Anger steadied him. Plus, the cold air had cleared his head a little. Straightening, he looked out over Fairview. At least it looked the same as it always did. The pale morning light showed patches of russet and gold in the trees. The distant strip of ocean gleamed pewter gray. Life woke in the town, pulsing.
It pulsed through him, too. That strange, electric feeling he’d felt before rushed through his blood at full tilt. He was insanely alive. Every muscle and thew of this body wanted to run, fight, and burn off this fierce, hot energy.
Beneath it all, his demon powers hummed like a dark, Gothic chorus. They had gained ground, leaving him feeling far less civilized. I’m so screwed. How the hell am I going to come back from this one? Am I even a little bit human anymore?
Well, the upgrade would make fighting idiots like Bran that much easier.
He noticed the curtain of a neighboring condo twitch. The place had a clear view of Mac’s balcony, which was why he seldom used it. Great. He looked around and noticed a few other female faces in other windows, one with a camera phone.
He thought of a few fresh obscenities, but a corner of his ego did the happy dance. He stomped on it. Mac stalked back inside, feeling the confinement of the apartment like an assault. Hunger was moving on to nausea. He was going to pass out if he didn’t eat something.
He grabbed the cold toast out of the toaster and shoved one piece in his mouth. He put two more slices of bread in the slots and punched the button down. With a sigh of relief, he chewed the dry toast, washing it down with black coffee. Then he felt patient enough to actually butter the second piece. He rummaged in the fridge for a block of cheese, ripped open the pack, and broke off a piece with his hands, not bothering with a knife. By then the next round had toasted, and he started the ritual over again. Mindlessly, Mac kept going until he ate nearly every damned thing in the fridge. Then he checked the freezer. Nothing there but frozen peas. He could go to a restaurant, but he wasn’t sure he was up to facing the world as SuperMac just yet.
Still, more groceries were an urgent priority. Mac refilled his coffee cup. He’d always taken it black before, but now he piled in the milk and sugar, still craving fuel to burn. His bones ached, as though they’d been stretched and pulled. It must hurt to be a werebeast. Never thought about it before.
He slurped the coffee, stalling.
What are you doing? Going through the motions of coping doesn’t mean a damn thing. But that was all he had, outside of running through the streets screaming at the top of his lungs.
Admit it. Who doesn’t want to wake up in a better body? And it’s not like you haven’t switched species before. But this isn’t me. Well, it is now. That’s not exactly a bonus.
He sat down, the wooden kitchen chair creaking beneath his unaccustomed weight. He felt healthy but insanely hot, like the fever he’d had last night had become permanent.
Hunger raged, the same way it had the last time he’d been transformed into a demon. The only positive was that this body didn’t seem interested in eating souls. It definitely preferred meat. Lots and lots of it.
It wanted a fight, the exertion of all this power against another. It wanted to dominate.
It wanted sex, and not the pretty kind.
His mind went to Constance, sleek and small and aching for his touch. He had smelled the desire on her, the musk beneath her perfume. He itched to get to her, to claim her the way her hungry lips had said she wanted to be claimed.
And the vampire hickey? This body could take it. Bring it on, sweetheart. Bite me if you dare. He swam in that thought for a moment, remembering how eager she had been to seduce him. Oh, yeah.
Oh. Hmm.
Dragging his thoughts from the mental home theater, Mac set down the coffee cup, careful of the fragile ceramic handle. Maybe the first thing this new body needs is a cold shower. It had all the rampant enthusiasm of a seventeen-year-old. Great. I’m never going to ask anyone to supersize me again.
Already his stomach was cramping with hunger once more, his enormous breakfast forgotten. This is ridiculous.
The phone rang. Thankful to connect with the normal world, he picked it up, holding the receiver gingerly. He had visions of squishing it by accident.
“Macmillan.” He nearly dropped the phone. His voice resonated differently, bouncing around in a larger rib cage. It was also shaking with stress.
“Hello? Mac?” It was Holly.
“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat, trying to shrink his voice back to normal.
“Sorry to call so early. Have you got a cold?”
He rumbled again, feeling like a sports coupe that woke up as a monster truck. “What do you know about the Castle making superwarriors?”
“Guardsmen? Mac, are you all right? You sound strange.”
Guardsmen. Was that what he’d become? But they were originally human, not demon. They were bound by oaths and spells and trapped against their will, sent to the prison by some whacked-out secret society in charge of supplying Castle guards. Nothing to do with him.
“Mac? What’s going on?”
How much did he want to say this minute? He was too hungry to think, too impatient to explain himself. Too scared. Too embarrassed. “I’m okay,” he said.
“I found something on the demon boxes. I figured you’d want the information as soon as possible.”
His cop side jumped to attention. Good to know it still worked. “Hit me.”
“They’re not exactly common, but they’re not rare, either. I popped into my grandma’s place and had a look through some of her books. Sure enough, I found some thing. I made up a charm that should stop you from being sucked inside.”
“Great!”
“Lore was over here about something else. I’m sending him to you with the charm. He should be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“Great,” he said again, inwardly cursing. He wasn’t ready for visitors, but after the effort Holly had gone to, there was no way he was going to complain about timing. “I owe you big time.”
“No problem, Mac. Take care.” She hung up.
He hung up, grappling with the jumble of problems he had to solve, starting with the most basic. Crap, what am I going to wear? Nothing was going to fit.
Mac paused, remembering his raincoat. He’d noticed the sleeves felt short a couple of days ago, when he had been talking to Holly. Had the first signs of this change already started then?
What if it wasn’t over?
His stomach growled. He ached. He got up to head to the shower and knocked over the hallway lamp. Everything was too close, too cramped.
I hate this. He was an alien in his own landscape. Just call me Ogg, cousin of Tarzan.
After the shower, he grabbed his largest pair of sweat pants and a muscle shirt. The shirt, straining across his chest, made him look like something from a cheesecake boy-toy calendar.
Great. Just great.
The door buzzer rang. Mac walked to the hall and pressed the button for the outside door, not bothering with a greeting. As he moved, he could feel muscle shirt pulling tight across his back. Prowling back to the kitchen, he rummaged in the cupboard until he found some soda crackers. He tore the package open as Lore walked in.
The hellhound reached the kitchen, stopped in his tracks, and looked Mac up and down, the only change in his expression a slight lift of his dark brows. “You’ve been working out.”