Bound by Flame (2 page)

Cynda bit her lip, but still didn’t look at her father or at the nuns. They could all go away. They could fly straight to whatever hell held the devils they talked about, or the changelings, or everything else she had been called since the day she first touched sparks and made fire.

Smoke flowed over her skin, but she managed not to burn anything. After a few deep breaths, she took the old woman’s hand.

“Sibyl,” Mother Keara whispered as she squeezed Cynda’s fingers, those green eyes blazing with what looked like joy. “There are fire Sibyls, earth Sibyls, and air Sibyls. Once, long ago, there were even water Sibyls, before a great tragedy took them all. S-i-b-y-l. Say the word, child.”

“Sibyl,” Cynda shouted, trying to be big, hoping her words would bounce off the walls and floors and everybody’s ears, too.

Her skin tingled.

Heat pulsed from Mother Keara into Cynda’s palm, up her arm, and straight down to her aching heart, soothing her as only fire could.

Drawing strength from the fire inside, she said to Mother Keara, “Show me where the Sibyls live.”

The old woman smiled again.

Walls of flame surrounded them now, burning bright and strong, yet setting nothing on fire but the air, and, seemingly, everything Cynda had ever known.

Somehow she managed not to glance back at her father as the old woman led her into the beautiful fire, then through it, and away down a long, long hallway.

1

Cynda knelt behind a dumpster in an alley near Sixty-fifth and Lexington. Her teeth chattered. Smoke rose from her shoulders as she shivered and bumped her sheathed Celtic broadsword against the hulking cop crouched beside her.

Nick didn’t react.

Sleet clattered against dumpsters and fire escapes, pelting the top of Cynda’s tightly zipped leather face mask. Her toes ached like she had a good case of frostbite, never mind her leather boots, gloves, and bodysuit.

March in New York City
so
sucked.

First chance she got, she would kill Riana and Merilee for having “previous commitments,” best friends and sister-Sibyls or not. How could they strand her in a friggin’ sleet storm?

The smoke around her face got thicker.

Nick, who in his heart-stopping human hunk form, was a cop, had dragged her into the frigid night to meet with his prize informant. Cynda adjusted the strap of her special glasses and peered through the overlarge lenses. Stupid things reminded her of motorcycle racing goggles, in fetching shades of black rubber and yellow polycarbonate. Highly attractive.

Not.

Probably had icicles hanging from both sides to add to the effect.

But the treated lenses detected sulfur dioxide left behind by demons sent to do the bidding of their Legion masters. So the lenses had become standard issue for Sibyls on patrol all over the world.

Of course, most Sibyls didn’t have far-too-sexy cops to babysit. Teaming up with law enforcement was a pain in the ass, even when law enforcement meant the OCU—New York City’s low-profile Occult Crimes Unit.

Cynda pulled at her ugly demon-hunting goggles again and wished she could see the sulfur traces without them, the way Nick could.

“Be still and quit smoking,” he rumbled. “If he sees you, he’ll bolt.”

A thousand retorts flashed across Cynda’s mind, but she clamped her mouth shut. More heat rushed through her body. It took every bit of willpower she possessed not to set Nick on fire, and her leather bodysuit in the bargain. She’d freeze to death if she burned holes in her clothes—and he’d laugh his ass off, too. At least the sleet was slowing some, and ah, there, yes. Finally stopping.

“Maybe your informant was shining you on,” she muttered.

“He’s reliable. If Max says he knows something about Legion activity, then he does.”

Cynda cut Nick a sideways look, then had to turn her whole head to see him through the goggles.

“The Legion’s been quiet for too long.” Nick’s expression stayed distant, but tension bunched at his eyes. “They haven’t left New York like everyone thinks. That’s bullshit. I’ve been on the inside, Cynda. I
know
. We have to find out what the cult’s planning before it’s too late.”

She wanted to argue with Nick just to keep warm, but part of her knew he was right. In the four months she had worked with him, they had busted a slew of Legion houses before cult activity fell off the radar.

Nick knew his stuff.

He had good instincts, almost as good as her own, and the stirrings in her gut agreed with him. The Legion
wasn’t
gone. No way. The zealous freaks were cooking up something extra nasty to gain the upper hand with their ancient enemies, the Sibyls—but what would it be?

Cynda had no idea.

Flames broke out along her gloved fingertips.

She
hated
not knowing. She usually had inklings, at least a hunch about actions to take to protect the Sibyl family she loved more than anything on Earth, but this time, nothing.

Nick had infiltrated the Legion, lived with the murdering maniacs for almost five years, and paid a major price for that, and he had no guesses, either.

Cynda glanced at him again, gradually pulling her fire energy back inside her chilled body. Even in the middle of an ice storm, she could smell his unusual scent of ocean and musk. His chiseled face looked almost exotic in the low light, with his black hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. A gold chain, the talisman that controlled his
other,
hung inside the open collar of his black shirt.

The way the chain lay against his skin tempted her to kiss it—or grab it and twist. Hard.

Making Nick’s eyes bug out might give her a little satisfaction.

Kissing him—now, that would be satisfaction, too, but if she ever let herself kiss him once, she’d want to do it again. Maybe a lot.

Smoke poured out of her boots.

Not going there. Gotta stop.

Even if Nick did feel some attraction to her—which he had never indicated—Cynda didn’t do attachments other than her bond with her Sibyl sisters. She’d learned when she was just a little girl—nobody else was reliable, or worth that risk.

But did Nick’s jeans
ever
fit him like a faded blue glove. No jackets, hats, mittens, or anything to guard against the cold.
It’s a discipline,
he had told Cynda more than once.
Mind over matter. A mental thing.

Yeah.

Most mental things involved straitjackets and locked hospital units, but insane or not, the man was one tasty package. He kept his powerful body in a ready stance, with one big hand on the ground like a football player ready to charge forward. The most striking feature, though, was the way her goggles made his muscular silhouette glow dark red about the edges.

Because he’s not completely human.

That little reminder sobered Cynda, but didn’t curb her tongue. “Couldn’t you at least get an informant who shows up on time?”

“Max does his best.” Nick didn’t twitch or shift. Totally still. Totally calm. “He’s Irish like you, so he follows his own rules.”

She let out a cloud of smoke and popped his hip with the flat tip of her broadsword. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Nick didn’t answer. His dark eyes stayed focused on the alley’s icy darkness with characteristic intensity and single-minded concentration.

“Why would anybody tell you anything?” she mumbled, more to herself than to the big jerk beside her.

“Most people find me charming. Don’t know what’s the matter with you.”

Cynda flicked her fingers and showered his hair with sparks.

Nick rubbed his hand over the dark strands and snuffed the flames without so much as looking at her. He could deflect her elemental powers better than anyone she had ever known, save for Mother Keara.

“You—” she started, but Nick shook his head and cut her off before she could say anything else.

His body tightened.

Cynda swiveled back toward the alley, smoking from more places than she could count.

A tall, thin man made his way slowly through the darkness, fingers trailing along one grimy, icy brick wall. Obviously, he couldn’t see in the low light as well as Cynda or Nick, or at least he wanted them to think he couldn’t.

Cynda squinted at the man. Blond. About six feet tall, underfed, pock-faced—just the way Nick had described him, except his face seemed badly bruised.

Max Moses, the informant.

Waves of heat rose from his body. Traces of red hung about his tattered overcoat, and his gait hitched and sputtered as he blundered down the alley. Cynda squinted at the red flecks clustered around Max’s shoulders and neck. Not enough sulfur traces to equal a demon, no, but weird. And wrong.

“Something’s off about him.” Cynda’s words came out soft against the curtain of smoke shrouding her head.

Nick hushed her with a sharp gesture. “Max drinks. He’s a sensitive. Has to block things out.”

Then Nick stood and strode away from Cynda’s hiding place.

She swore to herself and barely held back a jet of fire. Her hand tightened on the hilt of her sword. Those red streaks almost had a pattern. If they’d been on Max’s skin instead of his clothes, they might have been bruises, as if someone—or something—had grabbed Max from behind.

And tried to choke him.

Nick reached Max at the same moment Cynda caught a darker flash of red to her left, farther away, near the mouth of the alley. Her heart rate kicked up and she barely kept back her fire. She blinked, tried to fix on the signal, but couldn’t.

What was it?

A spell?

But spells were intricate procedures, requiring tools and setup and patterns, all kinds of props. “Magic” was more elemental science than anything, and elements had to be handled carefully, bound and controlled, or “locked” to channel their power—like the fire, air, water, and earth power locked along the double-edged blade of Cynda’s sheathed sword.

She didn’t know any paranormal group that could cast random spells in a dark alley.

And now, she didn’t see a thing.

Back to dark.

But it still didn’t feel right.

She reached out with her pyrosentience—her fire sense—but got nothing back. Her eyes darted to the numerous dumpsters and fire escapes. All dark and quiet and still. All empty.

Screw this.

Cynda rose to her feet and drew her sword, making no sound. Whatever was out there, it could eat steel and explain itself later.

Max remained deep in conversation with Nick, not paying attention, but the red demon residue on his clothing blared at Cynda like a bullhorn.

Didn’t Nick feel something off in this situation?

She sensed it, stronger and stronger. Wrongness. Like darkness creeping through the alley, spreading into the city.

The taste in her mouth turned acrid, the way it always did when she was nervous—and she hated being nervous almost as much as she hated being cold. Her eyes strained inside the goggles, searching up, down, left, right.

Where was that streak of red residue?

There.

No wait, there!

On the fire escape nearest Nick, the one just above his left shoulder. A flicker of red. Just a hint, and then it was gone.

Cynda ground her teeth. Her leathers gave at the ankles, and she knew she had burned holes in her fighting suit. Her Sibyl instincts told her this was a creature, some type of being her Sibyl triad hadn’t encountered before.

As if in response to her thoughts, malice radiated across the alley. It struck Cynda, pummeled against her like the cold. Now her instincts
shouted
wrongness, and not just in the alley.

Everywhere.

Her pyrosentience swept in all directions. Touching—yet not touching. What the hell was out there?

Her muscles tightened. Her belly burned. Flames surged along her arms, gathered at her hands, but she couldn’t throw fire at the thing, whatever it was. It might deflect the heat and fry Nick and Max, if it had the ability to fight elements.

A centering breath…

The weight of her sword…

Yes
.

“Nick!” she shouted. “Heads up!”

His attention snapped to her at the same time she gave a battle cry and launched herself from behind the dumpster. Jerking warmth from the air, building sparks, breathing flames, Cynda ignited her sword. The fierce blaze flared orange, lighting up the end of the alley.

Heart pounding, body seething with heat, she leaped past Nick and his informant. With her free hand, she grabbed the bottom rung of the fire escape. The metal was ice-cold and rough through her glove as she hoisted herself to hang off the edge.

Whatever was there, she’d take it down at the ankles.

She sucked in a breath of cold air as she swept her blazing sword low across the first platform.

Cynda’s blade connected with something solid.

Something with powerful protections.

Her swing stopped mid-arc, thrumming, vibrating. Like banging the blade into a stack of cement bricks. Pain ricocheted up her hand, wrist, and arm. Her teeth slammed together.

The force of the blow ripped her sword from her hand. It clattered against metal as it fell to the fire escape platform, just out of her reach.

Shit!

Red flickered in the air above her head. Just as Cynda lost her grip on the platform, she saw a distinct man-shape wink into reality, and she heard its angry, dangerous howl.

She let out a shriek as she fell backward, fast and hard. Bolts of agony shot through her back and limbs as she slammed ass-first into the ice-crusted pavement. Breath left her in a harsh rush.

Nick shouted as the informant bolted down the alleyway, his footsteps pounding the asphalt as he ran. “Stay down,” Nick ordered Cynda as he drew his weapon.

“Bullshit.” Heat from her face clouded her goggle-vision as she caught her breath and scrambled to her feet, fire blazing along her shoulders.

Where the hell was the thing she’d just hit?