Bone Gods

harshly, and stubbed out his fag. “I remember snapshots. Ends of film reels, a few frames here and there. And then I’m waking up next to some bins near Aldgate, and an Iranian fellow is shouting at me to get away from his restaurant. I found you, I followed you when I realized you were in fucking deep shit, as you usually are, and you know it from there.”
    She wanted to scream at him, hit him with the pillow and say that was no sort of fucking answer, and if he was going to keep dying and reappearing he might as well just flit off permanently. But she swallowed down the scream and reached out, brushing her fingers down his bicep. She swallowed all of the whispers that the Hecate was right and that Jack coming back and not remembering how wasn’t a boon, it was a warning, and simply held on to Jack, because he was warm and there and she couldn’t bear to have him gone again. “I guess that’s enough for now.”
    He stubbed his cigarette out in a saucer on the bedside table. “Cheers.” He started to rise, but Pete tightened her hand on his arm. All at once, she didn’t want him out of her sight. If he was close, she’d know he was really there. And her dreams would stay quiet. Jack acted as sort of a psychic buffer, and if she touched him while she was asleep and her defenses were down, he soothed her talent so that it would allow her to rest.
    “Stay,” she said. Jack sat back down, the line between his eyes deepening.
    “You sure?”
    Pete nodded and yawned at once. She hadn’t really slept in days, and what sleep she’d gotten since Jack had gone had been fitful and fleeting. Plus, she’d had the piss kicked out of her and couldn’t have shifted Jack off the bed even if she’d wanted to.
    Jack kicked out of his boots and undid his belt, dropping the pyramid-studded strap to the floor. When he swung his feet onto the mattress, Pete saw his socks had holes in both big toes. “Landed in the same clothes I left in,” he said. “You’d think Belial would have at least fitted me up with one of those posh three-button jobs he’s always gadding around in.”
    “So you think it was him?” Pete said. “Belial?” A demon who let the soul he’d chased the longest simply stroll back from the jaws of death. Not very demonlike. And certainly not like Belial, who reminded Pete of an obsessive bloke who might spend years chasing a rare stamp. So Belial had sought Jack. And found him. And pinned him to the fucking page. “Jack?” she said, when he didn’t answer.
    “I told you everything I know, Pete,” he mumbled. “When I know more, I’ll pass it along.”
    Pete edged toward the window to give him room, but he stayed close to her. Jack had nearly a foot on her, and his frame easily curled around her body. His arm, with its new weight, lay across her waist.
    Breathing against the back of her ear, his words tickled. “All right?”
    Pete nodded, and let herself relax against Jack, back to his chest. Whatever else happened, Jack was here. And she knew, even when the Hecate and Pete’s own meager knowledge of Hell and all the senses her talent gifted her with said differently, that this was the way it should be.
    Jack stroked his fingers down her back, over the thin material of her shirt. “Been raiding my wardrobe.”
    “Didn’t think you’d mind,” Pete mumbled, squirming as Jack’s fingers slipped between her denim and the hem.
    “Not a bit,” Jack said. His finger slalomed between the bones of her spine, until he reached her rib cage and found the side curve of her breast. “All right?” Jack said. Pete bit her lip as the callused tips of his fingers skated against her skin, raising gooseflesh.
    “I’m not…” Pete shivered as Jack ran his hand down her bruised stomach, gently enough that he just grazed her skin, and found the button on her jeans. “I’m not really in shape for that, Jack.”
    “Relax, luv,” he said, wriggling her jeans over her hips. “I’ll be gentle.”
    “Jack…” Pete gasped when his hand dipped into the crevice between her thighs, Jack letting out a contented sigh as his fingers found purchase against her clit.
    She didn’t need flashing neon to tell her that this was a bad idea. Jack popping back up from Hell with no memory and no marks, fresh and new as if he’d been remade, wasn’t a miracle or even, likely, a good thing. The last thing she should be doing, Pete told herself in her stern, Inner-Connor voice, was letting him stick his hand