Bound by Flame (38 page)

Blood stilled in Cynda’s chest.

“Where are the rest?” Nick asked.

“Please don’t let this be all,” Bela Argos said from somewhere behind Cynda.

More fire curtained the air around her. She stopped to avoid it, then had to hit her knees to duck a snarling, diving patch of air with a spear on either side of it.

Astaroth
.

Steaming all over, Cynda rolled to her back and barely got off a blast to knock the spears sideways before an adept got hit.

She saw the demon’s outline in the thick cloud of smoke.

Rage flowed through her veins, across her skin. She started to leap up and swing at the bastard, but a hand shoved her down to her knees again.

“Stay put!” a dark-headed air Sibyl wearing cracked goggles shouted as she ran past, pitching a slew of throwing knives at the demon as it swept away from the battlement’s toothy edge.

Beside Cynda, Nick crouched and aimed his Glock.

The Sibyl missed.

Nick didn’t.

The gunshot barely registered against the other noise. He unfolded from his crouch, gun still poised, and searched the smoke-clogged turret for more movement, or the traces of sulfur he could see without special lenses.

“They’re pulling back again!” cried the air Sibyl with the throwing knives, shifting to the other side of the circular space. “Stand down! Stand down!” Her accent sounded Scottish. To Cynda, she said, “The threat’s passed for a moment. They won’t be back for half an hour, if they stay true to pattern.” When she caught sight of Nick, she looked surprised, but also grateful. “American?”

“New York,” Cynda called, getting to her feet.

“About bloody time,” said a young fire Sibyl without goggles, who hurled a blast of flame at a retreating set of spears. The fire did nothing, but the movement in the smoke revealed the demon’s position.

The earth Sibyl on the turret, also without goggles, sent a wave of earth energy forward and slowed the creature. An arrow fired from another turret struck the demon. Wind released in a swirl, and a spew of earth and fire rained to the stone courtyard below.

Cynda sheathed her sword and felt a rush of triumph at the two kills, until she heard Nick say, “Sonofabitch.”

“Have a look at ’em,” the air Sibyl said. “They’ll behave nice now. We’ve got a moment to breathe.”

As walls of flame and smoke parted to show the scene below, Nick came to stand behind Cynda, hand resting against her waist as she lowered her sword. Not because she wanted to. Because the damned thing suddenly felt like it weighed two hundred pounds.

Around the castle, in the defensive structures, she saw precious few Sibyls. Maybe eighteen total, three on each turret and six scattered along the eastern battlement.

Not enough.

Can’t be enough.

That truth sank through her belly, through all her muscles. A weakness, almost a hopelessness, but with a quick burst of fire in her chest, Cynda tried to burn it away. And only a handful had goggles to track invisible demons. Cynda figured the lenses had been broken in battle, just like her own.

She didn’t need goggles to see the magnitude of their problems, however.

On the east flank of Motherhouse Ireland, grass, trees, and bushes had been burned away, leaving a bare stretch of earth roughly the size of ten football fields.

“Goddess spare us.” She folded her arms and fought to control her trembling.

The fields were filled with glowing, roaring Cursons, separated by blank patches of ground Cynda assumed were jammed with invisible Astaroths. And who knew how many of the monsters were flying around above the place like vultures?

“Shit. Those are Asmodai.” Nick jerked a thumb toward the foot of the castle’s eastern wall, where a row of tall, gangly demons pounded against the stones. “And there. Coming out of the trees.”

Cynda wanted to vomit.

“Legion.” She heard the dry, cracked sound of her own voice. The trembling in her limbs shifted inside, stealing her breath. “Asmodai are short-distance weapons. They’ve got to have Legion masters somewhere close.”

“Cranking out more Asmodai.” Nick swore and trained his Glock on the basic, simple demons, but didn’t fire. “Those things aren’t hard to make. A handful of dirt, a lit match, or some air trapped in a jar—and a half-hour ritual.”

He was thinking like a seasoned fighter, saving his elementally locked ammo for the Astaroths and Cursons. More complex. Bigger threats. Harder to kill.

Cynda’s emotion gradually drained to nothing, giving way to cold logic and planning. She wondered if they had enough bullets, arrows, and knives. Motherhouse Ireland had swords in the armory, but few distance weapons.

Her battered group from New York, which now seemed huge, formed in silent ranks behind her as the triad that had been fighting on the turret came toward them.

“Buggers hit and draw back, hit and draw back,” explained the fire Sibyl with the British accent. “We’ve tried all we can think of, but the best thing is just killing however many we can. They’ll wait a bit now like we said, half an hour, and come at us full force again. They’ve been doing it all morning. You can almost set a watch by ’em.”

“Wearing you down.” Nick gripped Cynda’s waist more firmly.

Below them, at the castle wall, the demons shrank back a few yards, then a few more, and seemed to be huddling in discussion.

Resting?

Planning?

Messing with our heads?

“Yes, well, effective strategy,” said a blonde with powerful earth energy. “Precious few of us still able to fight. Some dead, even more wounded.”

Drawing in smoky air and coughing it up again, Cynda steadied herself to ask the question she most dreaded. Her words caught a few times, but she finally forced out, “How many of the Mothers are still alive?”

The British fire Sibyl lowered her gaze. “Four, if Mother Keara’s holding her own. Kylemore’s nuns have two of them in the infirmary with broken bones and the like. Mother Eileen’s along the east wall.” The girl pointed to a small figure moving up and back, up and back, organizing the fighters and obviously giving orders.

We have one Mother to fight with us.
One.
Just one and a handful of worn-out fighters against fields of demons—with more demons on the way.

Heat surged up Cynda’s throat, but she choked it back, mindful of the adepts behind her.

“We’re from the next county,” said the blond earth Sibyl, sheathing her daggers at her waist. “Came in through the main gate before Mother Eileen pulled up the drawbridge. Air Sibyls will have to lift in other triads who reach us.”

Cynda shivered on reflex. She hated riding Merilee’s tornados, but right now, she’d welcome the sight of thirty or forty of the funnels. A hundred.

Nick eyed the demons outside the east wall. “How long will it take the other two Motherhouses to get Sibyls here?”

“Over land?” Cynda glanced at the smoke-obscured sun, feeling the question drop like a stone in her gut. “I don’t know. We’ve never had a Motherhouse attacked before. I’m sure there aren’t any hard-and-fast plans in place for this. I’d say by morning, if we’re lucky.”

He drew a sharp breath. “Will the nuns at Kylemore help?”

Cynda clenched one fist and banged it against her sword sheath. “No. They don’t fight or interfere in Sibyl business or battles. They just attend the wounded.” Before he asked, she added, “Ireland doesn’t have the equivalent of an OCU. There is no cavalry, Nick. It’s up to us to defend the castle until Greece and Russia arrive, or other large groups of Sibyls.”

At that, Nick looked away from her, his lack of comment speaking volumes.

She couldn’t cry or scream or vomit or anything. The initiates. The Motherhouse. “We’ve got to hold the line until tomorrow. We have to find a way.”

The British fire Sibyl gave her a weak smile. “Because tomorrow’s lucky, right?”

The girl sounded so tired and scared, but hopeful in spite of everything.

“Tomorrow,” Cynda repeated, confused. Then, “Oh, yeah. St. Patrick’s Day.”

“Mother Keara told us about you.” The British girl’s face went slack, but she rallied long enough to add, “She said you’d come to save us—and here you are.”

Oh. My. Goddess.

All of Cynda’s nerves switched off at once. Numb all over. Reality blew away from her like smoke on the wind. For a long few seconds, she couldn’t grab it back, couldn’t focus her thoughts past what the girl said.

It
really
is up to me now. This Motherhouse. All of these people.

If it weren’t for Nick’s hands on her waist, she might have fallen to her knees under the weight of that realization.

The British fire Sibyl fainted.

The Sibyl’s triad sisters leaped and caught her before she struck the stone surface of the turret. The sight stirred Cynda back to life, and she rushed forward to help them steady her and get her weight supported.

“Take her below,” Cynda urged as she turned the girl’s arm loose. “We’ll spell you. Get some rest.”

“Yeah,” said the blond earth Sibyl as she and the other member of the girl’s triad carried her toward the battlement’s door. “Every half hour, remember, unless they change their pattern. Gonna be a long night.”

Once more, Nick came to stand by Cynda, staying just close enough to lend her his strength. She leaned against his powerful arm, watched the exhausted triad limp out of view, and wondered how long her own adepts would last. They were going on a full day with no sleep, no food, no relief. She glanced around at the smoking turret. And a shitload of turmoil.

Riana.

Merilee.

What she wouldn’t give to have her triad sisters fighting beside her.

To the experienced Sibyls she said, “Spread out along the wall, and to the other battlements. Let’s give these fighters some relief. Each triad take an adept. The rest of you, head for Mother Eileen. Keep a close eye on your watches, and on the demons. Raise the alarm if they so much as twitch in this direction.”

The Sibyls and the adepts fanned out without hesitation, questions, or complaints. Cynda couldn’t help but feel pride, and gratitude for every one of them. They might be young and green, but they were warriors, to the last woman.

Cynda checked her watch. Twenty-five minutes until the next attack.

Two minutes before the attack was due, Nick’s phone rang.

Cynda felt the shift of his balance as he took the cell from his jeans pocket and punched it on.

“Yeah. Where?” He glanced at his watch. “How many?” Then one more time, “Yeah.” He punched off the phone and slid it back into his pocket. “Creed’s been trying to call for an hour.”

“Sibyl energy.” Cynda chewed at her lip as she surveyed the empty turret.

Nick scrubbed a hand across his chin, keeping his gaze fixed on the demons below and his Glock ready in the other hand. “Lots of static, but I think Creed said ETA eight hours, maybe less. They’ve picked up ten triads.”

Thirty Sibyls! First good news in hours.

Hope flared though Cynda’s mind. “Are they flying?”

Nick gave her a quick look.

She stared at him. “What?”

“I couldn’t hear him that well.” He shrugged, still keeping watch on the demons. “But I think he said they were on the water. Maybe they’re coming by boat.”

“From Atlanta?” So much for hope. She kicked at the stone surface, feeling absolutely sick inside. “
Damnit!
They won’t be here for days. You must have heard Creed wrong.”

The air on the turret shifted.

Cynda’s skin prickled.

Her head snapped up, and her heart raced. Every bit of her frustration and misery and grief converted to heat, and that heat surged through her fingers, arms, and legs. It warmed her blood. It fed her fire.

Her sword seemed to fly into her grip. She didn’t remember drawing it.

Flames roared from the blade.

Energy blasted through her entire body as she saw the demons on the ground charge forward and sensed Astaroths filling the air above her.

“That’s it.” Her voice sounded more like a wolf’s snarl than human speech. “Come on. Riiiiiight here.”

A fierce, raging hunger gnawed at her belly as she swept her sword above her shoulder and held it, poised and waiting and blazing. The huge problems of the world narrowed to one moment, to now, to the turret atop Motherhouse Ireland.

Time for payback.

Time for demon blood to flow.

It’s up to me.

It’s up to us.

One step at a time—and this step, she could take, and Nick would help her.

He let out a low growl, then moved a step away from her so she’d have room to swing.

Glock raised, he said, “Heads up, firebird. Here they come.”

26

Smoke stung Nick’s eyes.

Blood rushed in his ears.

Women shouted. Battle cries rang across the castle.

Nick caught a breath of sulfur and fire and shared his mind with Gideon, sharpening his senses as the first Astaroth plummeted toward them. He saw red streaks and spears, sensed the demon’s hatred and resolve.

He knew Cynda wanted these kills, needed them, but he wasn’t letting this first asshole anywhere near her if he could help it.

Jaw tight, Nick waited, waited, almost there…and he fired. Blew the damned thing out of the sky not five feet from his own head.

Dirt and wind and fire exploded into Nick’s face. Gideon snarled. Nick snarled with his
other
. His skin glowed bright gold as they worked together to defend Cynda and her Motherhouse.

But…thirty-one rounds left. Got to keep count.

The magazine in his Glock—almost empty. The two in his pocket. One more shot before he reloaded.

Make ’em count.

Two more red flashes streaked through the air above the turret.

Cynda blasted the turret with flames, sending black smoke swirling around the Astaroths.

Nick blew one apart.

Thirty rounds left.