Demon Bound (23 page)

She nodded but didn't answer, and used her pinkie to poke the stuffing back into the bear's head.

“Ah,” he said. Now he just needed some candy, and he'd be a pervy asshole. “That's right. You can't tell me, because I'm a stranger.”

The look she gave him told Jake he'd just said something stupid. “I know who you are, silly.”

The clamp grew tighter. Facing a demon would be easier than this. Facing Alice right now would have been easier than this. “Is that right?”

“Your picture's
always
on the fireplace. Even when it's Christmas, and I want Princess Mandy to sit there and watch me open presents.”

Judging by her cross expression, that was an offense of the highest order. “Sorry.”

She shrugged. “Grandma said you'd know my name. That you're in Heaven, and you watch us, and you know me.”

His heart squeezed into pulp. “What are you thinking, I don't know you? Close your eyes for one second.” She did, and he'd searched through the room and was back before she opened them again. Some things never changed—names written on Sunday school papers, in permanent marker on winter boots and coats. “You're my granddaughter, Lindsey Hawkins.”

She shook her head. “
Great
granddaughter.”

“That's what I meant—
great
granddaughter.” And he was a great grandfather. Jesus. He didn't want to do the math, calculate probable ages, because that meant they'd only been kids, too. Two generations, just out of high school. He sat up. “Now, are you going to tell me why you're awake so late?”

Hugging the bear to her chest, she said, “Just got scared.”

“Of what?” When she only looked at him, he guessed nightmare. “Okay. You want me to hang around here until you go back to sleep?”

“Yes,” she said, and smiled. “I like your chair. Is it from Heaven, too?”

He glanced over at the armchair. Gold silk; a tall, bowed backrest; intricately carved gildwood; fluted, scrolled legs. Not fit for an angel, he thought, but a goddess. “France, I think.”

“Grandma has one like it. Not the same though. Hers is puffier. Are you going to see her?”

His chest, his throat were aching—but his gut was all right. He reached out with his mind again, focused on the elder of the two sleeping women. If she was dreaming, they were good dreams. He didn't feel any fear in her.

And Barbara had given her his last name, even though he hadn't made it back, hadn't given her anything but a promise he wasn't able to keep. He swallowed over the constriction in his throat. “Probably not tonight, Lindsey. But pretty soon.”

“I'll tell her you scared away the monsters.”

“Okay.”

When she lay back against her pillows, he moved to the chair. After vanishing his boots, he propped his feet up on the end of her bed, and recognized the blue patchwork beneath them. “This quilt used to be mine, you know.
My
grandma made it for me.”

“I wanted a pink one.”

Jake grinned, and settled in to wait. “Sorry.”

 

Alice was in the widows' room when she heard the “flippin' hell” from the next chamber—her bathing chamber. She glanced down at Nefertari, standing at her knee, and sighed. More than five hours had passed since Jake had left her in the Archives; though she could have justified sending Nefertari out in those first minutes, when Alice's blood had been simmering with frustration, using the tarantula now would just be petty.

Still, she kept Nefertari by her side as she entered the bathing chamber. The humidity was still high, but aside from the large porcelain tub, the room was empty.

Jake turned to face her, his expression unreadable, a toothpick motionless in the corner of his mouth. This time, his clothing did not offer a clue; the logo on his T-shirt named a mythological river in the Greek underworld.

How very strange he was.

And his greeting didn't make her alter that assessment. “I've had an interesting day so far. But good. How about you?”

She crossed her arms, wondered if she would ever understand him. “It has been acceptable.”

A lie. It had been remarkable. She'd thought of him as she'd bathed, remembered the glowing of his eyes—and an activity that had become a chore in the past seventy-five years had regained excitement, ardor.

But she was uncertain how to respond to that yet.

“Only acceptable? That's too bad. Do you know what it smells like in here?”

Baffled, she drew in a breath. There was, perhaps, a very slight odor. Not soap or shampoo, because she didn't need to use them, and perfume might give her location away when she stalked demons or nosferatu. And it was not
her
, either, because Guardians' bodies had almost no scent.

“No,” he said, and removed the toothpick from between his lips. “It's psychic.”

Alice frowned and reached out, felt nothing—then abruptly shielded as she realized what he'd sensed.

With enough time, with enough intensity, a location could absorb the psychic energy from the people around it. But it dissipated quickly; within a few days of the Ascension, all of the empty quarters in Caelum had been erased of their former inhabitants.

She used this room not just for bathing, but to settle her nerves—and she'd used it almost every day for over a century. But she couldn't detect what her psyche had left, because it was hers . . . and only hers.

“Yeah,” he said, and was in front of her an instant later. His grin was slow and, Alice thought, as cocksure as any she'd ever seen. “Did you imagine it was me?”

How dare he! Outrage bloomed though her, fierce and dark. “You presume too much, Hawkins.”

“Probably,” he said. “So let's forget I asked.”

His mouth covered hers, as quick and unexpected as the first time. Alice gripped his arms to steady herself, kept her lips pressed firmly together.

He made a disappointed sound in his throat and pulled her in harder against him. His mouth moved more roughly now, more insistently, but she did not soften, even at the touch of his tongue.

Abruptly he let her go, turned away.
Be silent,
she told herself.
Dismiss it completely.

But his muttered “fuck” shattered that intention.

“What did you imagine?” The cold anger in her voice sent Nefertari scurrying away, leaving a trail of urticating hairs. Just as well. If Jake left, too, better that it was because of her, not a blasted spider. “That I would melt at your feet? That I would beg for another kiss?”

“Yeah.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I hoped.”

“You arrogant, insensitive lout! Does playing with me amuse you so much? What are you attempting to gain—to prove? That you can turn the Black Widow into—”

“Jesus Christ! How screwed up is your head?” He faced her again, his expression thunderous. “I wasn't thinking of you at all—only how flippin' much
I
wanted to get my mouth on you!”

Stunned, Alice stared at him. Jake looked away, ran his hand over his head. Regret filled his psychic scent.

“You want to tell me it was stupid, go ahead. Or better yet, tell me something I
don't
know. But, Jesus—why else would a man kiss a woman except that he wanted to?” He glanced at her face, and stilled. “Did someone kiss you to hurt you?”

She couldn't immediately respond. Her mind felt like it was in heavy, heavy water as she reinterpreted everything he'd said and done over the past few days. He'd wanted to kiss her? When had the change come? And why?

But now there was rage gathering below his psychic scent, so she forced her lips to move. “No. I've never been hurt.”

Her only complaint was that she'd been treated so very, very gently.

He let out a breath. “Okay. And you
have
been kissed before.”

“Of course. And there is procreation.” When his brow creased, she explained, “That's another reason for kissing.”

“Ah.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “You know procreation isn't really about
kissing
, right?”

Her withering stare only seemed to entertain him, and the heaviness in her finally receded into puzzlement. “Why in heaven's name would you want to kiss me?”

He spread his hands. “Hell if I know.”

That was reasonable, she supposed. She was the one woman he did not find physically attractive, yet he wanted to kiss her; she found many men physically attractive but did not want to kiss them. Only Jake.

The odd symmetry of it amused her. And a kiss would likely be pleasant.

“Very well, then. Close your eyes. It seems you are more apt to teleport if they are open.” And if she did not maintain her composure, then he would not witness it.

His brows drew together, as if he doubted he'd heard correctly. Then he breathed, “Hot damn,” and complied.

He seemed truly eager for her kiss. How bizarre he was.

And how very warm. The tension in his shoulders should have softened with such heat, she thought, but it increased when her palms curved over them. She rose up to her toes and brushed her mouth across his. Perhaps all the softness had gone to his lips—so hard a moment before, yet now they yielded easily.

Like petals, as written in so many sex manuals, but that did not seem masculine enough to describe Jake. A valve, perhaps, slowly opening.

Oh, my—this was
so
very pleasant, wasn't it?

His strong hands cupped her face, and she quickly opened her eyes to be certain his were still closed.

They were, thank goodness. He might feel her fingers tremble, but he would not see them. And she did not think
pleasant
should be making her shiver.

Very well, that must stop. She stroked her hands from his shoulders to the back of his neck, and her fingers did not shake so much when they searched out new skin, when they were tempted by the proximity of his shaved hair.

Jake angled his head, and licked deep into her mouth.

She couldn't halt the noise she made, couldn't prevent herself from pressing her body full-length against him and licking him back. And again. Oh, dear God. The need curling through her was not like a rosebud unfurling or an easy release of pressure, but a corkscrew, digging deep, preparing to pull open something that she'd put a stopper in long ago.

What was she supposed to do with
this
? With him? And why now, when intimacy of any kind could only make whatever decision she made so much more painful?

How softheaded she was. How foolish.

She pulled away, feeling absolutely wretched. And what a coward she was to avoid his eyes, but she could not bear to expose herself now.

“Jesus,” he said, his breathing ragged; he strode to the bathtub and back. “Truce, okay? For five minutes. We don't talk about this, or why you just chickened out.”

Only five? She would give him no choice but to allow more time than that. Stiffly, she nodded. “Very well. Come along, then,” she said, and struck out for the stairs. “Did Alejandro return to Caelum with you?”

“Yeah, he did. But—”

“Let us find him, and then Irena. She assures me they are friends, but I warn you that it might prove unpleasant.” And it would not make her shiver. “Yet necessary. How is your French? They speak nothing else to each other.”

“Alice.”

She blanked her expression, looked over her shoulder. “It is for a gift. Now is the best time to procure the measurements for it.”

“The best time? Yeah, I bet it is.” With a laugh that seemed half-amusement, half-frustration, he shook his head. “All right, goddess. Lead on.”

 

Doing the jitterbug in the middle of a courtyard in eastern Caelum wasn't so bad, Jake thought—but doing it as a victory dance probably bordered on dickery. So he only toe-stepped a little when Alice wasn't looking.

Alejandro was, as usual, quiet. Like Alice, he was in his customary black, from his tall boots to his long-sleeved shirt.

It was almost funerary enough to drag a guy's spirits down. But that would be like focusing on Alice pulling away from him instead of thinking about how she'd almost fried his brain with that kiss, so Jake shook his head and changed into a red Grateful Dead T-shirt.

He probably hadn't needed to bother. Irena emerged from one of the buildings, her auburn hair brilliant in the sun, her blue tattoos patterning her arms like cobalt snakes, and her green eyes flashing. The leather vest and leggings were brown, and her smile reminded Jake of a big, hungry tiger.

Alice signed to Irena, but her body obscured his view of her hands. When she finished, Irena looked over at Jake, sized him up, and nodded.

“
Oui,
” she said, then glanced at Alejandro. Unlike her English, her Parisian French held almost no trace of an accent as she continued, “What will best serve him?”

“Two swords of equal length.” Alejandro turned to study Jake, and stroked a forefinger down his goatee. “They should have a light weight and long reach. He is a fox, not a bear.”

“You would have all of them be foxes. Show me,” Irena commanded. “And I will determine for myself.”

Alejandro inclined his head. “Jake, your swords. Alice, if you please? Use the weapon of your preference. Defend yourself to begin, and then attack.”

Alice's naginata appeared in her hand. Jake called in his swords. Her gliding step returned, and a smile formed on her lips.

“I need to see her blood, Jake,” Irena called. “If you hold back, the balance will be off.”