Demon Bound bl-2

by Caitlin Kittredge

  “For fuck’s sake, Seth!” Jack scattered the instrument tray with a sweep of his arm. “This isn’t an academic exercise, this is my fucking life!”

  “And what god decrees your life weighs more than his?” Seth pointed at Jao. “Or Miles Hornby’s? What makes you so bloody special, Jack Winter?”

  “No god,” Jack snarled. “I belong to a demon, remember?” Jack wished, viciously, for something to take the edge off his panic and pain.

  “’S what I thought,” Seth sighed. “Always had to be the chosen one, the one for whom the rules didn’t fucking apply, didn’t you, Jackie?”

  “If you’ve got something to say, spit it out.” Jack unlocked the door and slipped out into the hospital corridor. Seth followed him, digging a Silk Cut from his pack and lighting it with a vicious snap of his power.

  “You know you shouldn’t be here, Jack. You stole some time from the crow woman by cutting your deal, but her claws are sharp and her gaze is sharper. We all reach the road’s end. There’s nothing you can do to change that.”

  “My road doesn’t end here,” Jack snarled. “Unlike you, sad old bastard, I haven’t given up.”

  “Why now?” Seth demanded. “You had thirteen years to cheat the demon—why now, at the end, does it become the thing you’re willing to murder and torture over?”

  Jack rounded on Seth, fists turning to knots of bone. “Because I have something to live for.” His cut started bleeding again, soaking the worn towel.

  Seth gave Jack a wire-thin, resigned smile. “What’s her name?”

  Jack started walking again. The A&E suite had filled while they were with Jao, tourists and locals sitting where they could find space on the floor and the metal benches. “You don’t get to know her name.”

  “I guarantee the demon does,” Seth said. “The demon knows that she’s your soft underbelly, and that’s why he’s sent you on this doomed errand.” Seth exhaled, sharp, an arrow of smoke. “Don’t do something you can’t wash off for a piece of skirt, boy. Take it from me, it all comes down on your head in the end.”

  “In the end,” Jack said quietly, “she’s the only person who gave a shit about me, who held out a hand, who even pretended to care if I lived or died, so if you say one more word about her I swear to the crow woman I’ll bleed you where you stand, Seth. I mean it.”

  “You’ve changed, Jack.” Seth shoved his hands into his pockets. “And though I didn’t think it was possible, not for the better.”

  “Same to you, mate,” Jack said. “And a big cheery thanks for all of your nonexistent help.”

  “Help? Anyone who helps you ends up dead or broken, boy. I learned my lesson on that score twenty fuckin’ years ago.” Seth shook his head. “I’m finished with you, Jackie. You shouldn’t have come to me, caught me up in this. It’s not considerate and it’s not bloody fair.”

  “Fair?” Jack rounded on Seth. “Don’t you talk to me about fair, old man. I suppose to you fair is dumping out an apprentice so addled with the sight he’d put out his own eyes to stop the dead coming. Fair is knowing your friend is wandering the street with skag for blood. Fair is sleeping nice and tight every night because you’re lucky enough to be able to forget your sins.” Jack hissed as his arm throbbed. “If that’s what you think, Seth, then you’re right—it was right fucking unfair of me to expect any help from the likes of you.”

  Seth took his hands from his pockets, flexed his fists. “You really want to walk this road, Jackie?”

  “No, Seth,” Jack sighed. “I want to find Miles Hornby. I want to find him, and give him to the demon, and go home.”

  Seth’s posture slumped, and he passed a hand over his face to clear it of sweat. “You were always so bloody stubborn, Jackie. Always had to be right, even when you missed it by a mile.”

  “It’s one of me charming traits,” Jack said. “Ask anybody.”

  Seth shook his head, his gaze shifting to a point over Jack’s shoulder. “You won’t change your mind.”

  “Can’t,” Jack shrugged. “The demon wants Hornby and I want what the demon promised me. I suppose I don’t want to die, either. Silly me.”

  Seth dropped his eyes to the stained vinyl floor. “Then I’m sorry, Jackie. Dead sorry.”

  Jack only became aware of the two men in sunglasses when they approached from the entrance of A&E, their dark suits and slacks and gold chains giving them away as a creature not normally found in the bowels of a hospital waiting room.

  “Help you, gents?” Jack smiled as they glided up on either side of Seth, like two shadow spilling into a lit doorway.

  The man on the left smiled at Jack. “Mr. Winter?” His accent was London, and not the part Jack had spent most of his life in. This accent reminded him more of Nicholas Naughton than it did a gangster. The man was surely that, though—gangsters looked the same the world over, once you got past the superficial costumes. Blank eyes, shark smiles, energy too big and pulsing with malice for the space their bodies occupied.

  They always thought they were the worst predator on their patch, and the shit bit of it was that outside the Black, they were nearly always right.

  “I’m Jack Winter,” Jack confirmed. No point in lying about his name if they already knew it.

  “Then we are to extend you an invitation, Mr. Winter,” Lefty said. Rightie was silent. His hand clutched a string of what looked like Buddhist prayer beads, at first glance, but what Jack saw were really tiny skulls, carved from black stone. A fetish or a focus—Jack wasn’t keen to find out, and even less keen to know the gangsters had some talent for sorcery.

  “Sorry, mate.” Jack held up his bloodied arm. “I’ve had my dance for today. Unless your invite is for a stitch-up and a stiff drink, thank you but please fuck off.”

  The man inclined his head. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear. This is not a request, Mr. Winter.”

  Jack felt the electricity up and down his spine that signaled another mage was close. “You said it was an invitation.”

  “It can be,” said the one with the beads. “It can be something else if you don’t feel like being sociable.”

  Their magic was thick and hard, like scraping your knuckles against stone, leaving blood and skin behind. Jack favored them with a wide smile. Keep smiling, keep the gangsters calm, and work out how the bloody hell he was going to extricate himself from the situation before someone used that hard, ugly magic on him. Think, Winter, the fix mocked him. You’re so clever. Bright boy, always a quicksilver mind.

  Jack spread out his hands, so the gangsters could see they were empty and that he was no threat, just another hapless farang. “Who do you work for, then? Or do you run about like superheroes in chavvy gold chains, striking down wicked men like me where you find them?”

  Lefty sighed. “Mr. Winter, don’t make this difficult.”

  “Difficult?” Jack shook his head, slow and pitying. “Difficult would be me taking the two of you by the bollocks and tossing you headfirst through the waiting-room window. Difficult would be me cursing you into small, bloody smears in front of all of these nice people. I have not begun to be difficult yet, mate.”

  Jack felt the light air-brush of witchfire start to spread from his fingers and anywhere his skin was exposed. Everyone in the waiting room had averted their eyes when the men stepped up, but Jack didn’t care. He was never coming back to this bloody city, with its slick snakeskin magic and its crowded, whispering Black.

  Lefty’s hand shot out and clamped down on the spot where Jao had cut him. The pain was deep and dull, a rusted blade in his skin, and Jack ground his teeth to keep from yelling. “Mr. Winter,” Lefty said. “I don’t want to do this, but I have my instructions. You need to come with us. Right this moment.”

  Righty clicked his beads. The power around the two mages swelled. Jack felt blood from his wound start to drip again, hitting the linoleum floor with dull splats. Blood was a powerful cantrip. A mage could use blood as a conductor, a channel, a focus for almost any magic. If he had
the control, and the skill. If he didn’t lose that control, let himself get taken over by a hungry ghost, and end up bleeding to death on the floor of a crypt. There was always a catch with magic. Limitless power, if you didn’t let it burn you alive.

  “Jack,” Seth said quietly. “You should do as they say.”

  “Thanks, Seth,” Jack said, keeping his eye on Lefty. “But I’m about through taking your advice.”

  “Your friend is concerned for your well-being,” Lefty intoned. “And rightly so. You’ve been here less than two days and already you’ve managed to end poor Jao’s life.”

  “Wasn’t me, I said,” Jack snarled. “And by the look of poor fucking Jao, he’d had it coming for miles.”

  Lefty glanced at the blood on the floor. “You are not in an enviable position, Mr. Winter. You can fight me, it’s true.” His grip tightened, driving iron barbs into Jack’s arm. “You’ll lose.”

  Jack watched the blood pool grow, crawling by degrees across the linoleum, adding a new stain to the battered gray surface. He didn’t reach for it with his talent, didn’t grasp the shimmering well of power waiting to fend off the gangster’s ministrations. “I’m not some nonce who’ll fold at the hint of a few hexes.”

  Lefty heaved a sigh as if he were being entirely unreasonable, and pulled up his shirt to display the silver butt of a gun—a .45, by Jack’s reckoning. “We already know you bleed, Mr. Winter. Now, walk in front of us out to the car waiting at the curb, and don’t cause a fuss.”

  “Magicians who go strapped,” Jack said. “Very Wild West, mate. Phallic, really. Suppose it’s true what they say about you Thais and your love of the ladyboys.”

  “It’s loaded with pig-iron bullets,” Lefty said, pleasant smile affixed to his face as if he were a housewife on Valium. “It will rip your insides to shreds and your magic along with it and I will enjoy watching you die slowly. Walk.”

  Jack turned around and walked. You didn’t fuck about when someone threatened to shoot you in broad daylight in a hospital. Spells and hexes, he could give as good as he got. Bullets weren’t the same thing at all—and iron bullets, fuck it. You didn’t stick your hand in a spinning fan because you fancied a cooling off.

  The gangsters seemed reluctant to damage him, and that worked in his favor. He could kick up a row, and get himself gut-shot, or he could play the cooperative sod and see who, exactly, had fixated on his presence in Bangkok, and why.

  “All right, lads,” he said as the doors to A&E swished back, dropping the damp blanket of Bangkok’s heat over his skin. “I can be sweet as custard if the occasion calls. No reason to be shirty.”

  Lefty shoved him across the tide of people on the walk and into the street. “Stay quiet and move your arse.”

  At the curb, as promised, a smooth black Lexus idled like the riverboat of Charon, waiting to whisk Jack away to the Underworld.

  Lefty rapped on a tinted—and to Jack’s eye, bulletproof—window and the boot popped with an oiled click. Righty took out a black cloth sack and unfurled it with a snap.

  Jack’s headache returned as if some vicious sod had bounced a bowling ball off his skull. Eight or nine times.

  “You’re not bloody serious.”

  Lefty put his hand on the pistol again. “Quite, Mr. Winter. I believe the expression is ‘dead serious’? ”

  Jack shot Righty a glare. “That thing better not have other people’s spit on the inside.”

  The bag slipped over his vision, and Lefty put a firm hand on his shoulder—his power was different from Righty’s. Smooth and cold rather than rough. Lefty had some black magic training, while Righty was crude muscle who probably had little more than what the Black spilled into his blood when he was conceived. Jack put it away for later.

  Lefty shoved, and Jack banged his forehead on the boot lid. “Fucking hell!” he exclaimed, muffled by the hood. “You want me cheery, stop treating me like you’re moving fucking furniture!”

  Another shove, and Jack was forced to tumble forward or break his neck. He landed in the boot, which stank faintly of cigarettes, just to add insult to injury.

  “Have a comfortable ride, Mr. Winter,” Lefty said, and then the boot lid slammed above him, and what light there had been through the hood vanished, leaving Jack alone and in the dark.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Being locked in the boot allowed Jack plenty of time to think. His thoughts didn’t travel anywhere he particularly wanted to be, but all the same, the situation was what it was and there was no point in crying about it.

  He’d stopped bleeding, and Jack forced himself to think like Pete, who certainly wouldn’t have gotten herself locked in a boot by a pair of manky sorcerers. The facts unfurled thusly:

  Seth had sold him down the river to whoever in Bang-kok resented a nosy mage on their turf.

  Seth was a cunt, but Seth wasn’t the one who’d kidnapped him.

  Seth was in thrall to the same being who’d put the god’s fear in Jao and snuffed out his life.

  The car slowed, and Jack tried kicking at the lid of the boot. His heel skidded off of solid metal. Smashing his way out of this was becoming less possible by the second.

  “Solve it, you stupid nonce,” he grumbled to himself. He got a mouthful of head-bag for his trouble. It tasted sour and stale. Who put a bag on your head when you were already stuffed in a boot?

  You could tell a lot about a bloke by how he threatened people. Lefty had been polite to a fault, and that posh speech didn’t come from growing up in a place like Manchester. Lefty had some education, and more than a bit of talent, and yet he was an errand boy.

  Whoever or whatever had Lefty and Seth in its thrall was worse than the demon. Fiercer. Harder. Someone who knew he owned his patch and fed trespassers to rabid dogs.

  The master of Bangkok. The demon that belonged to every city and its Black, just as the city belonged to the demon. Knots of life and death and magic called to demons, some lost and searching for Hell, some coming willingly from the Pit to reap a harvest of human misery.

  Jack tried to take a breath, and didn’t manage much more than a gasp of carbon monoxide. If the demon of Bangkok knew who he was, the demon was halfway to knowing why Jack was in its fair city.

  At least the errand boys hadn’t tied his hands—and where would he go, if they had? Even if he popped the boot, he’d land in the middle of the thrice-cursed crush of Thai traffic and end up pavement mulch, just like Hornby. If he was lucky enough to avoid getting a necromancy curse shoved up his arse and used as a bizarre Yuletide gift in some sorcerous feud.

  He ripped off the stifling hood as the Lexus rolled around a corner and smacked his head against a sharp edge again. Jack cursed the mages, the car, the powers that be, and when he was dizzy from sucking in tainted air, he saved one last curse for that treacherous cunt Seth McBride.

  The Lexus inched and bounced through the streets of Bangkok, Jack’s sense of time liquefying and lengthening until it might have been years that he’d spent crushed into the boot rather than minutes or hours. His arm was bound up with dried blood. Jack didn’t bother peeling back the towel. Cuts were like bad memories—aggravate them with enough prodding and they began to hurt and bleed again.

  At last, the car jerked to a stop as abruptly as Lefty and his companion had appeared in the waiting room, and light from the outside world dazzled Jack into blindness.

  Righty’s hands grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “He took the fucking bag off.”

  Lefty sighed. “Like it’s a secret fortress around here. Get him out of there.”

  Jack caught a quick snatch of crowds and noise before he was hustled onto his feet and indoors, Righty stopping their procession in a shadowed vestry. Jack chanced a glance backward, into the outside. The small slice of city he could see consisted of stacked flats and Thai faces, devoid of the English signs and foreigners that overran Pat-pong. Jack was the only white man that he could spy, and curious faces peered from the greasy windows of the fla
ts at the Lexus and the gangsters, the only clean things in the street. Clean, shiny sore thumbs.

  Righty jerked him along and Jack lost his view. He watched a corridor lined with Japanese-style Shoji screens speed by, alcoves full of gold statues, until they came to a jerky halt again under a gilt archway, beyond which a pair of doors studded with iron nails waited.

  “Bit Las Vegas, if you ask me,” Jack said. “The gold paint isn’t doing it any favors.” He couldn’t make out fuckall in the dimness of the place, but air came from somewhere above and the smells drifting in were of sewage and chili oil and sun-warmed concrete, wound up with the cloying musk of nag champa incense.

  “We are in Khlong Toei,” said Lefty. “It is . . .”

  “A slum?” Jack guessed. Manchester or Bangkok, poverty-ridden streets all smelled the same.

  “And a port, and a holy place, among other things,” Lefty said. “Farang assume because a place is one thing it must be only that thing.”

  “It smells like one thing,” Jack muttered. “Shit.”

  Lefty pointed at Jack’s feet. “Take off your boots.” When Jack didn’t immediately comply, Lefty put a hard, knuckle-ridden fist into his kidneys.

  “You poisonous bollock-pustule!” Jack wheezed. “What was that for?”

  “I grew up in Khlong Toei,” Lefty said softly. “It’s my home. Just because you see a face does not mean that face is not wearing a mask.”

  “Yeah. Many faces, mystical Far-East shite, blah blah blah,” Jack said. He stuck his fingers in his bootlaces and yanked them off. “No offense to your lovely home, mate, but I didn’t ask to be here and I don’t fancy spending any more of my life in slums. Had enough of that already.”

  Lefty’s stony face didn’t flicker. “He’s waiting for you. Go through the door and show him the proper respect. Or you can choose not to.” The gangster took the nickel-coated .45 out of his waistband and let it dangle loosely in his hand. “Frankly, I’d like it if you did.”