Demon Bound

body.
    “Miles,” he started. “You stupid fuck . . .”
    “And I take back what I said before, Winter,” Hornby told him. “You’re still pretty good. But I’m done now.”
    Jack made it a single step before Miles squeezed the trigger, and the gunshot echoed and rolled back from the buildings around the square. In the jungle, birds and creatures took flight with a cacophony of screeching and warbling.
    Hornby’s body hit the floor, landing faceup. The gun thumped on the sisal matting next to him. Pete let out a small scream that blended with the jungle birds.
    In Jack’s moment of paralysis, a shadow bent over Hornby. Not the same shadow that had come to him thirteen years ago, not the crow woman. Not the demon, either.This shadow had a lion’s mane, teeth, and a twisted body that bled and flowed indistinctly when Jack tried to look at it.
    “Don’t . . . ,” Jack croaked, but there was nothing he could do aside from protest. The demon of Bangkok had a new soul. The demon who owned Jack’s had lost it.
    And then the sound faded and the world sped up again and Jack realized he was shouting, wordlessly, and that the floor was pitching beneath him as dizziness and nausea and the realization that he, too, had lost came.
    Jack followed Hornby down, down to his knees. “You stupid bastard,” he whispered. “You ruddy, stupid bastard. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

Chapter Forty-two
    The hospital ceiling had gone yellow, acoustic tiles stained with the familiar tinge of nicotine. Taped above his bed, a curled-up poster sporting a monkey would, were it in English, have encouraged him to
Hang in there!
    Jack groaned and pulled the hard foam pillow over his face. It smelled of bleach and the rough casing tickled his nose.
    “You’re awake.” Pete herself looked barely that. She was curled in the plastic chair next to his bed, the black circles under her eyes speaking to days, if not weeks, of nights spent in the same place.
    “After a fashion.” Jack cast the pillow aside. Sound came back, the chatter of busy people outside the door of his room, the whoop of sirens from outside the walls, the hum and rattle of an overworked air conditioner blocking most of his window. Jack tilted his face toward it and let it dry his sweat. “Fuck me standing up, that’s nice.”

    “Brought you in after Hornby killed himself,” Pete said. “You were a bit shocky. That cut of yours was infectedwith god knows what. Doctor said it’s a miracle you didn’t lose your arm.”
    Jack felt himself over. He wasn’t tied down, so he hadn’t been raving crazy when he came in. There was an IV, and the pleasant cotton-wool feeling of sedatives. Jack laughed. “You didn’t tell ’em I’m a smack addict?”
    “In this country?” Pete rolled her eyes. “The very last thing I need at this moment is to spring you from some Thai prison, Jack.”
    Jack tried to sit up and the wallowing dizziness from the painkillers put him back down. Pete came to his side, laying the back of her hand against his forehead.
    “You all right?”
    “No,” Jack muttered. “I’m about seven shades of not right at the moment, luv.”
    Pete got him a cup of water and a straw and stuck it between his lips. “You’re dehydrated, too. Drink.”
    Jack obeyed, because even dubious city water seemed sweet at the moment, and when he’d emptied the pink plastic cup he sank back against the pillow, which gave not a whit. “Hornby’s dead, Pete.”
    “I was there, Jack.” Pete settled herself back in her chair. “Precious little to be done. We’ve got a flight home as soon as the infection is out of your system. I didn’t think you wanted to be around when police started asking questions about the dead
farang.
”
    “Hornby did the right thing,” Jack said. “He knew what he was in for and he topped himself. He made sure his soul stayed here. That’s the proper thing to do.”
    “Christ, you do say stupid things when you’re on drugs,” Pete said archly. Jack waved his hand. The IV needle scraped against the underside of his skin.
    In Jack’s mind, Hornby put his finger in the trigger of the gun and squeezed.
    Why had a mage had a gun, anyway? Didn’t he know they were for amateurs?
    Stupid sod.
    Jack pushed back the itchy coverlet and swung his bare feet to the floor. They stuck to it, and he fished under the bed. “Where are me boots?”
    “Jack, don’t be stupid. You need to stay in that bed,” Pete said. She rose,