Bound by Light (22 page)

As he stood, Merilee reached Bela, who was, thank the goddesses, moving and moaning on the ground.

And sobbing.

Tears streamed from Merilee’s eyes in response. She sat right down on the grass and pulled the dignified, powerful earth Sibyl’s head against her chest and cradled her, rocking Bela gently, in case she had broken bones or injuries other than the horrible, horrible wound to her heart.

Another triad sister gone.

Another young one, dead.

We’re running out of trained fighters. What the hell are we going to do? What’s Bela going to do?

Bela was alone now. The legendary mortar of the South Bronx triad had no pestle, no broom. Nothing and no one but herself, and the woman’s empty, torn sobs ripped at Merilee’s insides.

She kissed the top of Bela’s head. No words came to her.

Words wouldn’t help, anyway.

Somebody started swearing, and Merilee vaguely realized it was Sal Freeman.

"Is Bela hurt? Do we need another ambulance?" Freeman’s voice was thick with frustration as he gestured toward Merilee and Bela. Behind him, six OCU officers limped along, clutching weapons. They clogged the entrance to the courtyard.

"Bela isn’t wounded," Jake said to the captain, and Merilee wondered how Jake could be so certain—yet

she was certain, too, wasn’t she? With tear-blurred eyes, she shifted her gaze from the dormitory wall with its shattered windows, to the trees, to the dark street-lamps, then back to Jake, Sal Freeman, and the OCU. She stroked Bela’s head with one hand, and her Sibyl instincts told her again, more certainly, that Bela’s physical injuries were like her own, minor and manageable.

What kind of instincts did Jake have, anyway?

Jake was saying again that the fight had been too easy.

Merilee’s grip on Bela tightened.

Devin was dead.

What was easy about that, damn it?

But Freeman was agreeing. "It was a diversion." He gestured over the heads of his officers, back toward the main campus. "While we were busy over here, the bastards smashed into a laboratory and snatched a professor. A grad assistant told us the doc’s name was Holston. Derek Holston."

Merilee’s eyes widened, and her heart beat even faster. Holston. Holston. That name was familiar. She tried to make her thoughts function, to do her job as an air Sibyl and remember. Damn it, remember! Where had she heard—

"Derek Holston was married to an air Sibyl from the North Staten Island triad," Jake supplied before Merilee could even begin to retrieve the information from the archives stored in her brain. "She was killed two years ago, in the Battle of Motherhouse Ireland."

Jake then proceeded to give the Sibyl’s age, years of service outside the Motherhouse, the name of the Mother who trained her, the manner of her death in the final charge against invading Legion enemies, and the date of her interment back in Greece.

One of the shorted-out lamps flickered and came on, bathing Jake in a soft yellow glow. In his black NYPD jacket and jeans, he looked so . . . so normal.

For someone so completely
not
normal.

A second of silence passed before Merilee realized her mouth was hanging open.

Bela Argos had gone still in Merilee’s arms.

Merilee looked at the earth Sibyl, who sat up slowly, wiped her teary eyes, and stared at Jake, obviously dumbfounded, too.

Sirens wailed, coming closer by the second.

The OCU officers scattered to meet the paramedics.

Meanwhile, Freeman seemed to take Jake’s human-computer routine in stride. He must have learned to expect that from Jake, maybe even counted on it. Freeman was already outlining search vectors to hunt for the professor, but Jake held up a hand to stop him. He turned away from Freeman and strode over to Merilee and Bela, then knelt in front of them, the lines of his body tight, both fists doubled.

His first glance was for Merilee, and it was soft, and kind, and so gentle she sucked in a fresh breath and held it to keep from crying all over again.

Jake turned his attention to Bela. Sincerity radiated from his blue eyes as he said, "I’m sorry for your loss." An odd light seemed to flow out of Jake, just a tendril, linking his heart to Bela’s. Merilee blinked at the image and it was gone.

Did I imagine that?

Bela didn’t speak—or do anything to hurt Jake.

Completely out of character, especially given that Bela Argos had a long history of being suspicious of any and all demons, even those fighting together with the OCU.

"New York’s few fire Sibyls will be busy with the search for Derek Holston." Jake’s eyes shifted to his tight, large fists and back to them. He opened his hands as if making a deliberate effort to relax, but his next words seemed to hurt him. "With your permission, I’ll take Devin home."

Bela stared at Jake.

Merilee did, too, gradually processing his meaning, and the truth of his words.

Fire Sibyls handled communication. It would have to be a fire Sibyl who used projective mirrors to open ancient channels to Motherhouse Greece. Probably more than one fire Sibyl—in order to transport Devin’s body back to the City of Gods for a proper ceremony and burial on the Motherhouse grounds, as befitted any fallen warrior. Transporting an object as big as a human being took a lot of elemental energy. Cynda couldn’t even do it alone, since she was so far along in her pregnancy. That kind of effort might bring on early labor.

So unless there was some other solution, Devin’s body would have to wait for burial, which would be beyond painful for Bela. For all the Sibyls.

But Jake was offering a solution, wasn’t he?

Astaroths had wings, and they could fly faster than most fighter jets.

"You’ll take her to Mother Anemone?" Bela asked, her voice catching between each word.

Jake held Bela’s gaze. "Directly, and to no one else."

Bela studied him with her dark, fierce eyes. "You aren’t afraid to go to the Mothers?"

Jake’s answer was simple and immediate. "No."

Merilee imagined she could hear the creak of the Earth on its axis as Bela hesitated. She knew Bela couldn’t believe Jake was so willing to expose himself to the dangerous, powerful Sibyl Mothers. Even with all she knew about Jake’s history, Merilee still couldn’t quite believe it, either, since the Mothers were only marginally receptive to nonhumans.

And a nonhuman carrying a dead Sibyl . . . well, that could get dicey.

Bela let out a breath, then nodded her agreement.

Jake gave Merilee one more brief, heart-squeezing look, then stood and walked over to Devin.

Merilee coughed to cover her sharp intake of breath, but she couldn’t do much to stop the little burst of wind that followed Jake and stirred his short blond hair.

Freeman folded his arms, and Merilee could tell he wasn’t planning to stop Jake. In fact, Freeman looked serious and respectful, like he was impressed with Jake’s decision. Jake quietly asked Freeman to see to Merilee’s safety until he returned, which made her consider planting an arrow in Jake’s perfect, squeezable ass.

When he looked at her, though, the genuine concern in his blue eyes held her in check.

Tarzan, damn it. No, wait, Batman. Batman’s a lot sexier than the King of the Jungle, but still just a total complete
male.

With his back to Merilee and Bela, Batman-Jake took off his NYPD jacket, his body armor and his weapon—Astaroths could shift simple clothing, but nothing too complex, and nothing metallic—and placed them on the ground at Freeman’s feet. In the light of the single lamppost, he stepped clear of the captain, and the muscles around his shoulders rippled and shifted.

A sound escaped Jake, like he might be in terrible pain.

Merilee tensed.

She had seen Astaroth demons shift in and out of human form before, and they hadn’t ever seemed to be as uncomfortable as Jake was.

Not like this.

And it never took this much time.

Was something wrong? Only two days ago, she had seen him shift easily, without so much effort.

Jake’s muscles rippled again. He held out both arms like he was pleading with the stars and moon to help him, and he shouted so loud and long that chills broke out along Merilee’s neck.

Just when she was sure he couldn’t keep standing, two sets of wings burst out of Jake’s back and unfurled, and his body sagged.

Bela caught Merilee’s hand and squeezed it, and Merilee had never been so glad for human contact in her life. She was terrified Jake would collapse on the ground, that the transition had cost him something vital and he’d die right there in front of them—but he seemed to collect himself and marshal his strength.

Unlike other Astaroths, Jake didn’t become invisible, or even completely translucent with his wings present. In fact, he stayed fully human in form this time, except for those wings. As soon as he seemed able, he bent forward and lifted Devin from the ground, and cradled her to his chest.

In that brief second before he took off into the dark night sky, as he stood there so tenderly holding the fallen air Sibyl, he looked just like a Christian painting of an angel, preparing to take a faithful servant straight up to heaven.

An archangel of mercy . . .

The image transfixed Merilee.

Even as she grabbed for something silly to say to herself to beat back the pain of yet another death—not to mention her deep emotion at seeing the way Jake tapped into the demon self he so hated to make sure Devin got the honor she deserved—that endless vein of humor inside Merilee ran dry. Gravity glued her to the earth more firmly than she remembered experiencing in the past. Jake looked lighter, but she felt heavier, as if she herself carried the weight of her fallen comrade and his sacrifice, too.

Then Jake was gone, and Bela was staring at her, and Freeman was striding toward them saying, "What can I do to help, Bela?" And then to Merilee, his expression softer, with a lot more worry. "Andy’s in my car. She’s pretty upset. Public Works is raising hell about hydrants blowing up all over the damned place. Can you help before she floods Central Park?"

(16)

A few days after the assault on Fordham University, August sat in the secret room’s wooden chair. Behind him, back pressed against the impeccably soundproofed wall, stood the woman, holding a pair of gloves and a bag of stolen tools.

She had her head down, but she made no move to interfere.

August paid her little heed, instead studying the sobbing man chained to the room’s only other chair, this one a stark, dull metal. The man’s skin bore dozens of cuts, stabs, and other wounds. His eyes, when open, rolled and widened, streaked with red like his skin and the floor beneath his feet. His ribs pressed harshly against his skin, as if they might burst forth and put an end to his suffering.

But not yet.

August knew the man wouldn’t last much longer, a day at the most, possibly two. He felt a measure of pity and regret. His prisoner was not a fool, not the typical piece of societal flotsam August eliminated for his own gain. He wasn’t even a pawn in August’s ever-widening American political machinations. No, this man was a scientist, an intellectual, and taken for August’s purely personal pursuits. The man had been bound to a warrior of the Dark Goddess. As such, his intellect and bravery were, at the least, admirable, if insufficient.

"Have you told me all you know, Professor Holston?" August worked to keep his voice neutral. "All the weaknesses of the air Sibyls?"

Holston answered him by turning his face to the wall in shame, and weeping yet more openly.

This brought a sniff and cough from the woman, who was overly prone to feeling sorry for August’s human prey. He clenched his fists, but managed not to hit her or the prisoner for their weaknesses. After all, he owed Holston now, for his valuable information.

August had been frustrated in his psychic pursuit of Merilee Alexander. Contrary to his experience with all his other targets, Sibyl or otherwise, he hadn’t been able to dissolve her defenses to reduce her resistance, her willingness to fight, and make her ready for capture. This one kept eluding him. He would get close, reach into her thoughts—but something always threw him back before he could weaken her resolve enough for him to make a physical approach and take what he had claimed for his own. He needed to understand the situation better—hence his capture of the good professor. Who better to advise him than the consort of one of the air Sibyls?

"Come now, Professor." August wasn’t above offering some comfort, extending the tiniest bit of false hope for mercy, to get what he needed. "Your wife is long dead. You showed her no disloyalty by disclosing a few of her secrets under duress."

"You’ll never get to Merilee," Holston rasped, keeping his face turned to the wall. "The old woman there, she’s been telling you the truth. Merilee
is
as strong as any Mother. One day, she’ll
be
a Mother. Her whole triad has that kind of power."