ran, not daring to turn to look. He knew Caravelli was behind him. Yeah, running looked weak. He could stand his ground—maybe even take Caravelli despite the sword—but the price was too high. If cornered, Mac’s demon instincts would grab control. Those episodes gave new meaning to mood swing.

  Breath came sharp, laced with the scent of his own sour sweat. He headed for the roadway north of the cemetery, where there was traffic. Even psycho vamps hesitated to slice and dice their victims in front of human witnesses.

  Again, Mac ducked, a sixth sense saving him as a blow lanced out of the sky, perfectly silent. The wind in the trees had masked the rustle of air through Caravelli’s clothes.

  Frigging leech!

  Mac zigzagged to make himself a harder target. He dodged angels and crosses, urns draped in stone veils
and the virgin weeping granite tears. He knew he was running too fast for a human, saving himself through sheer speed.

  From the corner of his eye, Mac saw Caravelli land on the branch of an oak, coat eddying around him, pausing before he leapt again. Mac veered beneath the hawthorn trees, hoping their twisting branches would shelter him. He could see the road now, make out individual cars and streetlights. The bus shelter glowed like a holy temple of safety.

  Mac jumped another grave, almost stumbling over it before he saw the overgrown marker. It was a bad takeoff and he landed awkwardly, the lumpy ground wrenching his foot. Crap! He let himself roll into the fall and back onto his feet, pelting forward.

  This time he heard Caravelli’s approach, the vampire’s boots on the grass, and he jerked aside. The tip of the sword kissed his ear, a nip meant to be a killing blow. Shit!

  Gathering a last push of speed, he sprang over the low iron fence of the cemetery, thumping to the sidewalk just in time to see the city bus rumble around the corner. Mac sprinted toward the bus shelter, waving his arms for the driver to stop.

  For God’s sake, Caravelli, stay in the graveyard with the other dead things!

  The bus loomed, its bright bulk slowing as Mac ran forward. The door wheezed open and Mac ran up the steps into a hot fog of humanity. At the smell, a sudden rush of soul hunger ached in his gut. He turned and looked, but the vampire was nowhere in sight.

  Thank you, God.

  He grabbed the sticky pole as the bus lurched forward, using his free hand to dig in his jeans pocket for coins. They clanked as they fell into the fare box.

  “Nearly missed me,” said the driver, steering back into traffic.

  “Yeah,” said Mac, still breathing hard. “Lucky I caught you.” Life-saving lucky.

  He picked his way over feet and backpacks until he found a sideways seat near the back exit. Advertising lined the bus walls.