Demon Bound (24 page)

“Isn't ‘making sure that I don't kill her' holding back?”

Irena snorted. “Do you imagine you could? I see I will have to factor in your inflated ego, and weight your swords more heavily.”

Jake knew how fast Alice was, how deadly. He'd seen it in Tunisia. No, this was a delaying tactic, because now that he realized what Alice had meant by a gift, he was thunderstruck.

Customized weapons, forged by Irena and strengthened by her Gift.

She'd created the swords he had now. The Guardians' armory was filled with weapons of all shapes and sizes—but they couldn't compare to a pair made
for
him.

But he would have to thank Alice later. Though Alejandro had put her on the defensive to start, she didn't wait for Jake. Her blade streaked diagonally toward his chest. Jake crossed his swords, caught it, twisted. She pivoted, her skirts flaring. The naginata's metal pole whacked his knee, almost brought him down.

“
Arrêtez!
” Irena strode forward, took his right sword. She ran her palm up the blade; her Gift slipped through the courtyard like a caress. When she returned it, the blade had a curve to it, and one of the edges had been dulled. She performed the same action to the second. “Mind your new cutting edge, and adjust.”

“You will create a saber?”

Maybe it was just that he was used to hearing the swordsman speak in Spanish, and he was imagining the nasal disdain in Alejandro's voice—but Jake didn't think so.

“A shashka. He has no subtlety; an
espada ropera
will not do. I work with what they are, Olek, not what you wish them to be. Begin again, Jake.”

Grateful to focus on anything but the brittle tension building between the two Guardians, he engaged Alice—and noted the difference immediately. Slower than Alice, he caught her strikes later, closer to his hands. But with the curve, he could apply greater force, pull the blade through in a longer movement, and keep their weapons in contact for a greater amount of time—effectively slowing her, as well.

Until Alice's blade slashed across his cheek. Irena shouted for them to stop, made more adjustments. Then she returned to Alejandro's side, and they continued to trade barbs at almost the same rate he and Alice drew blood. More alterations were made. Alice switched her naginata for a whip that she used to tear his swords from his hands. Eventually, she called in her sword—only one, and she used a smooth, two-handed technique that was as efficient as everything else she did.

More than an hour passed before Irena finally brought them to a halt. She took his swords, carried them to Alejandro. Her voice sharpened. “You will set them now.”

Alejandro's jaw clenched, but he obediently clasped the hilt of each sword. His Gift wasn't like most—an outward punch, a burst of power—but seemed to suck energy toward him. The swords didn't catch fire, as Jake had seen other objects do with Alejandro, but heated until the steel glowed dull orange.

Alejandro and Irena didn't look away from each other, and the crackle of antagonism almost drowned out the scent of Alejandro's burning skin, the curl of smoke from his palms.

Jake glanced at Alice.
Friends?
he signed quickly.

She sighed. Strands of dark hair had escaped her braid, some curling softly, others standing up wildly. He wished he'd cut the ribbon at the tail of it, so that the braid would slowly unwind.

I suppose they try to convince themselves,
she signed, then dropped her hand to her side when Irena turned. She'd taken the swords from Alejandro, but hadn't waited for the metal to cool; Jake heard the sizzle from her hands, even as her Gift ran a final caress down the length of the blades.

Yeah. All of the older Guardians were mostly just crazy.

When Irena presented the swords to him, they were only warm. “These are temporary. There is not quite enough metal in these, but to introduce any foreign steel would weaken them. I will make two that are heavier, stronger. Until then, these will serve you well.”

His thank-you was probably not enough, but when Irena rocked back on her heels, an expectant look in her eyes, he realized that wasn't why she'd done it.

“I promised her a few minutes with Zakril's sword,” Alice said. Jake smiled wryly, brought it out of his hammerspace. Irena's Gift was sliding over it even before he placed the sword in her hands.

“It is so old, I expected it would be crudely formed,” Irena murmured. “But the folding is incredible. It accounts for the length. Bronze should not be so strong.”

“Yet it has been scarred.” Alejandro joined her, and they appraised it together. Without, Jake noted, a trace of their earlier hostility.

“Yes. But not easily. It is time that has done it.” Her green eyes were bright as she looked to Alice, then to Jake. “May I restore it?”

Alice lifted her brows. “I have no objection. There is nothing it can tell us now that it cannot if it is polished.”

Jake shrugged. “Go for it.”

Irena's Gift was a slow, sensuous glide as she pinched the edge of the wide blade between her thumb and forefinger, drew them up to the point, then back down the opposite edge. Alejandro stood utterly still.

Yeah. Just friends, my ass.
Jake bit back a laugh and averted his gaze until it landed on something he'd rather see. Alice's mouth softened as she watched. Her lashes fell, and she looked away, her lips in a subtle curve.

Not embarrassed, he thought. Amused. She slanted a quick glance at him, caught his gaze on her, and her smile widened. He grinned in response, shook his head.

Friends,
he mouthed.

Alice smashed her lips together as if to stop her laughter, but her expression changed to wide-eyed innocence when Irena said, “There. It is finished.” She and Alejandro admired it for another minute, and then she passed it to Jake again. “Thank you.”

Jake almost made a smart-ass remark, thought of Irena's polar-bear parka, of Alejandro's rapiers, and reconsidered.

Alice waited until Irena had returned to her quarters, until Alejandro had walked out of sight, and they'd flown almost to Odin's Courtyard, before remarking, “You displayed extraordinary control.”

“With my swords?” He knew that wasn't it, but he still wanted her to say it.

“Your tongue.” She blinked, then hastily said, “Your filter. You lost neither your money nor your life.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Thank you for the swords.”

“Yes, well. Once, the number of Guardians made it impossible for Irena to customize a weapon for each of us. Now, there is no reason she cannot. And Ethan already revealed the surprise we'd planned for the gathering, so there was no reason to wait.”

“Nope.” No reason to wait at all. “When we land, I'm going to kiss you again.”

She listed to the side, then began to pull ahead. “Surely that isn't necessary. A thank-you is enough.”

And that wasn't a no. He caught up to her. “It's not about thanks. It's about my tongue, and exercising extraordinary control.”

For two beats of her wings, she didn't speak. Her gaze was focused straight ahead, and Jake felt the familiar disappointment begin to harden in his gut.

“I can't,” she finally said. “Surely you must see that.”

“You know, I really don't.” He only saw her set face, the collar that he wanted to unfasten one button at a time, until he'd stripped that dress all the way off.

The thought exploded through him, struck like shrapnel into his chest. “Jesus Christ. You can't seriously be staying loyal to Henry Grey?”

Her wings snapped vertical. She drew up, her face pale, her eyes cold. “You cross a line.”

“Yeah. I do.” And he wished to hell he'd managed to dig up more than her husband's name by now. “Are you?”

“Don't be ridiculous. He's been dead eighty years.”

That didn't mean shit. Thousands of people remained true to their spouses decades after they'd died.

But if Alice was one of them, would she have kissed him?

He didn't think so. And if she thought staying loyal to Grey after his death was ridiculous, then any obligation she felt must have died with him. The date was too clear-cut; Jake would bet love had disappeared before that.

Her sigh made him conscious of how long he'd been studying her, working it through. Enough time, at least, for the color to return to her face, for her shoulders to droop.

“Jake.” When she met his eyes, there was the same haunted expression he'd seen before. “Surely you must realize that there is scarce hope for me.”

“No. I don't realize.” He was hoarse, and he used anger to combat the fear gripping his throat. “But if you're doomed anyway, why not grab on and ride?” He felt, for an instant, the yearning in her psychic scent. It pissed him off more. “But hell if you'll stick your head out of your hole, right? If I hadn't butted in, you'd be hiding, avoiding any contact, waiting for the end. And why not? It's not like you're alone. You've got your spiders to worship you.”

She laughed, a thin and withering sound. “My, how imaginative you are! They are
spiders
. They feel no more for me than a roach feels for a human who drops a crumb.”

“Oh,
now
I see. You die, you're tortured in Hell forever—but they won't care. Won't be hurt if you never come back, won't ever feel betrayed when you give up. And that makes them even safer, doesn't it?”

Alice averted her face. Jesus. Now he was just being an asshole. Was just spitting his own failures and fuckups out on her.

He had to dial the anger back, even if it meant Alice would see that it scared him shitless to imagine she wouldn't escape her bargain.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “It does.”

Shocked by her admission, Jake didn't immediately follow her when she flew around him, continuing on. Her psychic scent was both stiff and vulnerable—just as when he'd found her in the hypogeum and she'd projected a mule onto her back. The cracks in her armor showing, after being under pressure for too long.

“Hey.” Christ, he was always going after her. Maybe one day, he'd figure out why he was incapable of just letting her go. For now though, he'd follow his gut.

Jake slipped under her left wing, rolled onto his back, caught her mouth with his.

She stopped in midair, but didn't pull away. And she didn't deepen the kiss, but her hands cupped the back of his head, held his lips to the softness of hers.

“You are mistaken,” she said. And only Alice, he thought, could sound so prim while her mouth was on a man's. “I haven't given up. I am still trying—but I also must be realistic about my chances.”

“If realistic means that you're already seeing yourself screaming in Hell, what good is it? Screw realistic.”

He felt her lips move into a smile, but a shuddery breath passed between them. A brave face, he thought—with fear behind it, as if she was imagining, even now, the tortures that waited Below.

But he'd follow her there, too. He knew fear. He was on intimate, naked, well-lubed terms with fear. Nothing Hell had to throw at him would be worse than what he pushed into his own head on a daily basis. He'd go after her and . . .

Holy shit. He opened his eyes, waited for it to sink in, but it didn't sink. It shot through him.
When in the holy flippin' hell had he begun falling...

 

The lights were gone. Feathers brushed his face as Alice staggered to the side, her psychic scent spinning. The stink hit him. The godawful rot stink. And somewhere in the distance, the screams.

Closer, though, were the heartbeats. A dozen, maybe. And crimson eyes, flaring bright.

Oh, shit. In Hell—surrounded by demons. He and Alice were toast.

But being realistic never did anybody any good.

Jake called in his swords.

CHAPTER 11

Alice didn't know how much time she'd lost. Seconds? A full minute?

Long enough for Jake's arms to be sleeved in demon blood. Long enough that he'd beheaded at least seven or eight. Long enough that he'd driven the remaining demons to the far end of the enormous room of black marble. The clash of the weapons didn't echo.

Two demons left—hadn't there been three a moment ago?—and Jake had them well in hand, like a centuries-old Guardian against two newly transformed novices. Alice told herself to focus, to search for the third. Her fingers rose to her forehead, as if she could press her brains into service. This couldn't be the effect of teleporting; the disorientation would have faded by now. Nor was it the stench.

Yet a bloated, putrid sickness invaded her limbs, her thoughts—as if her muscles and her mind had been fouled. Had it been her Gift? As soon as they'd teleported into the dark, she'd automatically reached out, but now she couldn't untangle whether this sickness had struck her before or after she'd pulsed it.

She reached out again, was immediately swamped by nausea. Yes—it must have been her Gift. And she never wanted to know what her psyche had touched that could have produced this effect.

Not behind her. She was near a wall, her back protected. The light from the demon's eyes was not so unsteady now, did not flicker so much. The strange pattern on the floor began to take shape—waist-high rectangular stone blocks, laid out in nine long rows.

Not blocks, she realized. Sarcophagi. Symbols covered the black marble. Each stone lid was shattered.