Demon Bound

by Meljean Brook

  “I’m hoping it won’t be an issue.”

  “Optimism, once again.” Yet she appreciated it; she had so little of her own. “I will try to keep it from becoming an issue.”

  He nodded and released a heavy sigh, sliding his hand over his head. Her gaze followed the movement, then returned to his when he paused.

  He let out a short laugh. “Go ahead.”

  “What?”

  Jake stood, strode the length of the table, then crouched beside her chair. “Rub it.” When her mouth fell open, he shrugged. “Women want to. I don’t know why, and I don’t think anyone asks Michael as often as they ask me. Maybe it’s the puppy thing. Dunno. But feel free.”

  She curled her fingers. Unto death, she would deny how very much she wanted to. “That’s ridiculous. I could shape-shift and have my own hair as short in an instant.”

  “You could.” He grabbed the front legs of her armchair. Wood scraped over marble as he hauled her around to face him. “But then you’d have to redo your braid when you shape-shifted back.”

  Oh, dear. She was either going to laugh or throw herself onto his head. But, she reasoned, there was no need to admit she wanted to. “It does seem an unnecessary effort when yours is right here.”

  “That’s right, goddess. Talk yourself into it. I’ll just sit and try to keep myself from jumping your bones.”

  Some of her amusement dissolved. She wished he wouldn’t watch her, but she couldn’t order him to look away. Thank heavens he closed his eyes. He was probably imagining that her widened fingers were creepy spider legs, she mused, and pushed their tips from his hairline to the back of his head, until she was cupping it in her palms.

  That was all she’d meant to do. But his short hair was so surprisingly soft—she’d thought it would be as coarse as whiskers. She drew her fingers back up. Not rubbing, but stroking—yet Jake didn’t object. He bent his head over her lap, and the hollow at the base of his skull was revealed to her, looking oddly vulnerable despite the severity of his haircut, the strength of his neck. She trailed the pad of her thumb through the hollow. Like silk on the downstroke, and slightly abrasive coming up.

  A shudder wracked his body. Alice froze, but he didn’t move. He was still looking down, a hand on each of the chair’s front legs, and his muscles were as rigid as hers when he said, “You’re not wearing your boots.”

  She resisted the urge to curl her toes, to pull them back beneath her skirts. Her stockings were adequate covering. “I vanished them an hour ago.”

  And if she’d been alone, she’d have tucked her legs beneath her as she worked. She’d have let her spine touch the cushioned back of her chair.

  His hair skimmed deliciously beneath her fingers when he lifted his head. Her breath caught, and his eyes locked with hers. They burned, as if lit from behind by a blue flame.

  Were hers? Oh, dear heavens—did hers look the same? It felt like they must.

  His breathing was harsh and shallow. “Alice. I’m trying very hard not to.” His jaw clenched and released. “But I’m afraid I’m going to jump—”

  Jake disappeared—and took her chair with him. Alice cried out in surprise, but it was cut off as her bottom thumped against the marble floor. Pain shot up her tailbone.

  Oh, but she would kill him. Alice stared at her skirts hitched up around her bent knees, and hastily closed her splayed legs. Kill him, and then . . . and then . . .

  She didn’t know what. Shove his head between her thighs and rub herself raw, most likely. She contemplated that, and couldn’t decide whether to laugh or to slide her hands down and use them as a replacement.

  But what a strange picture she would make if he returned to find her settling her nerves on the floor—or if anyone else should happen by.

  No, she thought. That would not do at all. So perhaps she would go home and attend to a few things after all.

  Goddamn. Jake lay facedown on a wooden floor, his cock painfully stiff beneath him, his hands still locked on the chair legs.

  Alice was going to kill him. Or feed him to her giant spider.

  And had she really looked like she’d wanted to eat him? Sweet floating Moses, let it be true.

  But maybe it had just been wishful thinking. And it would be best not to think that way at all, or he’d end up humping the floor instead of figuring out where the hell he’d landed.

  The room smelled clean, powdery. Beside him, ruffled white cotton hung over a knotted rag rug. Dust bunnies and a ratty stuffed bear lurked in the darkness beyond.

  A bed. Oh, shit.

  He listened, and rolled over onto his side, came up on his elbow. The racing heartbeat and the quick, shallow breaths had the same effect as an ice bath. A psychic probe told him it was a kid. Awake, and scared as hell. Shit shit shit. He could try to leave . . . but freaking a kid out and then taking off didn’t feel right. An adult might talk themselves out of whatever frightened them; a kid, not so much.

  The bed squeaked. Jesus, who should he look like? What did kids watch on television nowadays? He had no flippin’ clue.

  Too late, anyway. A pair of wide blue eyes peeked over the edge of the mattress. Maybe four or five years old. Her long brown hair was in two braids, and they dangled toward him.

  Kansas again. But this time, he hadn’t brought the Wicked Witch.

  “Hey, Rapunzel,” Jake whispered. Soft and easy, so she wouldn’t take off screaming for the two other women in the house, whose minds were heavy with sleep. “Did you lose your teddy bear?”

  Her braids swayed as she shook her head.

  “But there’s one right here under the bed. Want to see it?” He vanished the bear into his hammerspace, then made it appear in his left hand.

  The girl blinked.

  “Just a little magic,” he said, and turned the bear’s face up. One of the eyes was missing, and stuffing puffed out of the hole. “Ouch. Something under there got him, huh?”

  Her eyes went impossibly wider. “Monsters?”

  Ah, damn. Real slick, dickhead. “Nope,” he said quickly. “I used my magic, made them all go away. Teddy here helped; check out his sword.” Jake called in a dagger, held the handle against Teddy’s arm, waved it around. The giggle told him he’d done something right. “Yeah. We’ll just get rid of this, though. He’ll make it appear again if he needs to protect you with it. But I’m pretty sure they’re gone for good.”

  He vanished the knife, lifted the bear. Her fingers brushed his when she took it, and something clamped tight in his chest. “So, Rapunzel—do you have a name?”

  She nodded but didn’t answer, and used her pinkie to poke the stuffing back into the bear’s head.

  “Ah,” he said. Now he just needed some candy, and he’d be a pervy asshole. “That’s right. You can’t tell me, because I’m a stranger.”

  The look she gave him told Jake he’d just said something stupid. “I know who you are, silly.”

  The clamp grew tighter. Facing a demon would be easier than this. Facing Alice right now would have been easier than this. “Is that right?”

  “Your picture’s always on the fireplace. Even when it’s Christmas, and I want Princess Mandy to sit there and watch me open presents.”

  Judging by her cross expression, that was an offense of the highest order. “Sorry.”

  She shrugged. “Grandma said you’d know my name. That you’re in Heaven, and you watch us, and you know me.”

  His heart squeezed into pulp. “What are you thinking, I don’t know you? Close your eyes for one second.” She did, and he’d searched through the room and was back before she opened them again. Some things never changed—names written on Sunday school papers, in permanent marker on winter boots and coats. “You’re my granddaughter, Lindsey Hawkins.”

  She shook her head. “Great granddaughter.”

  “That’s what I meant—great granddaughter.” And he was a great grandfather. Jesus. He didn’t want to do the math, calculate probable ages, because that meant they’d only b
een kids, too. Two generations, just out of high school. He sat up. “Now, are you going to tell me why you’re awake so late?”

  Hugging the bear to her chest, she said, “Just got scared.”

  “Of what?” When she only looked at him, he guessed nightmare. “Okay. You want me to hang around here until you go back to sleep?”

  “Yes,” she said, and smiled. “I like your chair. Is it from Heaven, too?”

  He glanced over at the armchair. Gold silk; a tall, bowed backrest; intricately carved gildwood; fluted, scrolled legs. Not fit for an angel, he thought, but a goddess. “France, I think.”

  “Grandma has one like it. Not the same though. Hers is puffier. Are you going to see her?”

  His chest, his throat were aching—but his gut was all right. He reached out with his mind again, focused on the elder of the two sleeping women. If she was dreaming, they were good dreams. He didn’t feel any fear in her.

  And Barbara had given her his last name, even though he hadn’t made it back, hadn’t given her anything but a promise he wasn’t able to keep. He swallowed over the constriction in his throat. “Probably not tonight, Lindsey. But pretty soon.”

  “I’ll tell her you scared away the monsters.”

  “Okay.”

  When she lay back against her pillows, he moved to the chair. After vanishing his boots, he propped his feet up on the end of her bed, and recognized the blue patchwork beneath them. “This quilt used to be mine, you know. My grandma made it for me.”

  “I wanted a pink one.”

  Jake grinned, and settled in to wait. “Sorry.”

  Alice was in the widows’ room when she heard the “flippin’ hell” from the next chamber—her bathing chamber. She glanced down at Nefertari, standing at her knee, and sighed. More than five hours had passed since Jake had left her in the Archives; though she could have justified sending Nefertari out in those first minutes, when Alice’s blood had been simmering with frustration, using the tarantula now would just be petty.

  Still, she kept Nefertari by her side as she entered the bathing chamber. The humidity was still high, but aside from the large porcelain tub, the room was empty.

  Jake turned to face her, his expression unreadable, a toothpick motionless in the corner of his mouth. This time, his clothing did not offer a clue; the logo on his T-shirt named a mythological river in the Greek underworld.

  How very strange he was.

  And his greeting didn’t make her alter that assessment. “I’ve had an interesting day so far. But good. How about you?”

  She crossed her arms, wondered if she would ever understand him. “It has been acceptable.”

  A lie. It had been remarkable. She’d thought of him as she’d bathed, remembered the glowing of his eyes—and an activity that had become a chore in the past seventy-five years had regained excitement, ardor.

  But she was uncertain how to respond to that yet.

  “Only acceptable? That’s too bad. Do you know what it smells like in here?”

  Baffled, she drew in a breath. There was, perhaps, a very slight odor. Not soap or shampoo, because she didn’t need to use them, and perfume might give her location away when she stalked demons or nosferatu. And it was not her, either, because Guardians’ bodies had almost no scent.

  “No,” he said, and removed the toothpick from between his lips. “It’s psychic.”

  Alice frowned and reached out, felt nothing—then abruptly shielded as she realized what he’d sensed.

  With enough time, with enough intensity, a location could absorb the psychic energy from the people around it. But it dissipated quickly; within a few days of the Ascension, all of the empty quarters in Caelum had been erased of their former inhabitants.

  She used this room not just for bathing, but to settle her nerves—and she’d used it almost every day for over a century. But she couldn’t detect what her psyche had left, because it was hers . . . and only hers.

  “Yeah,” he said, and was in front of her an instant later. His grin was slow and, Alice thought, as cocksure as any she’d ever seen. “Did you imagine it was me?”

  How dare he! Outrage bloomed though her, fierce and dark. “You presume too much, Hawkins.”

  “Probably,” he said. “So let’s forget I asked.”

  His mouth covered hers, as quick and unexpected as the first time. Alice gripped his arms to steady herself, kept her lips pressed firmly together.

  He made a disappointed sound in his throat and pulled her in harder against him. His mouth moved more roughly now, more insistently, but she did not soften, even at the touch of his tongue.

  Abruptly he let her go, turned away. Be silent, she told herself. Dismiss it completely.

  But his muttered “fuck” shattered that intention.

  “What did you imagine?” The cold anger in her voice sent Nefertari scurrying away, leaving a trail of urticating hairs. Just as well. If Jake left, too, better that it was because of her, not a blasted spider. “That I would melt at your feet? That I would beg for another kiss?”

  “Yeah.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I hoped.”

  “You arrogant, insensitive lout! Does playing with me amuse you so much? What are you attempting to gain—to prove? That you can turn the Black Widow into—”

  “Jesus Christ! How screwed up is your head?” He faced her again, his expression thunderous. “I wasn’t thinking of you at all—only how flippin’ much I wanted to get my mouth on you!”

  Stunned, Alice stared at him. Jake looked away, ran his hand over his head. Regret filled his psychic scent.

  “You want to tell me it was stupid, go ahead. Or better yet, tell me something I don’t know. But, Jesus—why else would a man kiss a woman except that he wanted to?” He glanced at her face, and stilled. “Did someone kiss you to hurt you?”

  She couldn’t immediately respond. Her mind felt like it was in heavy, heavy water as she reinterpreted everything he’d said and done over the past few days. He’d wanted to kiss her? When had the change come? And why?

  But now there was rage gathering below his psychic scent, so she forced her lips to move. “No. I’ve never been hurt.”

  Her only complaint was that she’d been treated so very, very gently.

  He let out a breath. “Okay. And you have been kissed before.”

  “Of course. And there is procreation.” When his brow creased, she explained, “That’s another reason for kissing.”

  “Ah.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “You know procreation isn’t really about kissing, right?”

  Her withering stare only seemed to entertain him, and the heaviness in her finally receded into puzzlement. “Why in heaven’s name would you want to kiss me?”

  He spread his hands. “Hell if I know.”

  That was reasonable, she supposed. She was the one woman he did not find physically attractive, yet he wanted to kiss her; she found many men physically attractive but did not want to kiss them. Only Jake.

  The odd symmetry of it amused her. And a kiss would likely be pleasant.

  “Very well, then. Close your eyes. It seems you are more apt to teleport if they are open.” And if she did not maintain her composure, then he would not witness it.

  His brows drew together, as if he doubted he’d heard correctly. Then he breathed, “Hot damn,” and complied.

  He seemed truly eager for her kiss. How bizarre he was.

  And how very warm. The tension in his shoulders should have softened with such heat, she thought, but it increased when her palms curved over them. She rose up to her toes and brushed her mouth across his. Perhaps all the softness had gone to his lips—so hard a moment before, yet now they yielded easily.

  Like petals, as written in so many sex manuals, but that did not seem masculine enough to describe Jake. A valve, perhaps, slowly opening.

  Oh, my—this was so very pleasant, wasn’t it?

  His strong hands cupped her face, and she quickly opened her eyes to be c
ertain his were still closed.

  They were, thank goodness. He might feel her fingers tremble, but he would not see them. And she did not think pleasant should be making her shiver.

  Very well, that must stop. She stroked her hands from his shoulders to the back of his neck, and her fingers did not shake so much when they searched out new skin, when they were tempted by the proximity of his shaved hair.

  Jake angled his head, and licked deep into her mouth.

  She couldn’t halt the noise she made, couldn’t prevent herself from pressing her body full-length against him and licking him back. And again. Oh, dear God. The need curling through her was not like a rosebud unfurling or an easy release of pressure, but a corkscrew, digging deep, preparing to pull open something that she’d put a stopper in long ago.

  What was she supposed to do with this? With him? And why now, when intimacy of any kind could only make whatever decision she made so much more painful?

  How softheaded she was. How foolish.

  She pulled away, feeling absolutely wretched. And what a coward she was to avoid his eyes, but she could not bear to expose herself now.

  “Jesus,” he said, his breathing ragged; he strode to the bathtub and back. “Truce, okay? For five minutes. We don’t talk about this, or why you just chickened out.”

  Only five? She would give him no choice but to allow more time than that. Stiffly, she nodded. “Very well. Come along, then,” she said, and struck out for the stairs. “Did Alejandro return to Caelum with you?”

  “Yeah, he did. But—”

  “Let us find him, and then Irena. She assures me they are friends, but I warn you that it might prove unpleasant.” And it would not make her shiver. “Yet necessary. How is your French? They speak nothing else to each other.”

  “Alice.”

  She blanked her expression, looked over her shoulder. “It is for a gift. Now is the best time to procure the measurements for it.”