Demon Bound

by Meljean Brook

  He’d bet anything that the assholes were enjoying her rapid, shallow breaths and the fear that occasionally leaked through her psychic scent. Jake mostly just enjoyed that that they were falling for it.

  And, guessing that darkness was exactly what she’d wanted, Jake didn’t pull anything out of his hammerspace to brighten it. He sat, formed his wing stumps, and gritted his teeth through the healing.

  About fifteen hours after the lantern went out, the cackling started. Even knowing that it was an act, it lifted the hairs on his arms. And it apparently creeped out the demons, too. A few seconds after it ended, the sentinels flared their eyes. In the red glow, he saw Alice crouching on a sarcophagus, muttering into her gloved hands. Her waist-length hair was unbound. She cut a hank off and began to play with it: measuring it between her fingers, curling it into loops, then finally tying the ends together until she had a single, long strand.

  The light disappeared, then blinked on when she began to run, cackling again. She passed Jake, a rush of wind in her wake, then leapt high into the air. Her fingers touched the ceiling, leaving a gossamer strand dangling almost to the floor. She landed lightly, sat, and cut off more hair.

  They left her in darkness after that, and Jake lost count of the times the cackling and running were followed by that eerie muttering. He stayed where he was, sure that after what he’d seen, it wasn’t a good idea to be walking around.

  She’d been harvesting the spider silk for ten years. How much had gone into her dresses, and how much was stored in her hammerspace?

  Judging by how long it was taking her, a hell of a lot.

  By the time she began to skitter around the floor on her hands and knees, his wings were about as big as a cherub’s. They probably looked pretty flippin’ stupid—but at least they didn’t hurt anymore.

  He vanished them when she approached his row of sarcophagi. His legs were in the way. Jake bent his knees, expecting her to crawl by.

  She climbed into his lap, cradled the back of his head in her hands, and kissed the astonishment from his mouth.

  Her teeth nibbled lightly at his bottom lip, and Jake knew that he was missing something, knew that there was a message in all of this somewhere. But, hot damn, she couldn’t really expect him to think? Not when she tugged his head closer so that she could tap her tongue against his teeth, then lick, and not when her thumbs were stroking that same rhythm behind his ears. Tap, lick, slow, lick, a slight hesitation, tap, lick, on and on, and the tease of it was going to drive him crazy.

  It was going to . . . It was . . . It was his name. Morse code. J, A, K, E, over and over.

  His hands were on her hips, and he squeezed her name back. He felt her open smile against his mouth, her silent laugh.

  God. He’d thought he was falling for her? He’d been wrong. That had been nothing compared to the insane exhilaration he felt now. Nothing like his amazement that he’d been lucky enough to cross paths with this strange, brilliant woman.

  And in a few seconds, he’d talk with her. But now, he let the moment roll over him, leaning in and taking a taste of her laugh. It faded from her lips, and she was kissing him back. No message there. Just the sweet clench of her fingers, the heat of her mouth.

  It couldn’t last, though. It wasn’t the time, and definitely wasn’t the place. And the slight perspiration on her skin wasn’t from their kiss.

  She was sick.

  Something twisted inside his chest, painful and hard. The infected smell was almost gone, but the sword had left something in her. It had to be the sword—a Guardian’s wounds always healed cleanly, and Guardians never became ill. But Michael’s sword wasn’t like any other weapon; when he’d impaled the dragon’s heart with it, the metal had taken some of the dragon’s power.

  Jake had once heard about a Guardian who, before his transformation, had been cut by the sword, tainting his blood. The transformation hadn’t completely taken hold, so he hadn’t had all of a Guardian’s abilities. Eventually he’d Fallen or Ascended—Jake couldn’t remember. But he hadn’t remained in Caelum.

  And there was a vampire living in San Francisco who’d been tainted the same way—but instead of being weakened after his transformation, he was the strongest of his kind. Able to walk in sunlight and resist the daysleep. But the taint had also created in him one of the few anchors to Chaos—the dragon’s realm.

  What would it do to a Guardian who’d already been transformed?

  Maybe nothing, he prayed. Maybe it just took longer to heal, for her body to fight it off.

  He drew back, wished that he could see Alice’s face. He repeated her name, then again, changing it so that the press of his thumbs was a dot, his fingers on the back of her hips was a dash, and a squeeze of both signaled a break between letters—streamlining the code so that it wasn’t so dependent on intervals of time. A waste of superspeed, in his opinion.

  Alice picked up on it fast, made hers a subtle right-and-left pressure behind his ears, and fit her lips to his again.

  If we only sit quietly together, she explained, they might suspect we are communicating.

  But not if we are making out?

  Her laugh was a soft burst of air into his mouth. Yes. Exactly.

  Okay, but listen—with you sitting so close to certain parts of my anatomy, I might not be able to prevent something from happening. Just so you know.

  How unfortunate it is when one’s body is so easily aroused.

  Yeah. And they needed to stop talking about it, or his cock was going to demonstrate exactly how easy it was.

  I am pleased that you agree. Because—if something should happen—I might not be able to prevent myself from rubbing against it.

  Hot damn. But though his body was screaming at him to drag her forward over his happy-to-demonstrate dick, Jake checked himself.

  Not the time. Not the place.

  He ran his palms up to her waist before heading back to her hips. How are you feeling, goddess?

  I can fight. I can fly.

  Which told him that doing both was going to hurt her, but she’d push through it. Okay, he said, and adjusted his plan so that it wouldn’t burden her as much. It’d be a little more humiliating for him, but he was used to that. So how are we getting out of here?

  CHAPTER 12

  By the time Alice crawled off Jake’s lap, cackling again, she’d decided that he was quite possibly mad.

  Surely that was the only explanation for the insanity that was his plan to get them past Belial’s army. But for the moment, she would not think of it. She would lie perfectly still . . . and hope that this dizzying arousal subsided quickly.

  She ought to have found another way to communicate with him. But she hadn’t, and now she thought that it was fortunate that they’d decided to wait before their attack.

  She fisted her hands to keep them at her sides, and listened to the pounding of her heart—and to Jake’s. Something had happened, she was certain of it. At this moment, he was likely no more comfortable than she was. Dear heavens, it was almost like Enthrallment: her senses hyperaware, so that even the quiet and the dark rushed in upon her like the ocean. The ache in her shoulder was all-encompassing, as was the heaviness in her breasts, the tight heat below her womb.

  She’d known frustration before. Yet that had had a different flavor, a yearning for something she didn’t possess but knew existed, like spying a desperately wanted novel on a shelf too high to reach.

  But this was worse. This was as if she’d been given leave to thumb through a few pages and had discovered it was everything that she’d hoped for—but was unable to finish the story.

  And this was what her aunties had spoken of when Alice had been a young woman. It was what her mother had hinted passion should be—it was what had helped form Alice’s fevered and romantic imaginings when she’d met Henry. But those dreams had been hotter than the marriage bed. There had been the warmth of love, but it hadn’t been enough to thaw solicitous restraint and propriety. And there had been li
ttle help from Henry’s family; he might have called her his delicate, exotic flower, but on English soil, she’d been a weed.

  And Teqon’s lies had been the manure that had let it all grow wildly out of control.

  Oh, my. Those rarely visited memories were a cold bath—but only to her body. And Alice hadn’t needed more anger and resentment to fuel her, but now that she’d sparked it, she would put it to good use against the sentinels.

  With a vial of hellhound venom in her hand, she crawled toward the doors, where the six sentinels guarded the symbols. There were two spears to poison, but she would delay coating the spear-heads until the last moment. Trace amounts of venom would slow the demons if it entered their bloodstream—or, in great enough quantities, paralyze them—but it had a distinctive scent, like a ripened peach.

  Jake’s heartbeat had returned to a normal pace. The wait before a battle was often the most harrowing part of it, but she couldn’t sense any fear in him. She hoped he was reviewing the route he had to take through the sarcophagi—she’d made him repeat it until amusement had curved his lips and exasperation had hardened his fingers. He’d subjected her to a deep, toe-curling kiss that had ended only after she’d agreed to stop plaguing him, and to trust that he’d memorized it.

  She did. But she still feared for him.

  If he was moving at speed, one of the razor threads she’d stretched across the room could shear off a limb, or his head. The other webs she’d woven were sticky with adhesive as powerful as instant glue. Though they were not as dangerous as the razor threads, anyone running—or flying—headlong into them would become tangled in silk that was stronger than steel.

  Jake sighed, signaling that there were two minutes left. Alice shifted into a demon form, mimicking one of the sentinels as closely as she could. The demons had been in the dark as long as Alice and Jake had—even a half second of confusion might make a difference.

  And Jake’s insane plan depended upon her using this form.

  The more she considered it, however, the more she found that she could not argue with his reasoning. They could defeat twelve demons in combat. But against an army of unknown size and in unknown terrain, they only stood a chance by creating disorientation or fear—and with a head start.

  And then sending beaucoup prayers to Heaven, Thor, and Superman.

  Alice smiled into the dark. He’d said that with his hands, yet she could easily imagine the words in his deep voice, the laughter beneath. It was a sound she’d missed over the past few days.

  And it wasn’t through prayer that she’d hear it again.

  She stood, familiarizing herself with the light armor she’d created, her movement and reach. The sickness was weighing her down, but he’d made her agree that they’d fight in tandem—that she’d avoid, if she could, a one-on-one confrontation.

  Hopefully, Belial had ordered the sentinels not to kill them—only to subdue. If so, Jake and she would have a slight advantage: they’d slay without hesitation.

  A half second here, a slight advantage there; they had to add up to enough. To consider any other outcome was impossible.

  Perhaps that was why she felt utterly calm when she cackled the final time and uncapped the vial of venom. Jake would call in his weapon three seconds after her laughter began, coat his with venom as well. There was no stopping now.

  Before one second passed, Alice had liberally doused the spear tips and poisoned the blade of her naginata with the remaining venom. She dropped to the ground. Her cackle hurt her own ears. Was it loud enough to cover the sound of her dagger slicing through the silk anchoring the spears?

  It wouldn’t matter. The threads she’d stretched like a bowstring and notched behind the spears shot forward. She heard the wet thunks, the shouts.

  Crimson light flooded the prison. Her aim had been true. Two down—paralyzed.

  Jake’s crossbow bolts hit two more by the doors. A shriek sliced through the air above. Half of a leathery wing sailed in a flat spin over Alice’s head, spraying blood.

  Then Jake was at her back, covering her. His guns fired as she sprinted forward. Another screech tore from the ceiling, followed by the thump of a falling limb. A sentinel raced in from the side and hit a trip wire. A sticky web scooped him up, a fish wiggling in a net.

  No, she thought. Her focus narrowed, the world contracting into sharp flashes of shape and sound. Flies. Flies in my parlor.

  She lashed out with her Gift an instant before reaching the first sentinel. It was useless here, with no spiders, but the demons would feel the thrust of it—and they wouldn’t know that nothing would come of it.

  The demon hesitated, and one of Jake’s bullets exploded through its left eye. Alice struck from that side. Her polished blade was a dance of reflected crimson light in her hands. It countered her weapon once, twice.

  Jake darted by. His sword swept from the demon’s left side to the opposite underarm—through the heart. Blood pulsed out from beneath his breastplate.

  Jake’s gaze narrowed over her shoulder. Alice whirled, calling in her whip. The crack of it was as loud as a gunshot. The razor threads at the end wrapped around the sentinel’s neck.

  Alice yanked. The demon was still running, still raising its sword when its head slid off.

  She heard Jake’s grunt of pain—saw the demon in the air with a crossbow. Too far away for her whip. She aimed at a silk thread stretched taut across the ceiling instead. It snapped like a cable, cutting anchoring threads, ripping through webs. Freed from its moorings, a razor web settled over the demon’s horns like a mantilla. He lost his talons on both hands trying to tear it off, and his screech joined the ring of Jake’s swords. Alice ran to assist him as he fought the last sentinel by the door.

  She counted as she ran. One demon perched in the far corner of the ceiling, hemmed in by layers of webbing—apparently he hadn’t realized he could cut through them yet. Three were caught in bloody bags of silk. There was the one that Jake had killed by slicing through its heart. Another had no head; and yet another, no fingers. Venom-coated bolts and spears had taken down four others. They were paralyzed, but for how long?

  It only had to be long enough.

  Jake turned, and she saw the bloodied crossbow bolt jutting from his sternum. The demon slashed with his sword; Jake stumbled back. Alice dove in, caught the sentinel through the knees. With a single, heavy stroke, Jake sliced through the demon’s neck.

  The doors, he signed, and ripped the bolt from his chest, tossing it aside. Her talons found the groove in the black marble, and she pulled. Jake cleared Belial’s blood from the symbols, breaking the spell.

  Oh, dear God. The pressure—the number of psyches outside—was almost deafening. So many voices. Screams. Bloated rot rolled over her Gift like a putrid corpse.

  Jake stood at her back, watching the remaining demons. Alice braced her taloned, scaled foot against the left door, heaved with her full strength, and felt the stone beneath her hands slowly begin to give. Rancid, heated air rushed in.

  With the spell gone, they could return to the prison—if they had to. But she would rather try to escape than wait, endlessly. Outside, there was a chance; trapped inside, there was none.

  “The sword,” she whispered, and held out her hand.

  Jake placed Zakril’s sword into her palm, and shifted. His clothes disappeared.

  Alice looked at the shape he’d taken—a chubby, blond toddler with tiny feathered wings and a bleeding hole in his little chest—and decided that maybe praying would help. Heaven knew, they were going to need something like a miracle.

  They might have had more of a chance shape-shifting to resemble Thor and Superman.

  But there was no time to doubt. She fisted her talons in his thick golden curls, and lifted. Jake closed his eyes; his small body swayed. Forming a pair of demon’s wings, Alice surged outside.

  Alice had known it would be horrible. It was, after all, Hell.

  But even prepared for the stink and the heat, the first i
mages almost overwhelmed her with dismay.

  They were not outside, with the possibility of escape by air, but in a cave. The roof of the cavern seemed to be moving, and the pale light glittered as if dark crystals were trapped within the black stone. The floor sloped downward away from the prison, and the shadows told Alice that the source of light originated from across its enormous length. Between the prison and the cavern entrance, thousands of demons milled about—Dear God, were there so many of them?—with barely room between their shoulders.

  She took it all in on her first step. The ground was soft, slimy. Her feet sank into it. She didn’t glance down. Three demons approached, surprise in their psychic scents—and, she thought, horror as they stared at Jake’s small body. Horror . . . not out of fear, but concern.

  As if they were appalled to see a winged child injured.

  Until she raised Zakril’s sword. As one, they cried out and froze. Jake opened his small eyes. They glowed crimson, and his mouth drew back in a grimace full of fangs and blood. The shriek from his tiny body was an unholy sound of rage and terror.

  The demons fell over themselves stumbling back.

  Holding back her own scream, Alice wrapped her arm around his chest and launched into the air. From inside the prison, one of the sentinels called out.

  Oh, dear God, dear God. She or Jake should have reset the spell with their own blood, preventing the sentinels from warning the others. Far too late now. She rose toward the ceiling, then shot toward the cavern entrance.

  Shouts of awe and disbelief rolled across the floor on a crescendoing wave. Thousands of red eyes turned upward. Her heart and wings pounded furiously. They hadn’t realized yet. The demons near the prison knew they were Guardians, but the rest had not yet heard.

  A few more seconds, she prayed. Just a few.

  But beneath the voices she heard the flap of leathery wings, like a colony of startled bats. Saw demons rising into the air, mobilizing.

  “I need a ninety-degree, Alice, or you’re going to get fried,” Jake said, and it was a small voice that she could barely hear over the rush of wings. She glanced down, saw the missile launcher that he held horizontally in his chubby hands. The long tube was supposed to go over his shoulder, and the exhaust would blow out of the back. Impossible when she was behind him.