Demon Bound

schoolboy act and either throw me out on my arse, or get off of yours and sodding
help me
.”
    Seth heaved himself out of his easy chair. “You don’t want help, Jack. You want a fuckin’ miracle.”
    “Is that so wrong? Your people pioneered that sort of thing, least that’s what you were always bending my ear on.” Jack touched his cheek again and winced. “You know, for an old man, you’re quite violent. Better watch that. Might break a hip.”
    Seth pointed a stubby finger in Jack’s face. “Don’t tempt me to make your other cheek match, you Limey arse-jockey.”
    “Like you could land a hit on me again, you cabbage-swilling altar boy–fancier.” Jack sighed. “Does this mean we’re all right?”
    “You will never, ever be ‘all right,’ Jack Winter,” Seth growled. “But you and me—that’s for another day.” He grabbed a bottle of cheap scotch with a Thai label from his cabinet and two cloudy glasses. “You take water?”
    “’S like asking if I take piss,” Jack said. “Has it really been that long?”
    Seth poured Jack two fingers and himself four. Some things never changed. “I heard you’ve bypassed the bottle entirely of late,” he said, tossing back most of the whiskey and wiping a hand across his lips. “Moved on to a more direct method of getting yourself pissed.”
    “No,” Jack said, cold crawling over his skin in spite of the damp, close heat. His sweat turned to ice at the thought of the pinch of a syringe, the cool presence of the needleand the hot, sweet rush into his blood when he pushed down the plunger.
Can’t ignore me forever,
the whisper came.
You’ll come home, one day.
    “No,” Jack repeated. “I’m clean.” Even true, it sounded like a lie.
    “Good.” Seth dropped his glass into the sink, causing a scattering of something alive and gifted with an excess of legs. “You were never that stupid when I knew you, Jackie.”
    “That’s because I could still tell what was real and what was a phantom,” Jack muttered. “Those were the fucking golden years, for sure.”
    “I don’t know this Miles Hornby, but I’ll make some calls,” Seth said. “Meantime, I suggest you take what time you have and enjoy our fair city.”
    Jack took a seat in the only other chair in the room, a suspicious wicker contraption that creaked under his weight. “No offense, mate, but I think the nightlife here might be a bit carnivorous, even for me.”
    Seth cocked his eyebrow. “Got someone back home? That’s a new one.”
    “No one special.” Jack finished off his whiskey. It burned like drain cleaner going down and no doubt tasted like it coming back up.
    Pete would be awake, would have weathered an entire day and night with him gone. Or started a torch brigade to find and burn him. Pete wasn’t sentimental, but she was vindictive. She wouldn’t simply slap him across the face and be done with it.
    “If you’re not going to find something to fuck or get pissed, you should sleep,” Seth’s voice broke in. “You look like seven kinds of shite dragged across Dublin, boy.”
    Jack looked around the single room and dinette that made up Seth’s mildewed, sweaty flat and felt his skin crawl up the back of his neck. Magic had nothing to do with it—the years of sleeping rough voluntarily were behindhim in his twenties and the place reminded him of nothing so much as a squat. Add in a dozen or so junkies and a bucket in the corner and the experience would be authentic.
    “On second thought,” he said quietly, “I could use some company.”
    “That’s my Jack,” Seth hooted. “An eye for the ladies and a taste for the underbelly.” He slapped Jack on the shoulder. “Enjoy yourself, mate. I’ll send someone for you when I find something out about this Hornby.”

Chapter Twenty-three
    Jack walked back through the tourists to the bar with the music. The band was packing up, and a deejay had taken their place. A pair of drunk Scots were howling a karaoke version of “My Heart Will Go On” in front of a fuzzy monitor scrolling lyrics.
    Jack knocked on the bar. “Drink.”
    “Anything special?” The bartender was tattooed, and to Jack’s surprise, female.
    “Something that will convince me I don’t want to stick a fondue fork in me ear,” he said, giving the Scots a baleful glare.
    She laughed, and set him up with a bourbon with a neat flick of her wrist. “You’re not a tourist. Why you in a tourist bar?”
    “Waiting on someone,” Jack