Demon Bound

her beer and slammed the bottle on the bar. Jack watched her, re memorizing her hair, the set of her mouth, the way her fingers drummed unconsciously on the bar. Even furious with him, Pete was the best sight he’d clapped eyes on during this whole miserable journey.
    Pete sighed, at last. “But as usual, anything I might be feeling gets shoved aside in favor of Jack Winter’s latest disaster. So who’s Seth, and why was he ready to take your head off with a hex?”
    Jack shot a look at Trixie. She was too far away to overhear much of anything, and from the vicious way she was rattling glasses about, thought that Jack’s girlfriend had come to reel him back in from his carefree sexual exploration of the exotic Orient. “It was a curse, not a hex,” he told Pete, “and it’s complicated.”
    Pete reached behind the bar, snatched another beer from the ice bucket, and banged the cap against the bar edge to take it off. “Ah. I see. Far too complicated for those of use who aren’t Jack Winter.”
    Jack avoided her gaze by staring at a bruise forming onhis knuckles from where he’d hit Seth. He said, “Luv, it’s nothing for you to worry over,” and would have said more, except Pete hit him.
    Her palm left a burning impression on his cheek and snapped his teeth sideways, blood coating his tongue. The last vestiges of the whiskey stung.
    “Fuck
you, Jack,” Pete said. Her cheeks were bright with blood roses. “You no longer have the privilege of dictating when I bloody worry over
anything
.”
    Jack put his fingers against the spot. It was rigid and tender with a forming bruise. Pete had been kind—if she’d hit him closed fist, she would likely have broken his jaw. And he would have deserved it.
    “Well?” she demanded. “Got any other excuses before I walk out of this dump and go home to somewhere the air doesn’t cling to you?”
    “I’m out of them,” Jack promised. “I did wrong, Petunia. I’m not arguing.” He wiggled his jaw. His entire skull rang from the blow. “I shouldn’t have left.”
    “And you think that makes it all right?” Pete demanded. Jack pressed a hand over his eyes.
    “I don’t think it will ever be all right, Pete. But what’s done is done, and I’m glad you’re here.”
    Pete sat back on her stool. She looked wrung, sweat forming a V in the front of her cotton shirt. “First truth you’ve told me since I got here.”
    “Let’s start over,” Jack said. The lies made his tone smooth and easy, and he felt his throat and guts blacken.
This is the only way to save what you have
, he reminded himself.
This is the only way to keep Pete out of it.
    “Seth is the man on the landing,” Pete said. Jack nodded. She swigged her beer and made a face, shoving it away again. “And he tried to knock you off why?”
    Jack got a towel from behind the bar, dropped some ice into it, and put it against his face. “We had a disagreement.”
    Pete sighed. “Have you ever met someone you didn’t slag off, Jack Winter?”
    He lifted a shoulder. “Not yet. But there’s always a thin ray of hope.”
    “God help us all. Why it was imperative you leave without so much as a word and run off to Bangkok? Tell me that.”
    “I’m looking for a bloke named Miles Hornby,” Jack said. “Actually, found him.”
    Pete spread her hands. “So? What about Naughton? What about our job? You can’t just chuck me when it’s conve nient and swan off.”
    “Believe me,” Jack muttered, “there is nothing about this situation I’d consider ‘convenient.’ ”
    Pete rubbed her thumb over the center of her forehead. Jack saw dark half-moons under her eyes and a drawn thinness in her cheeks. He resisted the urge to reach out and push her lank black hair away from her face, wipe her skin free of sweat, take her back to her hotel, and put her to bed until she felt right.
    Those weren’t things Jack Winter did for anyone. He wasn’t the sensitive, loving boyfriend with the kind word and the assurance that no, your arse did not look big in those trousers.
    “Tell me,” Pete said. “Tell me everything.”
    Jack waved at Trixie for a replay on his drink. “Miles Hornby is dead,” he told Pete. “He has something I need, and to get it I have to perform a necromantic spell on his corpse. A black magic spell. It’d be dangerous for a sorcerer and for me it’ll likely end with me vomiting my lungs out me arse. So if you’re planning to stay around, I could use your help.”
    He