Bound by Flame (23 page)

The combined OCU SWAT-Sibyl team continued to use neighboring houses for cover, moving quietly. No shouting. No marking or checking as they cut through another set of small yards, crossed two narrow drives, and wove between chain-link fences—yards with no yapping dogs. The route had been carefully planned for maximum stealth.

Nick’s jaw ached from clenching as he glanced over at Cynda. She was walking about three steps away from him, flanked by Riana and Merilee, face mask zipped, goggles in place, hand on the hilt of her broadsword. The trail of smoke he was used to seeing behind her in battle situations—that was missing.

Even at some distance, he could smell that hint of vanilla mixed with cinnamon and sense the absence of the heat that should be roiling beneath her skin. The way she looked, the way she moved—he noticed her at every level, even five minutes from battle. He didn’t bother telling himself not to react. That was impossible. No question about it, as soon as he snuffed the threat to the fire Sibyls, he was on the first plane to Ireland.

Three minutes.

At Nick’s signal, the team picked up its pace to a rhythmic jog. His blood thumped with the military strike of boots on grass, gravel, and pavement. The closer they came to target, the more his gut heaved at the thought of Jake, somewhere inside, maybe captive, maybe not—but definitely at risk. He couldn’t stop checking on Cynda, either. Her presence drew his attention like a magnetic field.

Somehow he’d survived an entire week of wanting this woman he couldn’t have until he got his chance at those damned Irish Mothers. He knew Cynda had been just as bothered. She had burned up three different workrooms at the townhouse, having tantrums over just about anything. In between those outbursts, he hadn’t seen her burn at all. Not even a spark.

That worried him, but he understood.

Her triad didn’t.

Apparently, Cynda wasn’t practicing her “Don’t hold back information” rule with Riana and Merilee. When Nick asked her about it, she said she didn’t want to put her triad sisters in a bad position with the Mothers, or make them feel like they had to police her.

Bullshit.

Cynda needed her triad. Needed their support. She shouldn’t be doing this alone.

But that was her call, regardless of whether he thought it was fucked up.

Riana was doing a lot of griping about Cynda’s increasingly erratic control over her fire talent, though. Pretty soon, Nick would have to tell his brother’s wife to stuff it, and that wouldn’t go over well.

Two minutes.

Being around Cynda without touching her had chewed into Nick’s patience and self-control, never mind the slow-assed surveillance of the Bronx house they were forming up to raid. Yeah, sure they had to be careful. The Mothers hadn’t been able to drag any new information out of Max Moses, so the OCU had to operate on the intel they could gather on their own. Freeman didn’t want more people wounded, or permanently out of commission like the officer who got her leg shattered by a wood fragment on City Island.

Nick had no desire to see anyone hurt again—but a week had almost killed him.

His body armor felt like an old friend. The loaded Glock in his hand felt better. As long as he kept Jake to the side of his thoughts, Nick was primed to kick some ass.

Intel suggested the best approach to the two-story fieldstone house was on foot, setting up perimeters in diminishing circles. Officers from the Fiftieth Precinct had cleared the area, manned the outer rings, redirected traffic from the key roads, and allowed OCU and Sibyls to cover strategic inner rings. This time, four Sibyl triads would be going in after Nick, Creed, and twenty OCU SWAT officers.

Standard issue for this raid included goggles and earplugs everyone could employ if they had to kill half demons like Nick. They also had a special four-man “gold team,” decked out in EOD bomb disposal suits and armed with tricked-up M4 carbines, that would take the lead if the Cursons decided to put in another appearance.

The goals were simple enough: rescue, capture, clear—and get the hell out with all personnel intact.

Three different watch patrols had made visuals through the back window using telescoping lenses from about forty yards away. The high-tech surveillance had verified that Delilah Moses was on-site, chained in a back bedroom, at times under the guard of an unknown female, estimated age fifty-five years, dark hair, average height, no obvious distinguishing marks, no facial match on any database. At other times, no one at all seemed to be on guard, but Nick, the Sibyls, and the OCU assumed that’s when the invisible Astaroth demons were taking care of house business.

As the large fieldstone house came into sight, Nick’s blood pumped a little faster. He gave a hand signal, and the final containment ring deployed, leaving him eight regular officers, two gold team members, Cynda’s North Manhattan triad, and the Jamaica Bay ranger Sibyls. Creed had the other ten SWAT members with them, as well as two triads from Staten Island.

There would be no “knock and announce” today.

This was a high-risk warrant, with an old woman’s life at stake.

They’d just kick down the doors.

Nick’s group would make entrance through the kitchen, as per architectural plans pulled from city records and recon photos. They would follow a direct route down the hallway and deploy into the bedroom and fetch Delilah. Meanwhile Creed’s team would be blasting through the front with flashbangs and Stingers and as much commotion as possible to draw the fire off the rescue team.

One minute.

Seconds now.

As Nick’s team formed up using leafless trees for as much cover as possible, Nick sighted the back door and gestured for SWAT to deploy.

Polycarbonate lenses firmly in place, four SWAT members ran forward. Two carried the battering ram. Nick and the other six SWAT officers fanned out behind them.

Just before he left the cover of the trees, Nick caught Cynda’s eye as best he could with those goggles covering half her face.

Be careful, firebird,
he mouthed.

Instead of telling him to fuck himself, Cynda nodded.

God, he hated how flat she’d been since the Mothers interfered with her life and choices. The thought made him grind his teeth, but he had no time to dwell on it. Adrenaline surged through his body, making everything inside him sizzle and pop.

He turned to the officers on his left.

“Move,” he commanded, and ran ahead with his team.

Frozen grass, mud, and ice crackled under his boots. Cold air smacked across his nose and cheeks. He sucked in a single chilled breath as he reached the back steps and signaled for the battering ram.

Nick’s guys stormed up the back steps and bashed in the back door.

At the same instant, at the front of the house, flashbangs exploded with ear-jamming concussions. Noise, yelling, and commotion came next.

Muscles tight, Nick followed his team through the ruined door. They streamed into the kitchen as Creed and his team hollered and pounded into the front rooms.

Nick’s mind blasted into high gear, along with all his senses. His heart banged with each quick breath he took, and blood roared in his ears. Place smelled like pine. And it was cold. The air felt flat and empty. He didn’t hear anything but Creed and SWAT shouting and beating on the walls.

Nick glanced left and right as he charged through the kitchen. No plates. No trash. No crumbs. Damned if this room didn’t look just as freaky-clean as the Sweetbriar house.

Unease crept through Nick’s insides.

He turned left behind his team. The hallway—he could tell the place had been scrubbed from top to bottom. Nothing on the walls. No dirt, no marks.

No people or demons anywhere. He doubted they would find a single fingerprint, other than their own.

The watch officers hadn’t reported any changes across the last twenty-four hours. No comings, no goings. The unknown female should have been in here. Probably with a shitload of demons—and definitely Delilah.

How could the place be empty? Not possible.

Boot heels echoed on hardwood as they trooped into the bedroom where Delilah Moses was supposedly captive, but Nick could see the truth for himself.

Nothing.

Nada.

The roaring sound in his ears ebbed, along with his heart rate.

Not a bed or a chair or a couch or chain in the room. Not even a scratch on the friggin’ walls, which looked as if they had been painted yesterday. Smelled a little like it, too.

SWAT yanked open the closet, which was just as empty as everything else.

They stepped back, gave him a questioning look, and waited for his instructions.

“Signal the Sibyls,” Nick growled, jamming his Glock back into its holster. “Search every stone, crack, and closet. And check with the watch. I want to know how Downy got the vic out of this place unobserved.”

Nick prowled the empty bedroom, finding nothing, then moved through the hallway and kitchen to a chorus of “Clear! Clear!” as each room in the house was searched, with no results.

From a vantage point in the center room—probably a formal dining area in the house’s heyday—Nick watched as Sibyls streamed through the entrances, weapons ready. One after another, the women stopped and examined the museum-perfect house. Looking as pissed as Nick felt, they sheathed blades or slung bows over their shoulders.

We waited too long.
Frustration bubbled like red-hot ore inside. He kicked against a baseboard.
Or they knew we were coming. Again.

He scanned the area, searching for Cynda.

There she was, walking slowly through the hallway from the bedroom, easing her sword back into its scabbard. The sight of her cooled his anger a few degrees, and eased the gnawing worry deep in his chest. Except, to Nick’s sharp eye, it didn’t look like her blade had ever ignited. The oil was smooth and dark along the metal, unheated, undisturbed. She spotted him and came toward him, unzipping her face mask and propping her goggles on her forehead. As she had at the Sweetbriar house, she seemed distant, busy in her mind, like she was digging for some memory she just couldn’t find.

“Familiar, like the last place?” he asked as she entered the room where he stood.

She glanced at the high ceiling, the windows, and folded her arms. “Yes. I’m missing something.”

Nick expected smoke to curl up from her shoulders, but nothing happened. Her listlessness punched at his gut.

Could a fire Sibyl’s heat go out?

Because it seemed to him that’s what was happening, and he couldn’t let it stand.

He dug his fingers into his palms. They had to get resolution with Downy fast, so he could get his ass to Ireland and have a word with this Mother Keara.

Cynda’s head turned as she inspected the room, and her gaze came to rest on the small closet on the back wall. Nick had left the door open, and he shook his head. “It’s empty. I already checked.”

But Cynda was focusing on the outside of the doorframe, at an uneven spot on the right.

She walked forward, reached for the spot, and ran her fingers along the side of the molding, coming away with a dark chunk of wood about the size of her pinkie finger.

“This is polished,” she murmured. “I think—I think it’s bog oak. From Ireland. What’s it doing
here
?”

Nick’s blood surged. He lunged toward her, wrapped her in his arms, and moved her away from the closet, keeping his body between her and the open space. He could hear his own breathing, harsh and jagged, as he waited for the ambush.

No demons came exploding through the closet’s pine paneling.

Nick counted to five.

Still no demons.

He was acutely aware of the fact that Cynda’s leathers and skin felt almost as chilly as the room. She was shivering, pale from the cold, but she wasn’t drawing any fire to her, or stirring the flames inside as she gripped the little fragment of Irish wood. He wanted to shake her until she warmed up—
woke
up, or shook off this pall over her elemental talents.

He shouldn’t have allowed her to come on this raid. She wasn’t in top form, but he thought the action might rev her up. Mistake. He’d put her at huge risk.

What had he been thinking?

Nick didn’t want to let her go, but he couldn’t just stand there in the middle of a potential hot zone, cradling her against his chest.

She gazed up at him, green eyes sad but at least less distant, and pushed gently against his chest.

“Creed!” Nick called as he let Cynda go. “Get in here. We’ve got weirdness.”

Then he yelled for SWAT assistance, and ordered them to examine the closet more closely.

One of the gold team officers in the special bomb removal gear hustled into the small, empty space and tapped around the walls to check for panels or compartments. The remainder of the gold team positioned in front of the closet door, carbines aimed into the space. The other sixteen SWAT members spread into two rings inside the room.

The Sibyls withdrew toward the room’s two doors, with the earth Sibyls stepping just outside and the air Sibyls running a few extra steps to get some distance for their arrows or throwing weapons. The fire Sibyls stayed in front, zipped their masks, pulled their goggles into place, and drew their weapons.

Nick noted that the other three fire Sibyls, all with different types of swords, immediately lit fires along their blades.

Cynda didn’t.

She was too far away for him to say something to piss her off and kick-start her flames, so he once more stepped between her and the closet door. Creed stood beside him on the left-hand side, just behind the gold team. Nick saw him glance at Cynda, and knew he was worried, too.

Seconds later, the officer in the closet knocked on a bunch of boards that sounded hollow instead of solid.

“Got it,” he said.

“Breach,” Nick instructed, gripping his Glock, squinting into the darkness of the closet for any hint of red demon traces.

Everyone went stiff. The gold team raised their weapons higher as the officer in the closet lifted his leg and crashed his booted foot through the false closet panel.