Demon Bound (46 page)

He looked down at her hand on his chest. His throat worked before he said, “I'm all for that kind of thinking. But you know, believing in something despite the odds might be just craziness, not optimism.”

“Very well.” She linked her arms around his shoulders. “If I am crazy, then at least I shall live up to the novices' expectations.”

“Yeah, well—I'm going to be talking to them about some of the stuff we've been saying.”

“Oh. Must you?”

“Don't tell me you enjoy it.”

She cackled against his neck.

“Witch. You creeped us out on purpose?”

“Not on purpose. I am how I am. But I am not unaware of how people see me.”

“So you made sure you were extra creepy when we were around.”

“Perhaps.”

He reached back, caught her hips. “Why?
Aside
from the entertainment, because it wouldn't be efficient for you to go out of your way to creep us out just so you could get a good laugh. Was it to get rid of us?”

Of course it was. She glanced over his shoulder, but could only see the hard angle of his jaw. “Is that surprising to you?”

“No. No. But you know, they're not that bad. The novices.”

“I never thought they were.” She pulled back to look at the taut line of his shoulders, wondering at his tension.

“You never—Okay. Forget it.”

Oh, how very obtuse she was. These were his friends. “I would not try to make them uncomfortable now. Not deliberately.”

His hands flexed on her hips, and he bumped lightly back against her. “Unless it'd be entertaining. Then go for it.”

“Well, yes. Sometimes they are unsettled so easily I cannot help myself.”

“Hey, that's good for them. My creeped-out threshold is pretty high now.”

She bit his shoulder.

“Yeah, see? But don't do that to them. Will you bite me if I turn around?”

“Yes.” She laughed and held on when he did anyway, lifting her feet so that she was still at his back when he stopped. “I would have said no if I'd realized you wanted it.”

“You haven't had even one dirty thought yet?”

“Yes.” But mostly wonderful thoughts of pleasing him, of concentrating wholly on him, of returning even a small amount of what he'd given her. Her hands fell to his abdomen, and she slid her fingers over ripples of muscle, circled his navel, and traced a narrow path of coarse hair toward his waistband. “And that is why you cannot turn around.”

“Hot damn. But listen, goddess—if you've shape-shifted, be gentle.”

She smothered her cackle against his shoulder, attempted to pinch the taut skin below his navel. She couldn't be sorry that her fingers didn't find any extra flesh to squeeze. She settled for tugging hair, then traveled lower when he pretended a wince.

“You
are
a little evil.”

“Mmm,” she agreed, in the moment before her fingers encountered the bulb of hot flesh that protruded above his waistband. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Jake said, his voice strained. “I'm about to do that, too.”

Heat roared through her as she swept her thumb over the broad head of his penis. So unexpected. She'd anticipated unfastening a button, lowering a zipper, teasing, then finally touching.

Now she ripped open his jeans to fill her hands with him. Oh, dear heavens. How incredible. The few times she'd practiced shape-shifting into a male form, the genitals had always produced the most acute discomfort, as if an alien appendage grew from her form—a discomfort that had intensified if the flesh hadn't remained flaccid. She'd certainly felt nothing like this fascination now, as she explored Jake's rampant erection.

Jake groaned through each tentative stroke, locking his fingers together behind his head as if forcing himself to let her touch him as she willed, without direction or interruption.

And once her initial curiosity had passed, there was so much more to learn. A firm grip made his knuckles whiten, and if she went fast, his head fell forward and he gritted his teeth.

Oh, why hadn't she done this before? Why hadn't she known she would love this—that simply by touching him, her center would be wet and her nipples aching, as if he'd taken his tongue to both.

She pictured that, tried to imagine his reaction, and her need wound tighter, until she could think of nothing but tasting
him
.

Slowly, she drew her left hand up the length of his rod and collected the moisture at the head against her forefinger. Her right hand continued stroking him as she brought her finger to her mouth.

“Alice, Alice, Alice,” he chanted, shaking. “What are you doing?”

Her lips closed over her finger, and she knew he would hear the slide of her tongue as she licked the salty drop. Odd, but not unpleasant, and her excitement heightened when he stiffened.

“Oh, God.” He bent forward a little, as if in pain. “Don't do that again.”

She took him firmly in both her hands again. “Shall I do this?”

“Yes. No—not like that. Hard's only for emergencies.”

Her touch lightened. “Such as?”

“Such as: my head will explode if I don't come in three seconds.”

“I see. And if I cannot bring your wetness to my mouth again, shall I come around and taste it directly?”

His ragged groan might have been a denial or a plea.

“May I? My tongue here”—her fingers danced over his crown—“and here, and suckling you, and when you finish, I will drink—”

His hands clamped over hers, stroked hard once, twice. A rough sound vibrated through his chest; his shaft pulsed beneath her hands. He shuddered. The next stroke was slick, and the slide of her palm easier.

Yes, she decided. Next time, she would use her mouth.

Jake weaved on his feet. She licked the nape of his neck, then caught the chain in her teeth, drawing it back, letting it fall in a loop between his shoulder blades.

When he took her face-to-face, those tags would jingle between her breasts.

Her skin flushed with heat. Her gaze fell to the gap between his backside and his jeans, and her lips parted. She tugged at his belt loops and exposed just enough to see the Vietnamese characters tattooed on his right buttock.

She read the black lines, frowning.
No fear but fear.

“Oh, no.” Jake groaned, then added in a rush, “Okay, so I was in Saigon, and walked into this place, asked the guy there to do it. I was trying to inspire myself, right? I was thinking that if I actually made it a part of me, I'd be able to accept everything.”

Oh, she realized.
Nothing to fear but fear itself.
The translation was imprecise, and she could easily imagine him in a small parlor, trying to communicate exactly what he'd wanted the tattoo to say. Attempting to make sense of where he'd ended up and why he was there, and how he would get through it.

She smoothed her fingers over it. No, a tattoo would not magically change him—but over the years, this
had
become a part of him.

“Anyway.” He shrugged, still vaguely embarrassed. “It made sense when I did it.”

“You were drinking?”

“Yep.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I forget about it most of the time; I can't see it.”

“Oh,” Alice said, and firmed her lips. “Then you haven't made certain the translation is correct?”

“No. Why?”

“It says, ‘Only simpletons ask for tattoos they can't read.' ”

“
What?
” His psychic scent shot arrows of disbelief, and Jake turned around and around, looking over his shoulder, as if he turned far enough about he would see it.

Then he froze, straightened, and pointed at her. “You.”

She lifted her brows.

“I love you.”

“Oh,” she said, her hands flying to her chest to keep her heart within it.

“That's right. And we've got about ten minutes before the sun sets in Turkey. We'll be fast.”

“No,” she said as he strode toward her, and he stopped. “Let me . . . do this.”

Her fingers found the buttons at her neck.

“Alice,” he breathed, and then surprised her by pressing a kiss to her throat.

Why had she been certain he would only stand and watch? Had she assumed he would look at her like he had his pinup girls?

She should have known better. With every inch she exposed, he was there, worshipping it with his mouth. He replaced every button with his lips, followed silk with his hands.

And by the time he pinned her to the wall and told her she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, she believed him.

CHAPTER 22

Even a dress of spider silk did not make for easy swimming. When her legs tangled in her skirts for the third time, Alice exchanged it for a short black chemise, but kept her drawers and stockings.

Jake glanced over, the glow from his eyes illuminating the sediment clouding the water.
This should clear out when we hit the lower current,
he signed. Then,
How would you have managed if you were here with Drifter?

Though she would have worn her swimming trousers, Alice sent him an image of a swimsuit she'd once seen on a Brazilian beach.

She shook her head, and held out her hand.

He teleported them deeper. The visibility was better; she could see the bedrock now, stones worn smooth. Ship debris gathered in front of uneven shelves and the odd protruding boulder, and was held in place by the current.

The strait was narrow, and relatively shallow—and had been heavily traveled for thousands of years, strategically important for both military and commercial interests. Any temple of size and distinction wouldn't have gone unnoticed. Perhaps before the technological advances of the past century—but not after submarines and side-scan sonar had been developed. And because of the history of the strait, maritime archaeologists and salvagers had combed the seafloor extensively, searching for wreckage and jetsam.

Alice turned to Jake.
How near are we to the estimated location?

Her nod started them on a dizzying trek though the water, but after fifteen jumps that had taken them from one bank of the strait to the other, still nothing had appeared to her as out of the ordinary. They began a searching pattern, moving with the current—then against it—all without success.

The night had half-gone when Jake teleported back to their starting point. He floated on his stomach, staring at the seafloor with his brows drawn.

He turned his head to look at her.
Do you know what?
he signed.
I'm an idiot.

His Gift pulsed once, twice. He didn't vanish, and Alice had just begun to frown when he pulsed it rapidly again, twelve, thirteen times—

And disappeared.

A second later, she almost sucked in a lungful of water when he reappeared in front of her, grinning. He smashed his lips to hers, and then she was wobbling, dripping water onto a damp white floor, dragging in a breath of freezing stale air. The temple spun around her as Jake swept her up, his deep laugh echoing off the decorated marble walls.

This time, she kissed him back.

But they didn't linger over it; he was just as eager to explore as she.

It was remarkably like the enormous chamber in Tunisia, but of white marble instead of black granite. A dais and the black sarcophagus stood where the statue had been, but the colonnade around the room was similar, as were the friezes lining the walls. For a long moment, Alice simply turned in a circle, taking it all in.

She looked over at Jake, who'd tilted his head back to frown at the domed ceiling. “How did you find it? Why were we idiots?”

“Because I was thinking like me instead of like Zakril. He could teleport, and his Gift was working with stone. And he didn't want Anaria to escape once he'd let her out of the sarcophagus. She'd Fallen, so she didn't have an ability to teleport . . . so, I realized, why wouldn't he just make a hole beneath the seafloor? And I can't jump into anything solid; if I try, I just don't go. So I kept trying until I hit the pocket of air.”

Incredible. He was simply incredible. “How deep was it?”

“Not deep enough. Look.” He pointed up, and Alice saw the water seeping through tiny cracks in the dome. “Maybe two thousand years ago it was, but the current has worn the seafloor above it down to about six feet of basalt. I'm guessing the dome butts right up against the bedrock, and that's not going to be enough to support the water above it. Not for much longer. One little earthquake, and it's probably coming down—if this chamber doesn't fill up with seepage first.”

Yes. She could hear it now, when she listened closely. A drip here and there. Could see it in the faint paths trickling down the walls.

She looked toward the dais. “Will you think me heartless if we do not immediately return to tell Michael we have found his sister, and—”

“Record the site first?” Jake grinned, and his camera appeared in his hand. “Honestly, goddess—I'd call you heartless if we didn't.”

 

Once she'd taken a closer look at the friezes, Alice wished she'd been heartless. She held her sketchbook, but couldn't bring herself to draw them.

These were not scenes of Guardian history, but Anaria's and Zakril's history. As children, happily laughing as they shared a bowl of dates. Two young lovers in a field of exquisitely carved wildflowers. A wedding, and a bed. Zakril, holding Anaria as she wept over Michael's broken body, the dragon limp behind them. Anaria, smiling up at Zakril in front of Michael's temple in Caelum. And there were more—dozens more, of them fighting side-by-side, making love, or simply looking at each other, sharing a private joke, a moment of pain, a moment of comfort.