Bound by Flame (12 page)

Walking quietly to avoid attention from Sibyls and cops alike, he made his way down to the ground floor, then to the door that opened onto the steps leading down to the basement. The door was new, a replacement for the one that had been destroyed in the battle with the Latches last fall. This door had a lighter, safer feel to it, like it wasn’t made to keep out enemies, or hold in horrors.

Yet another improvement. A door. Just a simple door.

Lights flooded the stairwell, too. Another plus, like the OCU photos tacked to the paneled walls, mixed with plaques that bore mottoes like
Fidelis ad mortem,
the NYPD pledge of “Faithful unto death,” and the OCU slogan of
Consilio et animis,
“By wisdom and courage.”

Nick descended the hardwood stairs, dodging stacks of books on war tactics, encyclopedias, and textbooks somebody had taken off the shelves of the townhouse’s library, and found that some idiot had tacked up a small chalkboard near the bottom that read,
Credo Elvem ipsum etian vivere
.

Roughly translated, “Elvis lives.”

That had to be Sal Freeman, just seeing if Nick was paying attention.

He wiped out the chalk and wrote,
Fac ut vivas.
“Get a life.”

Then he opened the new lightweight wooden door at the bottom of the steps and walked into what was still his personal version of hell.

More a chamber than a basement, the huge, windowless stone room was at least brighter than it had been in the days of the Latches and the Legion. Lights blazed from everywhere, and the cold slab of the floor had rugs and exercise mats tossed in various positions. Straps, balls, and bars had been made available, too, for people who liked a more free-form workout that didn’t involve treadmills or televisions. It smelled like leather and sweat, cleanser and air freshener down here now, instead of sandalwood, oil, and blood.

No more perverted rituals.

Just exercise.

And hopefully…a ghost. Of sorts.

Nick often put himself through his paces in this place, trying to get used to it, purge all the hated memories and images from his system.

Would Jake try for the same resolution?

If he’s really on our side. If he’s sane.

Sometimes Nick even sparred in the basement, if he could find Sal Freeman or talk somebody else into blocking his kicks and punches. Mostly, though, he forced himself to meditate in this room, this specific nightmare of a place. When he couldn’t achieve that, he just sat and remembered—but not without purpose.

A few times, he could have sworn he wasn’t in the basement alone.

At those moments, he had figured he was just on edge, but after everything with the paint can in the alley, and after what Cynda said in the Jeep—Nick was pretty sure he
hadn’t
been alone.

Nick did a basic set of stretches near the spot where Riana had been forced to kill Davin Latch to save her own life.

That’s where I saw my father. Already gone before I got here.

Nick didn’t blame Riana for her actions. In fact, he thought she was a hero for giving the old bastard what he deserved.

If Cynda had been listening to his thoughts, Nick knew she would have tried to force him to say it wasn’t easy, seeing his father dead on the townhouse’s basement floor.

Okay, so it wasn’t easy.

What difference did that make?

Nick stretched for another few minutes, then pushed himself through a few exercises. He paused near the next problem-spot and studied the floor.

Right about there, I killed…
her.

If Nick hadn’t changed into his demon form and snapped his mother’s neck, she would have used her biosentient abilities to cover the stone walls with the blood of Sibyls and her own children—Nick, Creed, and Jake included.

But, no, that didn’t make it easy
.

Once more, Nick stretched, this time extending his left arm and leg. He took a slow breath and waited, waited, holding position—

And it happened.

That…tingle on the back of his neck.

The sense that someone—something—else had entered the chamber.

Nick kept his breathing easy, his motions careful.

Gideon joined more fully with him, and he was aware that his skin had taken on a golden glow. If he turned Gideon loose, he would change, grow taller, wider, even more muscular, into a being more light than substance. And he’d run off the “ghost” he had been busting his ass to locate.

All in all, he’d rather not.

Unless his demon-brother forced his hand.

“Jake?” Nick asked, careful to keep his voice quiet.

Nothing answered him, but that prickly sensation on his neck didn’t go away.

The Astaroth was here. Nick knew it as surely as he knew his own heart rate. He did have some kind of connection to the creature.
Or maybe to the boy I didn’t save.
Nick’s chest tightened.
Whatever part of the real Jake still exists, age-accelerated, demonized, but maybe present in some form.

“You come here to visit them.” Nick sank slowly to the nearest mat, folding his legs into a sitting position. Nothing fast. Nothing threatening. He kept his back to where he thought Jake might be.

“I visit them, too.” Nick closed his eyes and took a slow, meditative breath to help Gideon stay regulated and calm.

After a long few minutes of silence, Nick tried to make himself ask the question his conversation with Cynda had provoked, but it stuck in his throat. He squared his shoulders and raised his chin and ran through a few meditations. Breathed. Breathed more slowly. Formed the words.

“Are you pissed at me for killing our mother, Jake?”

The sentence seemed to fall into the air.

Nick centered himself and waited.

Tried to be calm.

A sound like a sigh echoed through the chamber.

Then a low, insistent, “No.”

The response was barely audible, yet it sounded like a blast of thunder in Nick’s mind. He turned slowly toward where he heard the voice.

The temperature in the room dropped a few degrees.

Nick saw his own breath in a frosty rush. The scents of cherry bark and mullein—like aged wine or some sweet spice—drifted through the gym. Between him and the door, on a blue exercise mat, a human figure began to coalesce. At first, as it shimmered into full sight, it was tall—as tall as Nick in his demon form.

It had golden eyes, see-through pearly skin, fangs, claws, and a double set of huge leathery wings. It reminded Nick of an eerie, haunting monster carved out of marble or alabaster, set atop some church to scare away evil spirits. The sight of the Astaroth made Nick’s gut twist. He strained to see traces of the lost little boy, the original Jacob, in this being, but failed.

Seconds later, the creature pulled in its wings, and they vanished with a little swirl of dust. It closed its golden eyes, seemed to concentrate, and other changes happened. It got more…solid. The skin darkened. Muscles filled out, became more compact as it reduced its height to a little over six feet. By the time it finished shimmering, it—he—Jake—looked like a normal adult male, dressed in jeans and a loose white shirt, both streaked with dirt. Nick would put Jake’s age somewhere in his late twenties. He had olive skin as if he might be Italian or Greek. Shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes, and a build like he pumped iron five times a week, minimum. He was wearing a chain like Nick’s around his neck, but the chain didn’t have the signet ring on it that Nick remembered Jake having, from that months-ago battle down here in the basement chamber.

His talisman had two parts. Is he missing half if it? Do Astaroths even need talismans like Cursons?

Nick wanted to give the kid a thumbs-up, tell him he didn’t look bad at all. But he didn’t think moving was a good idea, or speaking. He didn’t want to spook the kid—well, man.

Not a boy anymore, that’s for sure.

Jake studied him with clear, discerning eyes that didn’t look childlike or innocent at all. More sophisticated, educated, intellectual.

And damaged, in that way only cops and shrinks would notice.

Jake’s gaze moved from Nick to the spot in the basement where their mother had died.

In that same toneless, quiet voice, Jake said, “Our mother was evil. I’m glad she’s dead.”

Nick’s muscles went slack with relief. A jumble of unexpected emotions battered against that door inside, the one he kept so firmly closed. Aloud, he managed, “Okay. That’s out of the way.”

“I haven’t learned to stay…solid very long, and talking gets hard.” When Jake held up his hand, Nick saw rows of knotty scars running from wrist to elbow. Other scars, too, round ones, and crescent-shaped. He squinted at Jake. The man was scarred all over.

What in God’s name?

Jake flickered, then grew solid again. “Please listen. There are many Cursons, many Astaroths. They could make an army under the right general. That general could set a formidable force against the fire Sibyls—and win.”

Many Cursons?

Sonofabitch.

Nick had wondered, but he had never been able to get at those files during his time with the Legion. Up until now, he thought he and Creed might be the only surviving demons of their type.

Guess not.

Another flicker, but Jake got himself back pretty fast. This time, though, the scars looked worse. Nick wondered why Jake didn’t heal the way Nick and Creed did, whenever they shifted in and out of Curson form.

Was Jake that different? Maybe too human to heal completely?

So many questions, but he had to ask cop questions first, before Jake winked out for good. “Is J. C. Downy the one who has been killing fire Sibyls?”

Jake shook his head. The movement looked painful. “A leader never soils her own hands. Leaders give orders, and demons do the killings.”

Nick shifted on his mat, leaning toward his brother. “Why them? Why only—”

“The fire bitches?” Jake shrugged, again looking like the movement caused him pain. “That’s what some people call them. I don’t know why fire Sibyls are hated more than the rest.”

Nick didn’t want to, but he forced himself to ask what he had to know. “Have you killed any Sibyls, Jake?”

Flicker.

Long flicker.

Nick squinted at the spot where Jake had been standing. He was gone—but no. Wait. There. Back again, this time sitting, much like Nick was sitting, cross-legged on the blue mat nearest the door.

God, those scars—and now bruises and cuts, too. Looks like he’s been attacked by a couple of heavyweight champs.

Jake gave Nick a deep, direct stare. “I have not killed. There are those of us, Curson and Astaroth, who don’t agree with murder. We disobey.”

Nick froze in place, fixed on the scars. The bruises. Those cuts that now oozed tiny trails of blood down Jake’s hands and cheeks. Nick’s chest went cold deep inside, and Gideon crept forward, growling low and steady in the back of Nick’s mind.

“What happens to demons who disobey, Jake?”

Jake closed his blue eyes. Opened them slowly. Even that small action made him wince. When he looked at Nick, misery wrote itself across every tense line and angle of the man’s broken body. He glanced down at his hands and nails, which appeared to be covered with a layer of dust or dirt.

“We suffer.”

Gideon surged, pushing Nick to his feet. He knew he was glowing. Couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t begin to control himself any better than he was. “Stay here, Jake.” Nick heard the
other
-echo in his words. “Stay right here in the townhouse. Don’t return to her. We’ll help you, Creed and I. The Sibyls.”

Jake didn’t react to Nick’s outburst. After a few seconds, he flickered, seemed to short out completely. When he reappeared, he was only an outline—and the wings and fangs and claws were back.

The Astaroth gestured to the empty chain around his neck. “As long as someone else possesses a piece of me,” he whispered, “I have no choice.”

Nick clenched his fists. “Can she force you, Jake? Can she make you do evil like our mother tried to do?”

Jake shook his head, more angular now, less human, less distinct. “I will die first—but, dying isn’t easy.”

“Have you tried?” Nick fought an urge to grab hold of his brother, shake him, refuse to turn him loose, now, or ever again.

“Many times.” Jake—now fully Astaroth—held out his demon arms, showing wicked, roped scars. “I heal,” he said simply. Then he looked skyward, as if he was perceiving sound Nick couldn’t hear.

Once more, Jake began to fade away.

Nick sensed this time that Jake wouldn’t be back. He lunged forward, made a grab for the Astaroth, and caught only air.

A whisper, faint, but real. “City Island, brother. City Island—”

The voice faded to nothing.

Nick stood for a few long seconds, searching the room, hoping, but knowing—“No.”

He bashed his hand against his palm. “God
damn
it!”

More than glowing, half-changed to Curson.

Someone—Downy—was hurting Jake, and he couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

His brain hurt. His blood roared.

He was roaring, too. With Gideon. The sound echoed off the stone walls.

Growling, snarling, Nick spun around and started kicking every exercise ball in the room. One after the other, they slammed against the stone walls. Some deflated. Others burst.

If he hadn’t left, I would have helped him!

Nick grabbed mats. Throwing and tearing. And the weights.

God
it felt good to bash the heavy iron and steel into the floor.

“Nick? Stop it!” The sound of Cynda’s voice barely penetrated Nick’s rage. He was more Curson than man now. So much for the friggin’ clothes.

“City Island!” he bellowed before he lost the ability to speak. “We’re going to City Island
right fucking now
!”

Women were streaming into the basement, ringing him. Whenever he tried to move, they did something to stop him. Air, or earth, or fire.

Then another Curson got in his face.