Bound by Light (33 page)

The boy let out a croak, but he didn’t try to defend his mother. Not this time.

"Get up," August instructed, but the woman didn’t comply. He grabbed her shoulders and yanked her to her feet. She stayed limp in his grasp, and even with her face turned, he could see the purplish mark rising along her right cheekbone.

His next instruction came out more calmly, the way he preferred. "Look at me. Now."

The woman complied this time, but defiance still registered on her bruised face.

"You have no friends," he murmured, bringing her close, so that his breath had to be tickling the skin of her forehead. "You’ve never allowed anyone that close to you. Not even me." He embraced her, for an instant remembering how it had been when she was young. The way they fought, then made amends. Such a brief moment in his long life, but spicy nonetheless. "Especially not me."

She didn’t relax at his reminiscing, because she was smart, because she knew him too well. "You delude yourself if you think you matter at all to the Dark Crescent Sisterhood. You’re disposable to them like any other servant."

At this, he thought he caught a flicker of unhappiness, and that pleased him. "Refuse me if you wish, my dear. Always your prerogative—but remember, I won’t kill
you
." He let her go, then pushed her back from him and pointed to the boy. "I’ll kill him. Slowly."

She cursed him then. She called him ancient names he had taught her years ago, names most humans didn’t remember, much less understand, but in the end, she agreed.

As August had known she would.

It was part of their game. It was all they had left, this push and shove, this resistance and dominance.

If the woman had been eternal, he would have enjoyed keeping her for occasional pleasures. What a pity most humans were so frail, so completely temporary.

After the woman left to do his bidding, August returned to the balcony and once more enjoyed the misery below. Though he would never tell her, nor indeed admit it to anyone, he did make a path for the woman, to be certain she reached her destination. He told himself that such attention to her needs was expedient, and ensured that his own would be met. In truth, though, it would have pissed him off if someone else killed her.

When the time came, he would kill the woman. His hands and his hands alone. No one else would touch her. No one else would stare into her eyes as life’s breath left her forever.

A rattling sound behind August caught his attention, and seconds later, the boy came out to join him. As usual, the boy kept his head down and his eyes averted.

A surge of goodwill flooded through August at the sight of his offspring, as well as anticipation for the full night of activities he had planned. August wished the boy would have the balls to meet his gaze, but at the same time, he appreciated the respect and deference. "Are my new captives secure in their elementally locked chains?"

The boy nodded again.

"You’re quite certain?" August put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, then let his fingers slide to the back of the thin neck he could so easily snap. "If one of them escapes, I’ll take your life for payment."

The boy said nothing and didn’t move at all except for a quick, sharp swallow that sounded way too loud to August’s sensitive ears. August couldn’t help the way his lips pulled back across his teeth. He let out a low snarl.

I could do it right now, kill the boy
.

So many different ways. Crushing. Pulverizing. Tearing his weak flesh with teeth and claws sharp enough to serve as surgical blades. August knew he could rip the boy’s pounding heart right out of his fragile rib cage.

He stroked his son’s neck, let his palm travel upward to the base of the boy’s delicate skull. Power built inside August, wild and heady as he drew energy from the increasing madness in the streets below—but he hesitated.

Even as he almost gave in to his murderous impulse, the loneliness that had plagued him so many long nights, so many endless years, came growling, snarling back to chew at his insides.

August snarled again.

Gripped the boy’s neck.

And stopped.

He let go and shoved the boy away from him. No death tonight. He needed this one to get to the air Sibyl, and the boy was far from ready for his role in that plan.

"Go inside and get the gun with the elementally locked bullets," August said. "You have a lot of practicing to do."

The boy bolted away from him.

August watched him go, half-relieved, half-furious. For a moment, he hated himself with a fierceness he had never before known.

That boy
is
mine.

Disappointing, pathetic—but mine.

His children, no matter how much failure they represented, meant something to him. He had never been able to kill any of them or their mothers, though he had never quite understood why.

It had to be the loneliness, or rather, the small respite from it that his "family" offered. Until he could resurrect his own, he had so little real company. The women, his hostages, they didn’t count. His interactions with them brought him no real pleasure beyond pure carnal satisfaction and the hope of repopulating his race.

Yet when his kind was reborn from this better stock, when they once more took dominion over the earth, he would have to dispose of inferior little toys like the boy and the woman. Probably all of his lesser children across the globe. There would be no place for them in a superior world order.

An unfamiliar sensation twisted at his guts, and Bartholomew August put his hands on his belly.

Was he ill?

Had he actually contracted some sort of human virus?

Was that even possible?

He didn’t think so, yet some creeping germ cell had to be responsible for the uncomfortable pains he was experiencing. There could be no other explanation.

"I have no time for this," August said aloud, but talking to himself only doubled the sense of loneliness crawling through his consciousness.

With great force of will, August turned his attention back to fanning the flames of discord and fear in the streets. He’d get to kill later, anyway—and with his own hands.

Moreover, unlike crushing the boy for sport, the murder August had planned would accomplish something. It would help him get closer to what he truly needed.

So for now, he would focus and ensure the necessary riot, then work with the boy and the gun until he was certain the boy knew what he was doing.

After that, he would service the newly captured Sibyls and the other females who weren’t yet pregnant. Then it would be time to head out on his other missions.

The discomfort in his gut faded.

August smiled.

He was looking forward to his little excursion and the blood he’d spill, the pain he’d inflict. Nothing like a little misery to set everything inside him completely right again.

(26)

Sirens pounded the night air as Jake elbowed through clumps of people who were gesturing and shouting and crying. Half the city seemed to be fighting or rioting, and the other half clogged the sidewalks. All of the anxious crowds chattered or screamed about witches and vampires and zombies and the Occult Crimes Unit, mixed with murder and Carter’s rapid withdrawal from the presidential race. Dozens of men and women wearing bright orange shirts reading peace warriors held out their hands and spoke in soothing tones, obviously trying to settle everyone down.

It was just so much noise to Jake as he forced his way back toward the site of the worst disaster in his life—save for his own murder, which he had been too young to do anything about. He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and his nostrils flared, taking in the tang of sweat and fear and panic. Jake knew what it felt like to die. To have his life ripped away from him as he screamed and ached and pleaded for mercy that never came. He couldn’t believe he let that happen to so many other people.

The deaths of all those crime scene technicians—he could have saved them if he had been smarter and faster.

If I had changed into my demon form
.

Jake strained with all his muscles as he walked, willing his body to shift, reaching for the sensation of his wings and fangs, for the lighter bones and clawed hands of his Astaroth form. He didn’t care if he popped into a pure white flapping demon in front of the multitudes, but nothing happened.

Snarling in absolute frustration, he imagined the last time he managed a full shift.

With Merilee.

While he was making love to her, sinking his cock deep inside her warm depths as steam rolled through her shower.

The memory made his body burn, but still Jake didn’t shift. He just kept walking down the streets of New York City headed for his target, remaining completely human—and without his talisman. Merilee still had it, so he couldn’t even hand the jewelry to somebody and force them to give him a command to change.

Would that work?

He wanted to pound his fists against his skull.

Damn Mother Anemone for being right. Damn
me
for not listening to her.

Everything seemed clear to him now. No, he couldn’t be both human and demon—but to do the most good, he needed the power his demon form offered him.

He needed to be an Astaroth. That would have to be his choice. In the end, he could help far more people with his increased strength and speed, with his Astaroth qualities.

As for Merilee—shit, but thinking about her made his gut ache.

Would she keep seeing him if he spent most of his time in demon form?

Should
he
keep seeing her?

Jake was pretty sure he knew the answer to that, but he didn’t want to face it.

Still, no matter how angry or emotional he got, he couldn’t shift.

"It doesn’t matter," he muttered through his teeth as he came to a halt in front of Carter’s headquarters, or as close as he could get to it with all the pandemonium.

It was too late for heroics now, anyway, wasn’t it?

Nothing
would ever make up for the deaths at this place.

Orange-shirted Peace Warriors roved in every direction here, too, using tiny orange flashlights to light their way and gesture to the crowds.

Jake didn’t think they were doing much good.

The
whump-whump
of helicopters and the silvery sweep of search beams filled the evening, as well as yammering from dozens of news crews with bright, round lights. Jake scanned the sky, picking out police helicopters and news choppers, too.

As many of the crowd gazed upward or just stood around openmouthed, obviously in shock over the media revelations about verified paranormal activity in the city, another helicopter joined the swarm. Jake figured it for New York State Police or maybe FBI, but it was angled away so that he couldn’t see its letters. A dull ache started in his head, and he realized he was clenching his jaw again.

It was time to get to work, to do what he came here to do. That was the only thing that might help, the only thing that mattered now, and the best way to help Merilee and see to her safety.

Shit, Lowell, does everything come back to her?

Jake massaged his tight jaw and had to acknowledge that, fuck, yeah, just about everything came back to Merilee.

Hadn’t that been the case since he first laid eyes on her two years ago? It damn sure had been true since he came to New York and met her face-to-face.

And kissed her . . .

And touched her . . .

He shook his head and refocused his attention on the Carter headquarters, then tried to calm his mind. He thought about the sealed tunnel in the basement and everything Bela had told them about the displaced dirt before all the fighting and dying.

One or two hundred yards, maybe three . . .

Jake scanned nearby buildings, estimating distance and potential. The tunnel could empty into the sewers or even the subway system, or maybe even rise through the ground in some green space or park corner—but Jake doubted that. The Stone Man would have wanted absolute security and privacy. If Jake didn’t miss his guess, the bastard had located his escape hatch somewhere indoors, probably the ground floor of a deserted or derelict structure.

He noted four likely candidate buildings and set out toward the first and closest. A voice of reality nudged at the back of his mind, reminding him that he had no badge to gain admission and no gun to force any issues or defend himself. That same voice whispered that he couldn’t shift to Astaroth form and become invisible.

He didn’t give a damn.

One way or the other, he was getting a look in those buildings.

As it turned out, the first building wasn’t much of a problem. Apartments with a doorman who was wrapped up in hollering at somebody else—and a completely intact ground floor, well tiled from what Jake could determine.