Bound by Flame (13 page)

“Hit him if you have to,” somebody shouted.

Nick was vaguely aware of roaring at the Creed-demon—right before he took a punch from his twin, directly between his eyes.

7

Cynda’s gut ached as she revved the Jeep through yet more friggin’ snow, carrying Nick, Creed, Andy, and her triad across the Triborough Bridge onto the Bruckner Expressway. She headed east through the Bronx, then turned north toward Long Island Sound and the City Island Bridge, all the while keeping her mouth firmly closed.

Nick rode shotgun, and the man hadn’t said a word since they left the townhouse.

Before that, after he woke from Creed’s punch and got dressed, no one had been able to drag much out of him past the fact Jake was J. C. Downy’s captive on City Island, and they had to get Jake back.

It had taken Merilee only half an hour to locate four potential addresses—title transfers in the last ten years, female owners. One house, a three-bedroom cottage on King Avenue, was registered to a Juliette Christine Sweetbriar.

Cynda squeezed the steering wheel.

In Ireland at least,
sweetbriar
was interchangeable with
downy
as a name for the wild rose. Seemed like a good bet to Cynda and everyone else.

I hope I’m right.

She tried to make herself breathe evenly, calmly, but it was hard.

They had no idea what they were charging into, past a rescue of Nick’s demon-brother. Merilee had printed out satellite photos of the address off Google Earth before the computer reacted to the nervous Sibyl energy in the library and shut down, refusing all attempts to boot it back up. The Sweetbriar house looked normal enough, but with the Legion involved, who could tell?

Before they left, the Sibyls decked out in their leathers, strapped on their weapons, and waited for the OCU SWAT officers to suit up, wheedle a warrant or two out of their favorite judge, and make the appropriate courtesy calls to the precincts in the Bronx covering City Island. Nobody could reach Sal Freeman, who had left for the day, but everyone had been right on point, ready to go, expecting Legion bullshit. So on Nick’s order, they went—but Cynda’s strong instincts kept nudging her, poking her. Different sensations pinged through her chest, from worry to fear to apprehension and to a sense of
finally, finally, we’ll get to the fighting
.

She glanced at Nick.

Motionless. Mouth set. Eyes straight ahead. He had on jeans and a blue T-shirt. No sleeves. No coat.

He’s locked down tighter than a military base on high alert. What happened in the townhouse basement?

When she took a breath, the air in the Jeep smelled like leather, oil, cold air, and Nick.

She wished he would tell her what had happened. Why did everything have to be so hard with him? Trying to talk to the man really was about as easy as dental surgery. And sometimes just as pleasant.

Riana, Andy, and Merilee exchanged terse, anxious remarks in the Jeep’s backseat, and Creed answered now and then from the jump seat in the rear. Of course, they weren’t conversing much with Cynda, because they were all mad at her for omitting the whole Jake-in-the-alley issue from her battle report. They’d be talking about that “later,” along with all the other “later” stuff Cynda had simmering. Assuming they didn’t all get eaten by whatever waited at the King Avenue house.

Asmodai? Those we can handle. We did a fair job against Astaroths, or whatever those invisi-demons were.

Let it be something we’ve seen before.

She glanced in her mirror to be sure she wasn’t losing anybody. Two other SUVs followed them, and a van with fifteen members of OCU SWAT. The SUVs carried Sibyl triads from South Brooklyn and North Queens, and the ranger group out of New Jersey. Still trying to breathe normally, Cynda led the caravan onto City Island Avenue and started counting streets. New mouthwatering scents of garlic, butter, rich cheese, and everything fried or baked flooded the Jeep, spilling out from the island’s overstock of fresh-seafood restaurants. Her stomach lurched. Past lunchtime. All she had managed was a protein bar before Nick had his gym meltdown—but if she tried to eat now, she’d heave right into the Long Island Sound.

“I’m hungry,” Andy announced from the backseat.

Her voice made Cynda jump.

Cynda watched in the rearview mirror as Andy rubbed her puffy eyes and yawned. “Let’s hope Jake wants to be found in a hurry.”

When was the last time she got a good night’s sleep—and how much weight has she lost?

Riana patted Andy’s hand. “I’ll grab you a pizza later.”

Andy yawned again, rubbing a damp patch off her right cheek with her sleeve. “Promises, promises.”

Nick let out a rumbling noise that only Cynda could hear. She knew he was frustrated by the chitchat, could read
that
in his thunderous expression plainly enough.

“Maybe we’d respect your feelings more if we
knew what happened,
” she said to him, keeping her voice low.

Nick didn’t even look at her.

If she hadn’t been at the fourth street off the City Island Bridge and needing to turn, she would have scorched him. Instead, she hung a left on Ditmars. She had only been to City Island a few times, but it amazed her how the little island still looked like a rural New England fishing village. Victorian architecture, narrow streets, picket fences—even some unpaved, sand-strewn roads, in a place that was officially part of the Bronx.

As per their hastily mounted plan, Cynda pulled to the curb just after making the right onto King Avenue, near the historic Pelham Cemetery, and waited for the other OCU vehicles to line up behind her. In the cold, sunless afternoon, with light, wet flakes swirling around its century-old tombstones, Pelham looked forlorn and ominous. The chalk-white grave markers reminded Cynda of so many bones jutting up from the snow-dusted ground, reaching toward the gunmetal-gray waters of Pelham Bay.

Before she zipped her leather face mask and strapped on her demon-hunting goggles, she glanced at Nick one more time. No change, except his muscles looked tight and too still, like the body of a panther ready to spring.

What should I say to him?

Something…but what?

It wasn’t like her to be at a loss for words.

Finally, she muttered, “Good hunting, you big, mute asshole.”

Nick turned his face toward her.

His eyebrow twitched. So did his mouth.

Was that a smile? Alert the media.

As the fourth SUV in the caravan squealed to a stop in the line of vehicles, Creed said, “Lock and load.”

Cynda sucked air, ordered her stomach to cooperate, zipped her mask, and buckled on her goggles. So did Riana and Merilee. Andy pulled on her goggles, then joined Creed and Nick in strapping on a body armor vest. They covered their vests with black NYPD raid jackets.

OCU SWAT spilled out of their van, dressed in combat boots, black fire-resistant coveralls, and body armor. They all wore black gloves, black face-guards, demon-hunting goggles, and black Kevlar helmets. Each SWAT member carried an assault rifle loaded with elementally locked bullets now routinely supplied to OCU by the Sibyls. Every officer also had a full complement of standard-issue equipment—flashbangs, Stingers, and tear-gas grenades—in case they encountered resistance of the nonsupernatural variety.

SWAT formed a protective ring, shielding the two SUVs of disembarking Sibyls from public view. Nick, Creed, and Andy bailed out of the Jeep and took point, while Cynda, Riana, and Merilee slipped into the center of the formation with the other Sibyls. To the untrained eye, the group would look like a fully equipped standard SWAT unit on the move.

And they did move. Fast. At a run, weapons ready, toward the address Merilee had provided.

Cynda’s heart marched in time with their boot steps. Her blood pumped with each crunch of ice and rock and sand. She kept her eyes fixed on the back of Nick’s head, on his ponytail, his tense shoulders. She had orders to stay within arm’s length of him, except during the actual house approach, when she would stay with Riana.

At previously designated points—thanks to the satellite photos—air Sibyls and snipers peeled off from the main group and took up positions in trees. Earth Sibyls and fire Sibyls stationed themselves north, south, east, and west, with two officers each, to intercept anyone attempting to flee from the target house.

By the time they reached the front porch of the sprawling green Victorian home registered to Juliette Sweetbriar, only Nick, Creed, Cynda, and Riana remained, along with four SWAT officers, two lugging a battering ram for forced entry, if needed. Those two stayed in front, while the other two SWAT officers went around to the back of the house.

Nick, Creed, and Andy made the approach with the SWAT members while Cynda and Riana sought cover behind some leafless, icy trees a few yards away. As Nick pounded on the ivory-colored door and bellowed, “NYPD!” Cynda realized she was holding her breath.

She let it out in a frosty rush.

Riana did the same thing. They glanced at each other. Cynda read the worry in her triad sister’s face and gave her hand a quick squeeze.

On the Sweetbriar house’s porch, nothing happened.

Nick thumped the door again. “NYPD. Open up.”

Cynda counted
one, two, three, four, five, six
…

Still nothing.

Nick gestured to the SWAT officers. He and Creed and Andy moved to the side, careful to stay away from any windows. The SWAT officers trooped forward, swept the battering ram backward, then swung it full steam ahead.

The door exploded from the blow, raining bits of ivory wood in every direction.

Just as fast, the officer on the left yelled, “Plug ’n’ shut,” and heaved a flashbang into the opening. He spun to the side, plugged his ears and shut his eyes. Cynda clamped her lids shut, too, and jammed her fingers into her ears. Those things were
so
bright and loud. She felt the stun grenade’s explosion in her bones and joints, and its blue-white flash of light tattooed itself on her eyelids even with her eyes closed.

By the time she opened them, the two SWAT officers had leaped through the opening, weapons ready, shouting, “Police! Down on the floor!”

Answering shouts came from the back of the house as those officers deployed into the Victorian through another entrance.

As shouts of “Clear! Clear!” rang through the cold afternoon, Nick, Creed, and Andy headed inside behind SWAT. A minute or two later, at a gesture from Nick, Cynda and Riana ran across the snow-coated yard and jumped to the porch.

Cynda had her hand on her sword hilt. Riana had her daggers palmed and ready—but the calls of all clear, the body postures, and the sounds of the officers’ voices eased her mind a little.

Riana went through the door first.

Cynda followed, but Nick caught her arm and kept her beside him.

Breathing hard from nerves more than anything, Cynda went still, staring at the immaculate space around her.

Except for door splinters and the spent flashbang canister, she didn’t see a single bit of dust or debris anywhere. Also no pictures, no nail holes in the wall, no furniture, not a blemish or hint that humans—or anything—had set foot in this house, except that it was unnaturally clean.

The goggles revealed no trace of demon residue, either.

“Going with SWAT to the basement,” Riana called, following Creed, Andy, and the officers toward what was probably the kitchen area.

Cynda sniffed and caught the telltale odor of cleanser—bleach and pine. The air in the house felt as cold as the air outside. For some reason, the overly polished floors and wood trim gave her a sick, nervous twitch in her gut.

It looked…no—maybe smelled?…familiar.

She loosened her goggles and let them fall around her neck, and unzipped her face mask. Frigid air bit into her cheeks, and the stink of cleanser seemed even stronger.

There’s an energy here. It’s subtle, but I know it. I’ve been around it before.

Where?

For the first time in over an hour, Nick spoke directly to Cynda. “What’s on your mind?”

She turned her attention to him and saw rage and frustration flicker across his face. His skin took on a golden glow.

This too-clean house was definitely not what he expected.

Her either.

“I don’t have a clue what this is about.” She folded her arms and scanned the pristine, empty living room again.

Nick narrowed his black eyes and studied her. “Something’s on your mind.”

Cynda shrugged and kept looking around. “Okay, I know it sounds stupid, but this house reminds me of somewhere. I just can’t place it.”

Before Nick could respond, scrambling noises broke out under the boards beneath their feet.

“The basement,” Cynda shouted, blood pounding up her neck, driving heat into her face.

Nick grabbed her and pulled her to him. Fast, authoritative, he hustled her away from the hot spot, up against the Victorian’s far wall.

The earth under the house gave a single, violent shake.

Cynda and Nick staggered. The house creaked on its foundation, and plaster dust drifted downward from a few corners.

All the shouting and scrambling stopped.

Seconds later, the SWAT officers and Riana—mask and goggles off—returned with Creed and Andy, marching a bejeweled, cuffed man in front of them.

Cynda recognized the lanky, pock-faced bastard immediately, even though he had on a decent blue suit, several gold chains, a bunch of gold rope bracelets, and at least four rings. The stench of urine and skunkweed clung to his clothes and blond hair like a bad omen.

“Max Moses.” Nick gave a low whistle and shook his head. “Who did you steal that jewelry from? Your mother will be seriously pissed.”

Max’s eyes, blue, a shade like cornflower, looked dull and angry. When he spoke, he directed his comments to Nick.

“She’s got me mum, the crazy bitch.” Max bared his brown teeth at Nick. “It’s your fault, see, for goin’ over there and puttin’ your mark on her door. They took her out, Downy’s demons, right under your cops’ noses.”