No wonder the guards went rogue.
Things were going to change. Mac started a mental list.
He paused to get details from Ashe, but then Caravelli burst out the door, his sword—oddly crumpled—in one hand and a hellhound child in his other arm. “Goddamned dragon!”
Mac couldn’t suppress a snicker. The kid ruined the whole Prince of Darkness image.
“What happened?” said Ashe, craning her neck to look up at him.
“It came back. It took one look at the fire pond and did a belly flop right in the middle.”
“It killed itself?” Ashe said, her voice going up an octave.
He passed off the child to one of the hound women. The little girl must have been lost, because they looked very, very happy to see her.
“No, the dragon likes it.” Caravelli made a dramatic face. “It’s wallowing in it like a big, fire-breathing pig, rolling around in sheer bliss. Nobody can get through there. We’ve had to detour the second group of hounds through the balconies.”
“Leave it there for now,” said Mac.
It was clear the vampire, on some level, was enjoying himself. The hellhounds were looking at him like he was the Second Coming.
“We’ll leave the dragon there for now,” Caravelli said, still looking directly at Ashe. “We’ve got it surrounded in case it tries to move.”
“How are we going to get it back where it belongs?” she asked.
“Caravelli?” Mac said.
The vampire ignored him. “It looks like the tunnels that vanished are opening up again. Maybe by tomorrow we can convince it to go home.”
This is weird
. “Caravelli?” Mac waved his hand in front of the vampire’s face. No reaction. Then he waved his hand
through
Caravelli.
Outrage slammed through him.
I’m still a ghost!
This was a disaster. Mac looked frantically around.
Okay, everybody here is supernatural. Surely somebody is psychic.
He didn’t see Holly anywhere.
And he hadn’t seen Constance. He turned around again, looking everywhere for her small, dark form. Lore was sitting with Sylvius on some overturned crates, one hand around his friend’s shoulders. Mac ran over to them. “Hey, can you see me?” He snapped his fingers under the hellhound’s nose. “Yo, Fido!”
Nothing.
Mac stopped, caught short by the stricken set of Sylvius’s body. He was curled over, his head nearly on his knees. The first thing he noticed was that the kid wasn’t hurt anymore. No blood. No wounds. Even his color was good.
“You’ll be okay,” Lore said. “I have faith. So should you.”
Mac nearly missed Sylvius’s answer, it was so quiet. “But Macmillan died! So many did. And what’s going to happen to me now?”
“You’ll do what you must.”
Which was true, but clearly not what Sylvius wanted to hear.
“I’m not who I was. The Avatar took back the part of me that was her.” Sylvius raised his head. “What’s left?”
With a shock of surprise, Mac understood. Sylvius was a young man. No wings. With the silver hair and black eyes, he was striking to look at, but he was human—or humanish—like his father.
What was a teenage ex-love god going to do when he finally discovered the twenty-first century? If ever there was a need for adult supervision, this was it.
Mac spun on his heel, hurrying into the Castle. He had to fix this invisibility problem pronto—but first he had to see with his own eyes that Constance was all right.
When the worst was over—and that had gone on and on, with battle and injury and death—Constance went back to the Summer Room. She needed solitude, if just for a minute or two.
I should be with Sylvius
. He needed her. But they’d grieved together for hours. She had nothing left. If she could only gather her strength and fumble the pieces of her heart together—then, maybe, she could help someone else.
The Summer Room was just as she had left it, violated and broken. It had become her home—the home she had ached and longed for—and it was destroyed.
Like everything else
. Crying felt useless. She’d already sobbed until her ribs ached. There had been so much to cry about—but weeping did no good. It changed nothing.
Atreus had finally found respite from his madness. Someday she would find the energy to wonder whether his madness was guilt at what he had done to the Avatar, or if his love for the Avatar had been the result of insanity. Right now, all that mattered was that he had destroyed, and destroyed, until he finally destroyed himself.
She had been, in the drama of the great Atreus of Muria, what they called collateral damage. After two and a half centuries of service, her master had destroyed her world without a thought for her happiness. And not just hers. If she had let him go at the end, it was only to stop the carnage yet to come.
She was done with masters.
Her servant’s tale was so small, it could be written on a handkerchief.
A man had loved her. He had loved her despite her human weakness and her vampire strength, her innocence and her bloodlust. He’d kept coming back despite the fact that she asked him to lay down his life for a child not his own.
And then he died, and left her.
Mac was dead.
It was her fault.
Events had followed, one after the other, like a string of beads, and it all led back to her. Lore had warned her about wanting her vampire powers, but she had fallen prey to temptation. The first time she had really used those powers, she had released Atreus. He had killed Mac.
And she was left empty of all but a stunned, silent grief.
She fell onto the sofa, trying not to see the splintered wound left by Bran’s sword. She could feel the shards of wood under her hand, digging through the cotton of Holly’s skirt. Constance put her hands over her face, hiding from the candlelight. Bran might have broken all the furniture, but the magic candles still burned on, their length never altering one bit.
All the wrong things seemed to go on forever.
Cold air wafted through the room. With the door caved in, there was nothing to stop the unpredictable Castle breezes. Connie shivered, mourning Mac’s heat. Mourning Mac.
The cold came again, more acute now. She shuddered, somehow finding enough will to get up and drape one of the tapestries across the door.
Connie?
She started, looking around. She had heard Mac’s voice, but there was no one, nothing in the room but her.
Grief is driving me mad
.
“Connie!”
Astonishing. Mac’s voice was coming from the candlestick next to the hearth.
Constance sighed. Well, all right. Everyone else in the Castle seemed to have lost their minds—Viktor and Atreus, for instance. Now it was her turn. She sat back down on the sofa.
“Connie.”
She gasped, shrinking back. That had come from right in front of her face!
The light flickered, all the candles guttering. Slowly, slowly, Mac emerged into view, leaning over the sofa to stare down at her.
“I can see right through you,” she whispered.
“So my mother always said.”
His voice caressed her, a wave of tiny shocks that brought her feelings back to life. After such sudden loss, her relief was beyond description.
And then he was gone. “Mac?” She was clearly losing her mind.
A cold breeze stirred the room, making her shiver. Then she felt his lips, soft and hard at once, familiar and warm. Not burning now, but still filled with all the heat of a man reunited with his mate.
And he was there again, bending down to hold her, a filmy shadow of himself. Constance held very still, seeking only with her mouth, connecting again and again. She drank him in, closing her eyes, tasting his smoky, spicy flavor. Eyes shut, she could imagine him fully there, his big, hot body curling around her, cherishing her, giving her back the life she had lost. Forgetting that, no, he was only madness, or a ghost, or a memory, she reached up with one hand to cup his cheek. First her fingers touched only warmth, a tingle that somehow resolved into the rough, whiskered angle of his jaw.
She let her eyes flicker open. “Mac?”
His hand was on her arm, solid, warm, and heavy. His dark eyes were laughing, as if he were playing the most wonderful joke. “The Avatar said the only thing that matters is the joy that gives me life. Who knew she meant it literally?”
Constance felt her mouth drift open. He was laughing. A sudden hot wave of emotion erupted. “What do you think you’re doing to me?” She jumped to her feet, nearly bumping his chin. “Do you think this is a jest?”
He fell back a step, his eyes round and wide at her temper. For a moment, she saw the boy he must have been. He opened and closed his mouth, obviously groping for something to say. “I came back from the dead for you, sweetheart.”
Constance burst into tears. “You could have told me you were going to do that!”
“Oh, it was just a setback,” he said, taking her in his arms. “I would have called, but y’know, reception sucks in here.”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” she muttered into his chest, absolutely dizzy with the wonderful, warm feel of him. He wasn’t too hot. Just toasty-right, warming her through and through.
He hugged her. “It’s a long story, but I’ll be here to tell it.”
She sniffed. “You died and it was my fault.”
He chuckled, looking over the top of her head. “How do you figure that?”
She pushed him away. “I set Atreus free. And then he killed you. And then he fell.”
He sobered. “It wasn’t your fault that he was crazy, and letting him go might well have saved us all. I think his magic thunderbolt gave a helluva boost to the Avatar’s spell, plus it did stop the battle.”
Constance put her hand to his cheek. “How are you here? I saw . . .”
“I made a deal with the Castle. I’m part of it now. I gained a lot of control over my powers, and I, uh . . .” He paused. “I got a job here. I mean, I can come and go, but this is it for me. I’m home.”
“Like the guardsmen?”
“No, I’m better off than they are by a long shot.”
“A job?”
Mac shrugged. “Kind of part-cop, part-gamekeeper, part-troubleshooter. The Avatar needs a go-to guy to keep the place running. Someone to do the day-to-day work.”
“And you don’t mind?”
“Strange as this sounds, I think it might be my dream job.”
She lowered her head, her hands still wrapped in the thick fabric of his sweater. “Was that the only reason you came back?”
She could hear the smile in his words. “Why do you think? I love you. Besides, you brought me back to life with a kiss. After something like that, a guy’s gotta stick around.”
Constance looked up into his face, touching his cheek, his arm, his hair, convincing herself he was there. He didn’t move, just let her reassure her senses, a trace of demon red in his dark, laughing eyes.
Finally, he reached down, scooping her up in his arms.
“I noticed something about being dead,” he announced, striding across the room.
“What?”
“It made me want to make sure I’m alive. Good thing the bed’s still in one piece.”
She grabbed his arm as he set her on the bed. “How can you? There’s a dragon. There are still hounds trying to find the door, and guardsmen and . . . nobody knows you’re here!”
He shed his jacket, crawling onto the soft bed at the same time. “Y’know, with the new job and all, I think this might be the last peace and quiet I get for a while.”
“Hmm.” Constance reached up, linking her arms around his neck. “And so I get a part of you before the rest of the Castle gets their chance?”
“Sweetheart, all my parts are yours.” He gave her a long, lingering kiss that left her aching in all the right places.
“I love you, Mac.”
“Good.” He slid his hand under her sweater, finding the soft mound of her breast. He squeezed it gently, bringing a groan to her throat. “Because I’m going to need you with me for a long, long time.”
She reached up, running her fingers down his strong neck, down to the hollow of his throat. “I’m here. Always.”
“Good.” With a single, liquid movement, he pulled off his sweater, the muscles of his stomach and chest bunching as he moved.
“Saints above,” Constance breathed.
Mac stopped, letting the sweater fall. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“Yes, it is.”
He looked down, frowning. “What the hell?”
Constance sat up, her fingers hesitating as she touched the sworls of blue that covered his skin. “The Castle has marked you.”
His only response was a hiss of breath. “Well, it said it would find a way to deal with the heat.”
The designs that marked his skin were different from the guardsmen’s tattoos. More elaborate, more striking. He was covered in flames, twined like the intricate designs of the Celtic heritage he shared with Constance. She touched her tongue to the knot work, tracing its line around his nipple, her fangs skimming over the tender nub. He shuddered, rising to his knees. She moved with him, undulating against his hard, broad body.
“Too many clothes,” he rasped.
She popped the catch of her bra, letting it slide from her shoulders with a shrug. The look on his face made her smile.
It might have been a slightly evil smile. He hurriedly began unbuttoning his jeans.
Mac was a masterwork. The tattoos flowed thickly over his skin, parting like waves around his manhood. Constance traced them down his arms and legs, making each one her own with tongue and teeth. She explored each complex line down to the arches of his feet, the broad bones of his wrists, where each flame finally wound back on itself, lost in its own maze.
There were surprises in the design, touches of red and green and yellow, little treasures to discover. The pattern roamed over his strong calves, up the backs of his thighs, and over the mounds of his hard, muscular buttocks. Then it spread out, fanning from his waist over the expanse of his shoulders.