Demon Bound

“Pete is an i

Petunia was a Weir long before she was your consort, the Hecate snapped. She will stand at the head of my army. She will lift us from the hidden place of dreams and place us on the path.

“Like fuck she will,” Jack snarled back. Pete’s talent brought her under the purview of the Hecate, true, but she’d never had a sign. Never seen her fate, like he had with the Morrigan. “You’ve made a mistake,” he said, softer. “It’s another Weir. Not Pete.”

The Hecate’s eyes flared. The Black is rotting, crow-mage. The hag and her consorts, the demons and their bargains, spreading filth through the worlds like poison in a river. Even now, demons dance in anticipation of the world’s end, and necromancers create offerings to their old gods. Sorcery and sin gnaw the bones of magic, of the druid and the Weir and the hearth witch. The Hecate looked away from him, and a tear slipped over her translucent cheek. The world I was born into is gone, crow-mage. But in the fires of war I will rebuild it from ash, and Petunia, my Weir, will open the way. I do not make mistakes.

She turned back on him, and Jack saw the full glory of the Hecate, her triple face and her owl’s wings and the vast, breathless space between the worlds that the girl’s form walked. And if you value the world you live in, crow-mage, you will stand down. You will retreat, forget that you know such a thing as magic, and stay away from my Weir until it’s all over.

Jack felt his jaw twitch. Orders were orders, whether they came from a headmaster or the goddess of the gateways. “Can’t do that,” he said.

You will, the Hecate hissed, or you will burn the world.

Jack turned his back on her, started for the Naughton house.

“If I had a shilling for every time I’ve heard that bollocks.”

Chapter Forty-eight

“Jack?” Pete called to him when he came through the door. “Jack, where’d you go?”

“Having a conversation,” Jack called. The Hecate’s eyes still burned in front of his gaze.

Stay away, mage. Or you will burn the world.

“You left all your things on the table,” Pete said, when he came into the kitchen. She handed him a plate of biscuits. “Expect you’ll be needing them.”

Jack shook his head, putting the biscuits down on the table, stealing one. “Those are yours now.”

Pete’s face tightened. “Jack, no . . .”

“Listen, Pete.” Jack placed his hands on her shoulders. “I haven’t time to explain properly, but suffice to say that there are people and gods in the Black who want you, dead or otherwise. They always will, because of what you are. I’m giving you me kit because you’re going to need it. To defend yourself and not be made to serve someone or something that you don’t want.”

Pete’s mouth quirked. “Fuck off. Who’d want my service besides musty old ghosts like Treadwell?”

“Your patron,” Jack said quietly. “The Hecate. The guardian of the gateway. Weirs are her purview, like the Fiach Dubh are the Morrigan’s.”

Pete sat down hard at the table. “Why does she want me? I haven’t done a thing!”

“You’ve got power,” Jack said. “And there’s some bad shite coming down the road, Pete. Power will be in short supply.” He closed his hand over hers. “Take the satchel. If nothing else, there’s still an unwinding spell needs doing and it’s high time you learned how to cast.” Jack felt about for a fag and lit it, blowing smoke to the ceiling. “And you should probably call that sodding Ollie Heath and have him arrest Nicholas Naughton.”

Pete’s eyebrow crawled upward. “Nick? Why?”

Jack watched the ash grow on the end of his fag. Necromancers make offerings to their old gods. “Because he killed his brother.”

Pete set down her mug. “That’s quite a leap, Jack.”

“This house is the work of a necromancer,” he said. “A line of necromancers. Nicholas Naughton said it was just himself and his brother. One of them’s dead. So, by your very own copper logic, the one that’s still kicking round London in a nonce suit is the necromancer. One who owns a great big country house and estate on which to bury the dead he’s bound.”

“But Naughton is the one who demanded that we cleanse the house!” Pete cried.

Jack stubbed out the end of his fag. “Naughton’s an idiot. You don’t get a poltergeist from a binding ritual. He knew I’d see it. We were probably sent here to be the next juicy mage offerings to his bone gods, seeing as how he’d run out of hapless family members.”

Pete pressed her hands together, put them against her mouth like she were making a brief bid not to smash something. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I sat there and took that git’s money and smiled at him, for fuck’s sake.”

“You’re not the first person he’s fooled,” Jack said. “Think of how poor Da

“All right.” Pete placed her hands flat on the table. “I’ll keep the kit, for now. And I’ll have Naughton taken care of. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t coming back.” Sheen blossomed in her eyes, and Pete sucked in a long breath. “Tell me you’re coming back.”

Jack got up and pulled Pete up with him. Pete wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek into his shoulder. Jack put one hand on her neck, the silken ends of her hair tickling his palm.

“I’m coming back,” Jack whispered. It wasn’t a lie, really. Just an unknown quantity. “I should go back to work, luv,” he said. He would do what he always did when he was at a loss—smoke, curse, consult his books, and pace until something shook loose and he came up with a way to weasel out of his problem. He was a clever boy, after all.

Pete pulled him back against her instead, small body warming his skin. “No.” She ran her thumb down the scar on his cheek. “I don’t want you to go.”

Jack slid his hands across her waist, pressing his fingers into her hip bones. If he had the chance to look back, he supposed, he would call himself an idiot for spending time with musty books when he could be with Pete. “I suppose it can wait. For a bit.”

Pete pressed her lips against his, firm and warm and insistent. “I suppose it can. Just for a bit.”