Bound by Light (18 page)

For perhaps the first time in her life, Merilee didn’t find any quick retort, any sudden humor. No asinine joke lunged into her mind to spare her from the moment’s intensity, and she didn’t see anything at all to laugh about. She just wanted to cry. Maybe even beg.

Jake stepped away from her and she instantly shivered and ached and almost sobbed to have him back again.

Had she ever wanted a man this much?

A demon . . .

But she didn’t
care
what he was.

She had to have him.

Except he had turned from her now, and he was flickering between human and demon so quickly it reminded her of an old-style broken film hopping from image to image until it snapped and left nothing but a glaring white screen.

"I’m sorry," Jake said again as he reached the open balcony doors once more, finally settling in his Astaroth form.

He glanced back at Merilee, who was deciding if she could grab him and hold on to him tight enough to keep him from flying away. Only her aching ribs gave her pause—that and the look of pain on Jake’s face.

Once more, he moved his eyes, now a bright, glittering gold, over her naked body, nearly setting her completely on fire.

"I want—" he started. Stopped. Looked away from her, out into the night.

Merilee held her breath and thought about grabbing Jake again.

"This can’t happen," he said quietly. "It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair."

And then, with one flap of his leathery wings, he lifted himself through the window and vanished into the stars.

It was almost a full minute before Merilee got control of herself enough to march to the open doors, look out at the moon, and yell, "Right and fair? What the
hell
are you talking about?"

She got no answer, of course.

And she still didn’t feel like joking or laughing or even making a weak, pathetic wisecrack.

She stewed about Jake’s words all during her shower—which was miserable, and she had to admit, a little dose of reality with respect to her sore muscles. As she soaped her arms and legs, her muscles groaned and protested, and she realized that if she and Jake had proceeded to sex, she probably would have needed morphine before sunrise. Not that the realization made her any less pissed off or frustrated and overall, completely miserable, as she climbed out of the shower and toweled herself dry.

The ass.

Right and fair.

Was he a head case?

What wouldn’t be fair? Why wouldn’t it be right?

Was he secretly married or something? A monk in disguise?

To quote Andy,
What the fuck?

"Seriously," Merilee said out loud as she stalked—stiffly and a little gingerly—back into the library and slammed the door behind her. "What the fuck? Men. Demons. I swear to every goddess on Olympus."

She shed her towel and slid under the covers, muttering to herself and stewing even more fervently until she realized that she hadn’t brought sheets out of the hall and made the bed.

A little burst of her startled air energy shoved the nearest bookcase back a good half inch.

Merilee sat up and gripped the perfectly tucked and arranged fresh bedclothes, glancing around the room.

The dirty sheets were gone, too. Her bow and quiver and arrows had been retrieved from the landfill and propped against a bookcase, the notebook and pencil she had used to record the fight and her dream rested neatly atop the stack of papers closest to her bed—and all the stacks seemed neater. Nothing moved that she could tell. Absolutely nothing rearranged. The papers had just been carefully compacted and patted into more stable towers.

And the balcony doors were closed.

While she showered, somebody had come in and—no, not somebody. Jake. It had to be. She was sure of it.

And it struck her that Astaroths
could
be invisible, couldn’t they?

"You jerk," she whispered, not really meaning it. "Are you in here with me?"

She quieted her breathing, turned loose her Sibyl instincts and listened and watched. Strained, even, to catch the slightest motion, the smallest sound.

But . . . nothing.

Merilee sank back in the bed, refusing to cry or laugh. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

A few minutes later, as she drifted between waking dreams and deeper sleep, she couldn’t shake the sense that she wasn’t alone. That Jake was there in the library guarding her, watching over her, protecting her from anything that might menace her—even himself.

(12)

Bartholomew August seethed over his latest failure to make inroads with the air Sibyl Merilee.

Only a few days earlier, he had attempted to reach out to her mind, as he had done with all of his victims—and something repelled him yet again.

Earlier this day, he had circled near her place of residence, only to meet a solid wall of raw elemental power he couldn’t penetrate. As strong as steel. As strong as—his own.

How was that possible?

The dead witch’s protections should have been well dispersed.

So, what new energy shielded Merilee from him now?

Grinding his teeth from the building rage, August led Klaus—not his real name, of course—off the street and into the building August had prepared. With a few deep, slow breaths, he managed to let go of his frustration for the moment and pay attention to the surroundings.

It was a magnificent old warehouse, turn-of-the-century architecture, now fully restored and cleansed of all life energy that was less than desirable. Inside the warehouse, the cool, pitch-black air smelled of bleach, cleansers, and the sage August had instructed his Legion servants to burn to rid the warehouse of the residual signatures of whatever pathetic creatures had once labored in this facility.

"Don’t you worry?" Klaus asked, his normally resonant voice tight and nervous as they moved into the cavernous space. "Traveling like this, without bodyguards, without weapons?"

"The Sibyls have more than enough to keep them busy." August offered that platitude, knowing it would suffice. He suppressed a fresh wave of rage at his new protégé’s foolish question and walked a few more steps into the main room, the soles of his crocodile driving shoes making the faintest whispering sound on the hardwood floor. August needed no bodyguards, no base henchmen with weapons, to see to his safety. Klaus should realize that by now, but the politician seemed to have difficulty accepting realities outside of his limited understanding of the tangible world.

"I would never travel unescorted without offering the witches of Greece, Ireland, and Russia an appetizer, a taste of what we have planned for them in the very near future," August added, knowing Klaus would enjoy it.

As for the New York Sibyls and Merilee Alexander, the Sibyl he most wanted, August almost had sufficient information about them at present—thanks to his many sources, especially the woman and their wretched offspring. Head count, rough number of Astaroth demons and OCU officers assisting them, and good schematics on their current headquarters. Soon, he’d have even more, and probably enough to act.

And he
had
offered them a few scant diversions this night, enough to keep them away from his traveling route and destination, just outside of Harlem. Let them think the Legion was in trouble. Oh, yes. Let them think the Legion was disappearing because the numbers were low. He had suffered heavy losses in the attack on Motherhouse Ireland two years ago, but he had also gained a few converts, and learned valuable lessons about Sibyl powers and fighting strategies.

Perhaps enough to claim Merilee and any others who caught his fancy, and eliminate the warriors who wouldn’t be useful or attractive to him. Enough to finally remove this last obstacle between him and the righteous cleansing of the world’s filth.

August had to swallow a snarl as he sensed Klaus strolling up behind him.

It was time for those of strong mind, of higher intellect, to take back the positions due to them, in government, society, and life. It was time to seize power, worldwide. To initiate not just the right to act, but the
moral imperative
.

Still, he had to admit, Klaus’s anxiety was not unreasonable. Those tattooed women of the Dark Crescent Sisterhood, they were worthy adversaries. Which was more than he could say for most who had fought his Legion—and his other organizations—across history. Alone but for a handful of deluded law enforcement officers, the Sibyls had held him off for nearly a century.

No, he wouldn’t be sorry to sway a few like Merilee to his cause. It would be a much better use of her talents and intelligence.

August let Klaus get close, but not too close, then walked a few more steps, confident his employees had left not a scintilla of dust in the five-story structure. Nothing would soil the light sand shades of his three-piece pinstriped suit. Italian silk. The best humans had to offer.

"Lights," he commanded, and the voice-activated system responded, pouring an impressive amount of wattage into what would become Klaus’s public face to New York—and thus, the world.

The huge space glittered in the bright glow of hundreds of lamps. Rows of desks. Phones. Posters. Stacks of flyers. All prepared. All ready to receive more than two hundred workers.

Klaus’s mouth dropped open.

The effect was much as August had hoped.

Keep lesser men, albeit key men, awed and indebted

August had lived by that principle for years now.

As for Klaus, the man couldn’t help his unfortunate inferiority. He was handsome, articulate, and for his intellectual level, quick-witted—but he was a pawn. To Bartholomew August, a man who had known too many years to speak of in polite company, most people served that role. His genius was that so few people ever knew it.

"What—how can we possibly pass this off?" Klaus asked, obviously stressed near to his meager capacity. "We don’t have the funds for something on this scale." "The paper trail is neat, and all perfectly legal." August did his best to sound sure of himself, comforting. The slightest bit obsequious. "We’ve had a number of recent donations which make us more than competitive in this race, I assure you. And this place—this place will keep the money rolling in, to support your cause."

August let his voice rise slightly at the end of his sentence, conveying a touch of anxiety, as if he wanted Klaus’s approval. Klaus needed the illusion of control. August was a generous man. He could offer that, and sustain it.

Until the moment arrived for Klaus to die.

Klaus examined the expansive, luxuriously remodeled warehouse, and August knew he was imagining it filled with busy campaign workers (with a few beautiful hot young things mixed in, no doubt). The man already could see his banners, posters, and buttons stacked against the walls. He already could imagine the interviews, the press coverage of the grand opening of his new national headquarters.

The door clicked, and Klaus jumped so hard his teeth clamped together.

August didn’t react to the door, or to the almost unbearably loud sound of Klaus’s shock. Sometimes, it was all August could do to keep his acute senses in check, but he managed.

One day, I will live in a world where the only life-forms are calm . . . and
quiet.

As he expected, two more men entered the building, cued to approach by the flaring of the warehouse lights. These specimens, in their caps and jeans and nondescript dark jackets, were far below what August considered human. Even Klaus knew enough to react to them. He recognized these Neanderthals, of course, from their previous uses.

The candidate looked briefly stricken, then recovered himself.

That’s my boy.
August smiled.
Everyone gets their hands dirty. Only, I can wash mine, can’t I? By setting up this exchange here, I’ve ensured you can’t walk away clean.

From his pocket, August withdrew a single folded page and handed it to the troglodyte in front. "I need this man at the
other
headquarters tonight, in the private room we constructed in the basement. Alive. No mistakes, or I’ll take your hides in payment."

The man glanced at the paper, a group photo from the Fordham University catalog, with a single face circled. He nodded, then handed the paper to his companion.

August gestured to a bag he had placed in the corner of the big main room, before he had brought Klaus for this little visit. "You’ll find everything you need there—and below, in the basement."

At this, the Neanderthals gave him matching heavy-browed frowns.

They eyed the bag, no doubt realizing what it contained. Bits of cloth. Simple talismans for simple, yet deadly creatures.

The two thugs didn’t have much taste for the supernatural, but August knew they would comply. Awed and indebted, like all good pawns.

These two would do anything for proper payment, and the false "status" he had given them by allowing them to sport the Legion’s crest on their forearms like true inductees. He had sold them his Legion bill of goods, and they were nothing if not perfect, starry-eyed converts.