Demon Bound

close, back door open, a slice of light spilling forth like the Heaven that the priests of his childhood assured Jack he’d never see.
    Behind him, the black dogs bayed and he felt their breath, heard their pants as he ran through the rain, dug in his toes, and really pulled for the line. He wasn’t going to die in the mud, brought down like a rabbit.
    Jack didn’t have much, but he was better than that.
    Just when he thought he was going to drop, when black closed in at the edges of his eyes and his breath felt like a rusty bayonet ripping through his chest, he hit the door, tripped over the threshold, fell hard on the shoulder the poltergeist had bollocksed.
    Pete stumbled after him, slamming the door and sliding the bolt home. Jack felt the wild magic following them, like a cloud of toxic smoke, and he pointed at the kitchen. “Salt!”
    In the fetid kitchen, Jack snatched up the big tin he kept in his kit and Pete grabbed for the leather packets laced with thongs, jerking one around her neck and tossing one at Jack. He put it on as he flung a line of white crystal at every window and door he passed. With each application, the magic retreated a bit, loosening its bony grip on hisheart. The baying of the hounds faded, and finally, as Jack salted the front door, all that remained was the gentle wash of the rain against the glass and discordant drip of water from a leak somewhere high above.
    Jack realized his hands were shaking as he closed up the salt tin, and it took a few tries to shut it tight. He leaned his forehead against the front door and fumbled for a fag. His pack was flat and empty. “Shit,” he muttered. It never rained but it poured.
    The shivering wasn’t just from coming so close to the
cu sith
and its mates a second time—he was soaked to the bone and the mansion was erratically heated at best.
    “Pete?” he shouted, checking the salt lines one last time. Nothing from the Black was coming into the mansion. Nothing was getting out, either. Jack hoped the poltergeist of Danny Naughton would hold off from smacking him about until Jack’d managed to put a ration of whiskey and a cup of tea down his throat.
    Until he stopped shaking, stopped betraying the bottomless fear that had crept up when he saw the black dog again. When it
spoke
to him. Fae creatures, other than the Unseelie, didn’t speak to humans, and they certainly didn’t threaten them like the black dog had.
    “Kitchen, still,” Pete called. Jack put the salt away in his bag, and pushed his hands through his hair before he left the front hall. It was damp and frozen at the tips, and started him shivering again.
    Pete had poured the last of a cloudy bottle of whiskey into two jam jars. She took hers, mounting the servants’ stairs. “I’m freezing. I’m going to get dried off.”
    “Are you all right?” Jack said as she started up.
    “Of course,” Pete said. “Shaken, a bit. But fine.”
    She didn’t meet his eyes, and Jack took her gently by the wrists, drawing her close. “Why did you come back? I told you to stay inside. Stay behind the salt.”
    Pete still wouldn’t look at him. “Jack . . .”
    “Why, Petunia?” He gave her a small shake. “Do you realize what could have happened?”
    “Of course I do!” Pete flared. “I’m not bloody stupid!” She shrugged him off with an angry slap. “I’m not fine, Jack, and I don’t know precisely what happened but I
do
know that you don’t get to give me orders. Not about things like this. I won’t let you fling yourself on a sword for me.
No one
gets the right to do that, you understand?”
    Jack grabbed her again, pushing her back against the door, her skull and his knuckles rattling against the wood. “
You
need to understand, Pete. I won’t always be able to tell you what to do, so you have to
learn
, now. Before . . .”
    He trailed off, letting go of her, scrubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. The secrets crowded close in his brain and his skull throbbed like it was going to shatter.
    “Before what?” Pete said, softly. She took his hands, pulled them down so she could look at his face. “Before what, Jack?”
    It was her touch that undid his resolve, because it was gentle. Pete could be hard—Jack’d experienced it firsthand when she’d handcuffed him to her bedpost and forced him to detox from the heroin.
    But she held his hands gently, and squeezed them. “Jack . . . just tell me.”
    He looked at his boots. They were crusted with