Bound by Light (3 page)

Arrange.

Yeah.

Her shoulders knotted all over again, a little more with each step.

Why do I have a feeling my nightmares just became the least of my problems?

(1)

April, twenty-five months after the Battle of Motherhouse Ireland

There were some situations where violence and sarcasm just weren’t appropriate.

For the life of her, Merilee couldn’t think of a single one of them, especially not at three in the morning, confronting a naked demon in her bathroom,
after
her leather jumpsuit had been burned off from the waist down.

Thank you, Cynda, my dear, sweet triad sister. I so love night patrol with a psychotic pregnant fire Sibyl.

If it hadn’t been for her friend Andy’s relatively new elemental control over water, Merilee might have lost the top half of her jumpsuit to Cynda’s hormonal outburst, along with everything else. No more patrols for Cynda—not until the fire Sibyl delivered her little spawn of Satan and settled down again. Well, as settled down as fire Sibyls ever got.

Merilee leaned past the door she had just opened and glared at the tall figure partially hidden by billowing mists from the dripping shower. "Hey. Surfer boy. Get away from my tub before I shoot holes in all your wings—and a few things you don’t want to talk about."

For a long moment, the demon didn’t move, keeping his well-defined back to her. Beads of water formed across his muscled shoulders and slipped down perfect, touchable skin. Merilee caught a delicious, exotic scent, something spicy and unique, almost Caribbean.

Her heart rate increased.

Not familiar.

But then again, she was exhausted, singed, and pissed off, so she couldn’t really count on her memory.

Which Astaroth was this? They all looked alike when they deigned to be visible. They all acted alike, too. Arrogant, a little flighty and airheaded, and entitled.

Damn it, whichever demon this was, he knew better than to use her bathroom. The winged surfer boys preferred the fourth floor of the large townhouse on New York’s Upper East Side just as she did, because it was brighter and more open, with plenty of windows and terrace doors to access the sky and open air.

Only, Merilee lived here in "Head Case Quarters," the combination OCU headquarters and boardinghouse. These Astaroth visions of perfection just passed through after getting rescued and regaining their talismans, until OCU processed their paperwork and they found housing.

They ought to show a little respect. Which, of course, they never do.

Still keeping his back to her, the demon reached a tanned, sculpted arm to his left and grabbed her favorite fluffy yellow towel off the rack.

Merilee stared at the darkened skin.

What the hell?

Were those faint lines scars?

They were . . . and becoming more visible by the moment.

But Astaroths never had scars. And Astaroths were always pale. They never stayed visible or solid long enough to get tanned. Even when they took solid form, they retained that translucent, pearl-white quality—which this one didn’t seem to have. But he had the height and build, and the dead-giveaway blond hair they all seemed to manifest in human form, and he was wearing a thick gold chain around his neck. Not to mention the fact that his presence made her Sibyl tattoo tingle along the inside of her right forearm and her instincts shout
demon
so intensely the sensation used up what little energy she had left.

Yep.

Tanned and scarred or not, the trespasser was an Astaroth.

And now he was wrapping her towel around his tapered waist, covering powerful thighs and a rock-hard ass any woman would die to squeeze.

Maybe it was the yummy Caribbean smell or the tan, or the fact that nightmares, pregnant triad sisters, patrols, and emergencies wrecked her sleep on a regular basis, but Merilee barely contained an urge to let loose a little burst of wind. Aimed just right, she could flap the towel and get a second look at that fine behind.

She actually lifted her hands and stretched her fingers through the doorway before she caught herself and rubbed her temples instead. With a sigh, she said, "You’re probably new, and I know you’re drawn to the windows and light, but the library and hall bathroom up here are mine during night hours. Visiting Astaroth demons stay on the second or third floor. We’ve got lots of empty rooms—with their very own bathrooms."

The Astaroth turned to face her.

Merilee, who had been about to ask him less politely to get out of her space, clamped her teeth together.

She drank in the sight, from his damp, close-cropped hair to his slick, unbelievably chiseled chest and the talisman necklace and ring hanging in plain view. More scars covered his chest—wounds from what, she didn’t know, but she could tell they would have hurt like ever-loving hell.

Her eyes drifted lower. To the way that towel barely clung to his waist, tempting her yet again to use her elemental powers to move the cloth. Droplets of water slipped into the trace of blond curls just above the towel’s edge, and Merilee couldn’t help seeing herself pressing her lips against his tight abs, licking him dry.

Her entire body shuddered with the force of that image.

He folded his arms and studied her with eyes unlike any demon’s she had ever seen. Brighter, yet also serious, with traces of something like sadness—and the
color
. A pastel indigo, almost gray, like storm clouds rolling across a bright sky.

Steam flowed around Merilee’s face.

Thank the goddesses of Olympus, one and all.

Otherwise, the supernaturally handsome Astaroth might have noticed when her cheeks flushed red-hot.

As it was, he surveyed Merilee’s burned, crumbling jumpsuit top, the remnants of the pashmina shawl she used to conceal her weapons, her yellow lace panties, and her bare, soot-streaked legs. The demon didn’t seem at all concerned about the olivewood reflex bow and quiver full of arrows still slung over her shoulders, visible because the shawl had been so singed and melted.

His gaze held her so deeply, so totally, he might have been appraising her body, her soul, hell, maybe even her DNA.

Her skin tingled everywhere he looked, but he didn’t smirk or grin, even though he had to have seen the effect his presence had on her.

After a pause sufficient to allow Merilee’s heart to tap-dance along her ribs, the demon said, "Jake Lowell. I took the last name of my brothers."

His deep, sexy voice reminded her of wind rushing through mountains—and sounded familiar enough to make her process what he said.

Jake.

Jake Lowell.

As in, younger brother to Creed Lowell and Nick Lowell. The half-demon cops who just happened to be married to Riana and Cynda, her triad sisters.

As in, Jake Lowell, the Astaroth who had once been ordered to murder Cynda—and who damned near carried out those orders.

Merilee’s mouth went dry, and her jaw tightened for entirely new reasons. She had to force her muscles to cooperate long enough to say, "I—I thought you were abroad. Or in school. Or . . . somewhere else." As the steam in the bathroom slowly dissipated, she eyed the talisman around his neck, trepidation edging out the magnetic shock of his presence. Her fingers curled. Primal instincts demanded that she grab her bow and nock an arrow. Maybe shoot him once for good measure. After all, she was the broom of her triad. She glanced at the tattoo on her forearm, focusing on the broom etched into her flesh. Wasn’t it her job to sweep up all the messes?

But in the end, Jake hadn’t killed Cynda. He had done everything in his power to save her, and now he had his talisman back. Nobody could use that necklace or signet ring to order him to kill.

Unless he loses it again . . .

"I got back to Manhattan this evening." Jake glanced around the bathroom, then down to the yellow towel barely covering his manhood. "Sorry. My brothers told me to shower up here."

Merilee bit back a few choice swearwords for the twins. Nick and Creed knew she had a hair trigger right now, with both her triad sisters out of sorts and now officially out of commission, and so much happening in the city. She could easily imagine the mirror-image bastards sending their younger brother straight into her line of fire, just for kicks.

"They must have thought you’d be out longer," Jake added with a frown.

"I’ll just bet they did." Merilee relaxed her arms and felt a flash of pity for Jake, who, all that murdering-Cynda stuff aside, seemed too serious and quiet to be related to either of his jerk-monkey brothers. "Well, no harm done. And I guess we never really met when you were around before. I’m Merilee."

Jake’s unnerving eyes shifted back to that stormy gray intensity. The force of his gaze touched Merilee directly in the center of her being, setting off shivers that only doubled when he said, "I know who you are."

Her body vibrated with each rumbling word, and her mind instantly blew through several hundred interpretations of that comment.

Get a grip. He means he saw you when he was around two years ago—and Nick and Creed probably filled in the details.

From seemingly a great distance away, Jake asked, "Any skirmishes with the Legion while you were on patrol?"

"No, it was just Satan tonight." Merilee couldn’t quit staring at the man.
Demon. He’s a demon who almost murdered my triad sister.
She made herself breathe, then realized what she had just said. "I mean, three satanic cultists. They were trying to summon the Prince of Darkness to help their candidate win the presidential election in November."

The sadness edged out of Jake’s expression and his whole body seemed to relax. His eyes never left Merilee’s, but now she saw sharp intrigue instead of storm clouds.

Jake gripped her yellow towel with one hand, keeping it firmly in place. "Do you believe the biblical devil exists?"

Merilee’s response, like her response to all theoretical or academic questions, came easily and quickly. "Mythic monsters are always part fact, part fear-based storytelling. I’ve got nine research volumes in my library supporting Mephistopheles, and twice that many disproving all things Beelzebub. Which translates into, we’ve got no idea, but my triad’s not about to take chances and find out."

"Have you read Wray and Mobley’s
Birth of Satan
?" Jake kept hold of the towel as he spoke. "I liked the balanced Catholic and Protestant take on our need for a cosmic scapegoat."

Merilee’s senses slipped off alert as her brain clicked into full action mode. She almost gave a complex, studious answer before she remembered she was talking to a gorgeous, half-naked, wet Astaroth demon in her bathroom doorway, at three in the morning—while she wasn’t wearing pants.

And the Astaroth had just referenced a book she hadn’t even finished reading.

A smile tugged at her lips as she looked at Jake’s intelligent, interested expression—and tried to keep her eyes away from the muscled arm and hand holding the yellow towel. "You’re . . . not a surfer boy, are you?"

Confusion flickered across Jake’s handsome features. "I’m a police officer. Just hired by the NYPD."

"What?" Merilee propped a hand on her hip. "Since when does the force allow demon cops—well, ones they know about on the front end, anyway?"

"Since Sal Freeman wrote my letter of recommendation and asked for me." Jake’s voice and gaze remained steady, though he looked disappointed, like he really had wanted to debate the existence of Satan. "That’s why I got the off-season hire, too."

Merilee let out a breath, barely able to grasp the fact that Jake might not be a transient presence in her life, or the townhouse, even if he did stop using her bathroom. That thought unsettled her at bedrock levels, and caused little jets of air to swirl around her ankles and elbows.

A small gust struck Jake in the chest and face, ruffling his short, damp hair and rushing the last drops of water still finding their way to the towel.

His mouth twitched, like he might be about to smile.

Annoyed with herself, Merilee pulled in her wind energy and covered her discomfort as quickly as she could. "You’re a Lowell. Of course you’re a cop. What else was I expecting?" She finally managed to pull her eyes off the demon-man and studied a spot on the wall somewhere over his left shoulder. "We need all the manpower we can get right now, with the Legion going insane and all the political rallies and protests. Crowds suck in supernatural terrorists like big cosmic magnets."

"The Legion’s taking more chances," he said more as a statement of fact than a question.

"Hell, yes." Merilee figured Jake’s brothers had briefed him on the massive increase in Legion activity over the past twelve weeks. "They took as big a hit as we did in the Battle of Motherhouse Ireland, but they’re more in our face than ever, and our numbers suck—OCU and Sibyls alike. Which you probably know."