Bound by Flame (25 page)

In the eerie glow rising from his body, Cynda saw him in what she assumed was his basic demon form—alabaster skin, almost delicate upper and lower fangs, sleek pointed claws, and two sets of wide, thin wings, partially extended, close to brushing the well-honed circular walls of the tunnel. Jake’s eyes were the same disconcerting shade of gold as Nick’s in his
other
form, and Creed’s, too.

He gestured for her to stand. “Come with me. If I know my brother, we don’t have much time.”

With that, Jake strode past her, taking his skin-light with him.

For now, Cynda shoved her fear and anger away. It wasn’t going to do anything for her. She had to keep a clear mind and a level head.

And she had to hurry.

She pushed herself to her feet and ran to catch up.

Jake didn’t slow down for her, and for a time, he didn’t speak as they rushed through the straight, level tunnel.

“I don’t strive for mystery,” he told her a few steps later. “I say what I can. Do you understand?”

Cynda jogged to keep pace with him, drawing air through her nose and letting it out slowly through her mouth to keep her endurance, in case they had miles to go. After thinking about his statement, she asked, “Has Downy given you orders about what you can and can’t discuss?”

Jake’s head tilted like he was laboring to work out the perfect answer. “I have been given orders about many things.”

Cynda’s brain buzzed as she moved a little faster, working to piece together what the demon was saying—and not saying. “Then how are you speaking to me at all?”

“With great effort.” His pearl-white nostrils flared. “Orders can be to some extent…interpreted. Or delayed, so long as the purpose remains.”

Every time he violates a command, he spends energy. And when he runs out of energy, he kills me. Got that much.

While she ran, Cynda pumped her arms with a twinge of hope—yet worry, too. She thought she understood the game Jake was playing. She had played it enough times herself, with her fellow adepts, when they wanted to get around orders given by the Mothers.

“So, hypothetically, if you’ve been ordered to kill me, you can show me stuff and talk to me, so long as in the end, you’re still planning to take my life.” She caught up to Jake and had to keep jogging in order to remain even with him, almost elbow to elbow. “That’s not violating your commands.”

“And if heroic rescues occur, what can I do about that?” Jake sounded oh-so-innocent as his elbow brushed hers.

Exactly like Nick, when he was yanking her chain.

Heroic rescues
. Cynda almost stopped running.
Is he counting on Nick? Of course he is. That’s why he went to all that trouble to take
me
instead of another fire Sibyl, or part of the reason. He knows Nick will come after me—and any second now.

She did her best to think fast and frame the right questions. “Can you tell me who J. C. Downy is, and why she wants all the fire Sibyls dead?”

“No.” Jake’s answer sounded flat against the tunnel’s earth walls.

Cynda tolerated a wave of shivers from the cold and imagined a game-show buzzer blaring
wrong question, wrong question
.

She adjusted her phrasing. “But you do know who she is.”

Jake’s wings twitched higher, tips toward his shoulders. “Yes, and no. I know something more important.”

“Which is?” She glanced directly at his intent expression as they continued moving.

His features wavered, then grew solid again, and she knew this answer was costing him dearly. “I know where she comes from.”

Cynda’s breath swirled out in a wide fog as she jogged. “Where?”

“No.” Jake shook his head once. Sharp. Forceful. “I can’t speak the words.”

Cynda recognized the significance of Jake’s elaborated answer. Not just
no,
but
I can’t speak the words
. He couldn’t tell her the answer outright—but he could “tell” her in other ways?

She could almost hear the game-show music, this time playing something jumpy and nervous.
Contestant in jeopardy
.

“I cannot reveal the master’s plans or actions without great loss of energy, punishment, or death for me or my friends and fellow demons.” Jake sounded almost offhand, as if he was speaking to a wall instead of her. Cynda didn’t miss that ploy either. Whatever he was about to say, if she asked the right questions, it was important.

“What
can
you do?” She played along, spending a moment’s concentration on keeping her increasing inner fire tamped down to a reasonable level.

“Many things.” Jake laughed, and Cynda was surprised by the pleasant sound. “I can write on chalkboards. I can speak to my brother so long as it seems to others that I am leading him into a trap. I can even read books. Very educational. Many of us who are more…sympathetic to the Sibyls and OCU can read books.”

This time, Cynda did stop moving, so fast she tripped and staggered against the tunnel wall, barely catching herself with both hands.

Jake quickly circled back, took her arm, and pulled her forward.

Cynda stumbled after him, amazed. All those piles of books on the steps—everywhere.

The townhouse has been crawling with Astaroths trying to tell us where they were.

Right under our noses!

She did her best to imitate Merilee, repeating what Jake said to herself over and over, so she’d remember it in detail later. Nick would have to hear this, every word. They all would.

Providing the “heroic rescue” happened in time, and she was alive to tell it.

No wonder J. C. Downy knew everything the OCU planned.

Downy had eyes in HCQ—some friendly, some not, but all under the duress of orders they had to work to contravene. All those breezes and cold rushes of air…

Cynda felt like slapping her forehead.
A total idiot
. If she had ever once worn her demon-hunting goggles inside her own home instead of just out on missions, she would have seen dozens of red sulfur traces.

But who wears stupid goggles in their own house?

The air grew colder and her teeth chattered as the tunnel began to lighten beyond the reach of Jake’s glow. Were they coming to the tunnel’s other end?

Was that good—or bad?

Anything could be waiting for them.

She could be rushing straight toward her death.

But if Jake truly wanted to follow those orders, he could have killed her ten times over by now instead of playing this freaked-out game of jog, jog, riddle-me-this, riddle-me-that.

“People are often very attached to their belongings.” Another offhand remark, so it probably meant something huge. “They move furniture from place to place in trucks, with movers. I’ve seen that, and read about it. Done a lot of it, too.”

“Downy’s belongings were in the fieldstone house,” Cynda translated, getting breathless from the long trek. “You moved them through this tunnel.”

Jake didn’t confirm, contradict, or redirect, so Cynda figured she was on track.

“Sometimes, during a move, small objects get lost or left behind,” he said. “They may be of little significance, or of great emotional importance.”

This was getting easier. She kept her feet churning as she said, “You’ve left something in the tunnel I need to see.”

Again, no response from Jake, except he glowed brighter, illuminating several yards in front of them and behind them.

His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, and even in the dim light, Cynda saw the lines of his face getting tighter. His expression, harsher, more desperate. His claws made clicking noises as he flicked his fingers against his thumbs. Like he wanted to grab something, or was fighting against it.

Cynda didn’t remember feeling those claws when he was holding on to her.

Are they getting longer? How much energy does he have left
?

Knots tightened in her stomach.

Clearly, not a lot.

Cynda decided she was through asking Jake questions and just kept jogging at his side.

Whatever she needed to find, she would look for it, find it or not. No more pushing the demon. Pushing the demon was a bad idea.

Abruptly, Jake came to a halt, and Cynda stopped with him. His glow doubled, making the floor and wall before him almost as bright as day.

At eye level, in a hollowed-out alcove, a space about the size of two shoeboxes, she saw three things—a broken stick, a green bowl, and a small crystal glass. The glass had a golden handle fixed across the top and what looked like a golden pestle propped against the rim.

What…?

From the direction they had just come, Cynda sensed more than heard movement. Earth energy—a little jolt of it caused her to stagger.

Riana, in the tunnel, getting rid of Jake’s roadblock dirt.

Beside her, Jake’s lengthening claws clicked together, and he let out a low, carnivorous snarl. The sound rubbed at Cynda like sandpaper against the back of her neck, and she looked up at the Astaroth.

He gazed at her, golden eyes glowing, lips parted, fangs flashing in the now-silvery glow of his skin.

“I’m…very…tired,” he said, only his voice echoed now. Less human. More animal. More dangerous. His features grew sharper, more pointed, and distinctly less human.

Cynda’s heart rate doubled as she processed his meaning.

Tired demon. Murdered Sibyl.

She clamped her lip in her teeth, thrust her hands into the alcove, snatched the bowl and cup and stick, and held them to her chest.

“Get out of here,” she said to whatever might be left of the human aspect of Jake. “Nick will kill you if you chase me. If he doesn’t, my triad will.”

“Perhaps…for…the best,” Jake rasped, swiping a clawed hand in her direction, but yanking it back.

“It is not for the best!” Cynda stomped her foot, which started to smoke. “What
is
it with you demons and this death thing?”

Jake narrowed his feral golden eyes. Tiger eyes now, slitted, predatory. His voice dropped another octave. “Stuuupid biiiiiiitch.” The utterly inhuman sounds grated against the dirt and air.
“Ruuuuuun!”

Cynda clutched the items Jake had led her to and backed away from the advancing Astaroth.

The demon let out a blood-stopping roar.

She wheeled around, leaped into the pitch darkness, and ran for her life.

16

Nick charged down the tunnel, more
other
than human.

Cold air beat against his face. Dirt from the walls and roof jarred loose and scattered into his eyes.

He didn’t slow.

Roars bashed through the darkness. His. Gideon’s. They were almost one.

The golden glow from his shifted legs, arms, and chest gave Nick just enough light to see by. His muscles strained and burned, pushing him harder, faster. He sucked air through his clenched teeth and threw himself forward with each lunging step.

He couldn’t form a whole thought past Cynda. Getting to her. Finding her, grabbing her right back from whatever demon had snatched her out from under his nose.

How could I lose her?

How could I not notice?

The cracked goggles…

The blood on her sword sheath and the floor…

If she had so much as a bruise, he’d kill anything still breathing. He’d kill anything that even glanced in her direction.

Three minutes. Maybe four. She hadn’t been out of his sight any longer than that, and she had been with her triad. Fuck! If he found her dead, he’d rip off his own head—after he tore down the Bronx, and Manhattan, too.

Nothing would mean anything ever again if he lost her, and he knew that with a sudden, desperate certainty.

It had taken him less than a minute to get back inside the fieldstone house, find the goggles and the blood spattered inside the front room, and spot the gold team down. While Creed called EMS to summon ambulances for the downed SWAT officers, Nick had shifted almost completely and dropped into the tunnel, taking Merilee with him. Creed and Riana came next. No way the women would have stayed behind, not with Cynda at stake.

That dirt roadblock was a pain in the ass.

Riana had used her earth power to knock it out of the way, swearing the whole time.

Nick’s internal clock told him Cynda had been out of contact for less than ten minutes.

Too long!

Wind energy slammed into him from behind, propelling him, shoving him down the tunnel even faster. He heard Merilee’s distant shout of frustration and fear. She was giving him all the help she could.

Closer. He sensed it.

His blood coursed faster, screaming through his ears. He was driving himself so hard his body threatened to snap in half, but he didn’t give a damn.

Cynda was nearby.

His
other
-enhanced perceptions picked up a touch of vanilla here, a smidgen of cinnamon there. She had been this way.

Not long ago.

Almost there.

Nick pumped his arms as he ran. He wouldn’t need the Glock still holstered in the belt he’d jerked off before he shifted and jumped into the tunnel. Riana was carrying it for him just as she was carrying Creed’s, but she could keep the thing. He could take down an army with his fists and teeth. He could crush a line of demons to dust between his palms.

Cynda’s scent grew stronger. A fresh set of roars ripped from Nick’s clenched jaws. He had to get to her in time. That was the only option, the only outcome he’d allow.

“Nick!”

The sharp cry knifed toward him, slicing into his awareness like exploding fireworks. He bellowed in response, somehow doubling his speed.

Cynda’s voice!

Somewhere in front of him.

She’s alive.

And scared out of her mind.

“Nick!” Cynda called again.

Something snarled like a hunting cat, something close, and Nick knew it was after Cynda.

His cry of rage dislodged huge chunks of dirt from the walls. Nick crashed through the dust and rocks, gold skin crackling. He would
not
get this close and have her killed just yards away from his protection. He
would
reach her in time. He let go of all but a shred of his human awareness, giving his body over to Gideon’s raw elemental power.