Bound by Flame (39 page)

Screaming like a banshee, Cynda separated from him, tracked the demon’s image in her smoke, and plowed into the other demon with a ferocious downswing.

Nick’s breath caught hard in his chest, but a burst of elemental energy told him she’d nailed her target.

When she looked at him, her voice echoed through his mind. Things she’d said to him over and over, in that other world, back in New York City.

I’m a warrior. How many times do I have to tell you? Fight with me, or get out of my way…

“With you,” he yelled out loud.

He had never known a woman—a warrior—like Cynda.

Keeping her in his periphery, he covered her, picking off incoming as she smoked out yet more diving Astaroths and hacked them to pieces. Dirt streaked her face. Her leathers barely covered any part of her body. The sight of her shrieking and smoking and swinging that burning blade made him think of Valkyries and Furies, legends and myths.

She topped them all.

I’d die for her right here. She’s worth it. They’re all worth it.

Time shifted, moved differently as they danced through the smoke together. Killing in tandem. An accurate, deadly team.

Seconds turned to minutes. Minutes turned to seconds. Elemental energy filled the space around them, expanding reality, contracting it.

Nick had no idea even what day it was. He stopped caring. All that mattered was Cynda and this fight and demons dying.

A part of his mind kept up with images from other turrets and the wall. Swords flashed. Arrows flew. He saw Sibyls fighting and falling, but he couldn’t hear anything beyond Cynda’s battle cries and his own
other
-joined roars. He couldn’t feel anything but the fire in his blood as he fired, and fired, and fired.

The hit-and-run attack shut down as fast as it began.

Calls of “Stand down!” echoed across the battlements.

Half an hour until the next raid. Half an hour to rest. He needed to breathe. He needed to think of something to kill these assholes faster and better.

Nick’s pulse hammered in his temples. Cynda was still shrieking, backing up, her blade tip trailing along the turret’s stone surface. Then she was laughing, and jamming her dirt-coated sword back in its sheath, and sobbing.

Shit
.

He ran forward and caught her in his arms, let her fall against him, beating his shoulders with her fists as fire bit into his skin.

Not much was left of his raid jacket. His jeans were more holes than fabric now, but he didn’t care.

He took her heat and held her tight body against his, where she belonged. Then he kissed her damp head and stared over her shoulder, through the smoke, at the demons regrouping and massing along the castle’s east wall.

Rage crawled through his insides.

The bastards could do this all day. All night. Forever. The Legion had finally formed and executed a perfect plan, using Sister Julia to get things rolling. Don’t go after the few hundred triad-assigned fire Sibyls who really knew how to fight. Go after their future. Destroy the next generation and smash the Motherhouse by letting small groups of Sibyls feed into the castle and picking them off.

Tire them out.

Never let the women amass a full fighting force.

By the time this was over, what would be left of
all
the Sibyls—not just in Ireland, but worldwide?

As air Sibyls cleared the smoke above Motherhouse Ireland, Nick kept his grip on Cynda and counted heads on their side.

Two fewer than when they started. Two more Sibyls down—or dead.

Fuck!

Just in case the demons below changed their strategy, he pulled Cynda against one of the stone walls for cover and held her there, temporarily safe in his arms. She felt so warm, so alive.

How could he keep her that way?

What could he do to help save these women?

Part of his attention stayed on the wall behind him, the noises, the energies, in case the demons got creative. The rest of his attention focused on Cynda.

“How many rounds do you have left?” Her voice was nothing but a whisper against crackles and pops of nearby fire.

He’d been hoping she wouldn’t ask that.

But he gave her an honest answer. “Couple of mags. Not enough.”

Silence spread between them.

She clung to him, went limp, and cried softly against his neck.

He had nothing left to give but his embrace, his kisses, even as he beat himself up inside for not being able to figure out a new plan.

Cynda let him be her strength for a minute, maybe two, before she pulled back and rested her forehead against his chin. Her red hair tickled his lips, and he closed his eyes, squeezed her shoulders, and kept thinking. Reaching. And finding nothing.

Damn.

“We can’t stay behind the walls and let them keep hitting us, Nick.” She spoke without moving or smoking or sparking, even once. “We’ll never do enough damage. We won’t make it until morning, and those demons will kill the rest of the Mothers and adepts.”

This is where I’m supposed to have the heroic idea. Piece together some weapon with spit and string and two tiny wires I jerk out of a lightbulb. Motherfucking
son
ofabitch.

He stroked her soft hair, not caring about the soot and singed edges, and breathed that hint of vanilla and cinnamon. Even smoke and sweat and battle couldn’t dull it completely. “You know this castle like the back of your hand, firebird. How do we get outside that east wall, make a hit, and get back—fast?”

She hesitated. Ran her fingertips along his arms, then sighed. “We don’t. With the tunnels sealed, the drawbridge is the only way in or out, unless you count the windows.”

Nick opened his eyes and stared straight ahead, at nothing at all. Dug deep through his mind. Deeper. Rifled past fifteen or twenty ideas he rejected himself, then came up with, “What about the earth Sibyls? Can’t they tunnel us out?”

Another sigh from Cynda made his heart sink.

“The water table’s too high because of the river and bogs.” She pressed her head into his cheek. “If we dig that deep into the ground, we’ll flood out and drown.”

Nick pulled Cynda tighter against him and leaned his shoulders against the rock wall behind him. Her heart beat against his, and just for that moment, he didn’t let himself feel anything else, focus on anything else.

For now, they’d have to keep fighting.

And thinking.

If it was the last thing he ever did, he’d keep her alive.

But for how long?

Over the next hours and half a dozen brief attacks, they lost two more Sibyls.

Nick helped Cynda try three or four plans to improve their odds, none more successful than the one before—though the air Sibyls creating treacherous crosswinds over the castle did crash a bunch of winged demons into turrets, teeth-first.

That felt damned good.

For a minute.

By full dark, Nick was down to ten rounds.

With no discernible change in the demon ranks below.

Half an hour to the next attack.

Bright moonlight reflected off the river and bogs, off the smooth castle stones, and Nick let his skin glow a little brighter as he and Cynda rested against the turret wall. They were both breathing hard. Sweating and shivering.

He had completely lost the thread of real time, but he knew it was still hours until help might come—if it did. Too many hours. It might as well be days.

Cynda curled against him, shoulder bleeding from the last attack. Her head pressed against his shoulder as she meditated, healing what she could. Nick held her close, drinking in these minutes of peace, savoring every second he had with her.

She glanced down at her tattoo and rubbed the mark. Then she sat up and pulled out of his embrace. When she looked at him this time, her green eyes shone with tears. “Mother Eileen just sent me a message. She said if we lose another Sibyl, we’ll lose the wall. They can’t hold it anymore. We’re done, Nick. This next attack might be our last.”

Nick’s chest ached. He felt like something was ripping him right down the center. “No.”

She cupped his cheek with her palm. “We could put the surviving adepts in the ancient crypt below the communications room, with Mother Eileen, Mother Keara, and the nuns.”

“No,” he said again. Nick went stiff, fighting off the misery in his body, his mind. The soft tips of her fingers brought him toward reality, a step at a time.

“The earth Sibyls could bring down the stones around them for extra fortification, and the rest of us could take the battle to the demons. Kill as many as we can.” She traced his whole face, her skin warmer, giving off a little smoke as she went. “If fortune favors us, the demons will have to regroup. Maybe we’ll break through the lines, find a few of those Legion bastards—and the Mothers and the younger girls will make it until morning, until help comes.”

Nick pushed her hand away, then grabbed her by both arms. “No way, firebird. You’re not dying. Not tonight.”

She gazed at him, so sad, so burdened, like she was carrying a thousand pounds, dead center on her delicate, soft back. Her look said,
I’m a warrior, Nick. How many times do I have to tell you? Fight with me, or get out of my way.

Everything inside him seemed to catch on fire. He choked. Gripped her too hard, made himself ease off, but she didn’t back down.

“I have to do this, Nick.” She leaned toward him and kissed the line of his jaw. “I’d rather you defend the Mothers and the youngest. They’re our hope. We need to save as many as we can.”

Her smoke joined with his golden glow as he forced out, “I’m
not
leaving you.”

“Figured you’d say that.” She actually smiled at him, then cupped his cheek with her palm again.

“I have to do this,” she repeated, and Nick heard the finality in her statement. More than that, he felt it in his own gut.

Half his mind saw the big picture, knew how right she was—but the rest of him kept searching for that miracle plan.

How could he love somebody this much and still fail her?

He had to save her.
Had
to.

But as he stared into the depths of her green eyes, he understood life and death weren’t the only issues at play, or the only measure of success and failure.

This situation went way past the two of them.

He had never been afraid of dying, and, he realized at that second, neither had Cynda. That wasn’t the point anymore.

Dying for nothing, for shit reasons, would suck. But fighting the right fight, to protect the future of fire Sibyls and maybe the future of all the women warriors—that wouldn’t suck. Maybe that was winning, in a way. Maybe that was succeeding.

Keeping his attention on her face, her touch, he stanched the flow of his rage with every bit of strength he possessed.

I’m a warrior, Nick…

He knew that now, in ways he never did before, despite his immense respect for her fighting skills.

They
were
the same inside.

They would both do whatever they had to do, whatever it took.

Only this time, they wouldn’t survive.

He pulled her into his lap and kissed her, tasting her sweet, soft lips, loving the warm feathering of her breath across his face. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he kissed her again and again, trying to burn each scent and sensation into his mind forever. If there was an afterlife for Cursons, these were the images, the pictures, the feelings he wanted to take with him.

Cynda knotted her fingers in his hair and tugged against it as he pulled his lips from hers. “If you have to do this, firebird, then
we
have to do it. Together.”

Some of that terrible burden shifted from Cynda’s features, and he knew that he hadn’t let her down after all, because he couldn’t find the way to save her. Cynda needed a partner, an equal, someone to stand beside her, battle beside her, and he was that man, for however long they could last out on that field of demons. He expected Gideon to wake and get restless, knowing what he had planned, but the beast inside him remained silent and passive. Agreeing.

Deep inside Nick, some of his own darkness faded away.

This was right. Absolutely and completely. Maybe the most right thing he had ever done, other than loving Cynda.

Nick kissed her again, adding another memory to that stash he hoped to have for eternity.

“If I had asked you to marry me, firebird—”

“I would have said yes.” No hesitation. No lie in her expression.

He nodded.

That was enough.

The best thing he’d ever heard.

The perfect memory.

He let her go, and they stood together. Smoke drifted across the moon.

Nick didn’t spare the demons a glance. “Take care of the adepts and gather the Sibyls.” He rubbed his palm across Cynda’s shoulders. “I’ll get the injured Mothers and the nuns.”

Her lips brushed his cheek again. “Meet you in the communications chamber.”

Muscles still aching from hauling wounded into the crypt before they sealed it—and from where Mother Keara kicked him about five times while he tried to help her—Nick stood next to Cynda and did a quick count in the stone hallway leading to the drawbridge.

Twenty-five Sibyls, total. Arms bandaged. Faces burned and bruised. Leathers tattered and shredded.

Nine fire Sibyls formed the front rank nearest the drawbridge, swords drawn, while Harper Ellis manned the drawbridge crank to his left. The women had sunglasses to help with flashes from demon explosions.

Eight air Sibyls made up the second line, wearing every last pair of goggles they could find, patch, or tie together. Each of the women would fight with bow and arrow—good—or throwing knives—not so good, but it would have to do.

Seven earth Sibyls, the group Nick and Cynda would join, manned the third wave of attack, farthest from the drawbridge, daggers or staves firmly in hand.

The damp air in the bridge passage soothed his singed face and arms as he squeezed Cynda’s hand in his.

They would
definitely
do some damage.