Free Demon Bound by Demon Bound Page A

arranged by year.
    “That as well,” Pete agreed. She found the master suite, a great oppressive four-poster dominating the scene like the set of a particularly dull vintage porno film. “This will do for me.”
    “And you’re welcome to it,” Jack said. Even the colors of the room, muted bloody purples and bruised blues, depressed him. “Don’t let the ghosties bite.”
    “Jack.” Pete put her hand on his arm. “Do you know someone in Princetown?”
    “Why?” Jack said. “Jealous?”
    “No, but when I said the name you reacted like someone had stuck a hat pin in your arse.” Pete took her hand away. “You owe another gangster money?”
    Jack blew out a breath. It was a fair question, and had itbeen anyone besides Pete asking he might have shrugged, even made a joke of it. “That’s all you think of me? Bad man with bad debts?” The words came out far harsher than he’d intended.
    “I didn’t mean . . . ,” Pete said. Then her face set, hollowed out and as tired as his own must be. “Let’s face facts, Jack. You’ve a lot of carnage in your wake and I like to know what I’m getting into when I’m with you.”
    “There’s nothing sinister in Princetown,” Jack snapped. “Just another lot of musty old ghosts, like this place.” And because it was Pete and not anyone else, he felt compelled to twist the knife he’d landed. “You have sweet dreams, luv, since you’re so bloody innocent.”
    Jack slammed the door on Pete’s thin-lipped face and stomped down the grand staircase, wanting to break his fist on something vulnerable but settling for a smoke instead.
    He stopped on the landing, breathed out, lit the fag, breathed in. Sweet, blessed nicotine. Every addict’s pity fuck.
    A shape shimmered in the broken mirror, over Jack’s left shoulder. His own profile half obscured by smoke, he fixated on the spot, unsure if he’d even seen it.
    Wasn’t that every poxy haunting he’d ever seen on telly? Smoke, shadow, and no substance?
    Jack exhaled at his reflection. The mirror sucked all the color out of its view, drained everything but his face down a black whirl pool.
    “Come on then,” Jack sneered. “No cameras. No whimpering psychics. Just you and me, a pair of mean old bastards.”
    Nothing moved beyond him in the glass. Jack shut his eyes and rubbed his temples. Mirrors were useful, but not this water-spotted mess. Old mirrors, made with silver, werewhat attracted spirits. New glass just served to spook over-tired mages.
    Jack opened his eyes, resolved to have one more fag and then bed, when a pair of hands grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him down the stairs.

Chapter Twelve
    He landed on his back, on the stone, and saw stars as all of his air escaped in a last, mocking puff of blue smoke.
    Jack choked, unable to do anything except flop like a hooked mackerel while his mind screamed at him from the primal place of blood and birth to
Run, run you stupid cunt, get free before it kills you.
    He pushed the panic away, focused on his various bits, the quick mental check one developed after one had taken a few beatings. No lancing pain in his sides, his hands, or his legs, no bone scraping muscle anywhere, but he’d had the wind knocked out of him, properly.
    “Jack?” Pete appeared at the top of the stairs, barefooted and barelegged, wearing a stretched Siouxsie shirt as a nightie. “Jack!” She took the steps two at a time, landing next to him on the cold floor, able fingers feeling his pulse and checking his pupils. “What happened? Did you black out? It’s a miracle you’re not gushing blood all across the floor.” Her words blended together, skipped and flowed over one another like water over rocks and mingled with the current ringing in his skull.
    Jack shut his eyes because it seemed a remarkably good plan. Enough beatings also taught that sometimes, you didn’t want to get up. You just lay there and bled until the hurt passed and whoever had put you down in the