Scorched by Sharon Ashwood Read Free Book Online Page B

searing with pain as he landed on his tailbone. Then the toe of a heavy work boot drove into his kidney. Blind with pain, Mac tried to roll to his knees, but another foot thumped into his stomach. He flopped to his back, throwing his arms protectively over his face. He braced for an old-fashioned beat-down. There wasn’t much even a quasi-demon could do against six hellhounds and a pissed-off vampire.
    “Hold,” snapped Caravelli.
    They stopped midkick. Moving quickly, Mac tried to get his feet under him, but one of the hounds casually put a foot on his throat. Mac could feel the grit on the thick rubber treads scraping the flesh of his neck.
    Shit. He was caught.
    “Put him in the Castle. He was Geneva’s thrall.”
    Everything in Mac tightened at the sound of the name. He hated that her mark still branded him like a Made in Hell sticker.
    As one, the hounds bent, grabbing Mac’s hair, his arms, his clothes. Their dark shadows blotted out the neon glow of the Kitty Basket’s sign, leaving only an impression of shaggy hair and the glinting embers of their eyes.
    Metal grated on metal, and the Castle door opened with a theatrical groan of iron hinges. Mac’s feet left the ground as the hellhounds lifted him into the air. He squirmed, twisting in the hounds’ stubborn grip.
    “Caravelli, no! Please, no! I haven’t done anything.”
    The hounds heaved him over the threshold like a sack of sand. Mac skidded on his stomach, his chin hitting the stone floor hard enough to clack his teeth together. He hit a jog in the floor and jolted into a sprawling log roll.
    The bolt grated shut with a heavy, hard rasp. Mac tried to leap to his feet, but stumbled, his joints folding uselessly. The crash onto the hard stone floor had numbed every nerve.
    “Caravelli! Damn you! ”
    He pushed himself up again, his palms flat against the gritty floor. His head spun, half from shock, half from the dim, flickering light but this time he made it to his feet. Pain flowed like hot oil as his flesh registered the fall. Mac dragged in a breath, then lurched to the door and gave it a single, furious blow.
    “Damn you to the darkest hell!”
    His demon could sense Caravelli on the other side of the door, a lurking presence. Caravelli, his judge and jailer. Mac gave the door a savage kick, putting all his force behind it. The heavy oak barely vibrated, adding insult to his fury. After a second’s pause, he could feel Caravelli move off, the shadow of a passing storm. He’s leaving me here!
    Panic rolled up Mac’s throat, cold and foul as a corpse’s embrace. I’m going to stake that walking mosquito. Slowly. With sharp toothpicks so it takes a long, painful while. Not to mention what I’m going to do to his hellhound henchmutts.
    Little by little, he turned to face his prison. The Castle was just as he remembered. There was no exterior, just miles and miles of dark, damp corridors that rambled outside of time and space. And now I’m back in the joint.
    He took a few steps forward, shoving his hands into his pockets. Unease settled on him like thickly falling snow, palpable as the low hum of the Castle’s magic.
    The last time, that hum had nearly driven him mad. It was barely audible, a pressure just below hearing that made his sinuses ache all the way from his molars to the top of his head. It made the demon in him stretch and flex, suddenly restless. The Castle was supposed to damp demon hunger, but right now it was making it harder to control.
    He had to do something. Move. Explore. He started walking, carefully noting each near-identical corner and hallway. The rubber soles of his track shoes were nearly silent, only the rustle of his clothes echoing in the cavernous space. He seemed to be alone. Where was everyone?
    A year ago, after the battle where Geneva died and her armies were crushed, Mac had awakened somewhere in this maze. The force of the spell that had killed Geneva had blasted him deep into the Castle. He should have