Scorched by Sharon Ashwood Page A

trusting fool. Men and demons were such expert liars. Then again, she had been planning to bite him. She couldn’t exactly throw stones.
    Resuming her path, she threaded her way through the maze of corridors. Her feet fell silently, only the rustle of her skirts marking her passage through the semidarkness. A cold draft told her she was getting close to her destination.
    Too bad Macmillan had been so compelling. He had good, capable hands. A deep voice. He had aroused a curiosity she’d all but forgotten, not just as a vampire, but as a woman. If she’d begun to dream of home and family, he’d sharpened that yearning, given it new details. A face with dark eyes and a fleeting smile.
    It made her think of so many of her mother’s songs, those ones sung around the table so long ago. Come away, my lassie-o, come away, my bonny / Come away, my dearieo, with rovin’ soldier Johnny . . .
    That, more than anything, was a signal for caution. The last man who made her sing couldn’t wait to put his hand up her skirts and his teeth in her neck.
    She passed a large leather glove someone had dropped. One of the guardsmen? A spy of Prince Miru-kai? She stepped carefully around it, reluctant to touch it even with her shoe. It was too big for anything that was, or ever had been, human.
    Well, any spies were wasting their time. Sylvius was gone.
    Constance reached her destination. Viktor was nowhere in sight, but her master was there. Constance stood in the shadow of the door, trying to see without being seen. Atreus sat in the great, carved chair, but it seemed to engulf him, more a prison than a throne.
    Atreus rocked back and forth, his face in his hands. She could guess what that meant. The strain of Reynard’s visit had left his mind worse off than before. His slowly gathering madness took so many forms: Grandiose dreams. Forgetfulness. Hallucinations. Now, he had added violence and betrayal to his repertoire.
    Did he grieve for Sylvius? She wondered whether he even remembered who Sylvius was.
    Should I go to him? Instead, she lingered in the doorway, rubbing Sylvius’s pendant between her thumb and fingers. In the past, she had reached out to Atreus, a flower tracking the light. She had hungered for his regard, his protection. Now, even her anger toward him felt muffled, wrapped in dull, colorless grief. What could she do for him? It wasn’t a question of loyalty. It was a question of fact. She had nursed him for years, but he had nearly killed her and had given away her son.
    Reynard had promised that his men would visit this part of the Castle daily to ensure all was well and to supply whatever goods might be needed. He would keep that promise. She need have no fears for Atreus’s physical care.
    For the moment, the only thing she could truly do for her master was to fix the damage he had done.
    Constance crept along the edge of the room, hugging the wall. She turned when she got to a passageway on the right. It was a short hall that branched into individual bedrooms. Atreus had the largest. That door, a pointed arch of dark, polished wood, was to her right.
    Atreus forbade anyone to set foot inside his chambers, always locking the door tight. That had always been quite fine with Constance. She had no wish to invade a sorcerer’s private space—until now.
    Anxiety shrilled with the urgency of an animal in an iron trap.
    This had better be worth the risk .
    It was a testament to Atreus’s befuddled state that he’d begun to neglect his secrets. The door to his room was slightly ajar, just enough to see the faint glow of a lamp within. Cautiously, she gave a push, letting the door drift open with a faint creak.
    The chamber was large, with a bed covered in dark furs. A terra-cotta oil lamp hung on chains from the ceiling. The far corner held a high table draped in black silk and littered with the accouterments of a sorcerer. At the foot of the bed was a trunk. Nothing looked actively threatening.
    So far, so good . But