Page 60 of Lost and Bound

I lean him up against the wall, then take a couple of trips to get a makeshift bed set up for him. Until we’ve debriefed and Cane’s spoken with the department heads, we’ll be locked down here so Bael’s king-size bed will have to wait.

Maya is sleeping like the dead, and her raven is still standing guard. I drop the mats onto her floor, adding a couple of blankets and pillows before going back to get Bael.

“Why’d you put her under?” he asks as he settles his weight onto my shoulder again.

“Cane wants to ask her a few questions, and I know the grilling she’s going to get from him. It’s only fair she’s well-rested if she’s getting interrogated.”

He hums a response, and neither of us speaks again until we’re walking through the door.

“What’s with the bird?” I ask.

“Not one of mine,” he offers back quickly.

It would be a cryptic response if you didn’t know Bael is a direct descendant of Raum, one of Hell’s Great Earls, who is imbued with the spirit of the raven. It allows him to manifest in both forms—demon and raven.

He sits on the edge of the makeshift bed, a soft groan escaping in the process. I kneel in front of him and help him get rid of his suit jacket, silent until my hand touches a large wet spot.

I hiss in agony as soon as my hand touches the soaking material. Then I leave Bael to fend for himself and race away, needing to get the toxins off straight away. Infection isn’t the worry; possession is. Depending on who attacked Bael and what weapon they used will decide who could own my soul. Being owned by anyone is not something that’s high on my agenda.

Flinging open the cupboard we use for supplies for exorcism, I grab the salt, an old book of prayers, and a bottle of moon-blessed water.

I take a gulp of air, then start the process Bael taught each of us.

Everything must happen at the same time, and we’ve practiced enough that the words and actions flow easily, though not without effort. Sharp pain rips through my hand, making it hard to open the jar of fresh salt, the demon’s mark adding difficulty as the entity fights to take hold. I block out the pain and spill salt on my hands, massaging it anywhere on my body that had contact with Bael, causing steam to rise along with the smell of evil.

“In the mighty name of gods old and new, I reject and cast your spirits aside. By the power of gods old and new, you are ordered to leave my life and not return. I repent, I renounce, and I slam the door in your face. Begone.”

I repeat the process another three times, which is also part of the routine Bael set for exactly this scenario. And the final thing I need to do is take a cold shower. I step under the stream of icy water and start rinsing all the bad energy from my skin and psyche. The cubicle stinks of sulfur, and I stay there until the smell disappears.

Wrapping a towel around my waist, I grab a juice box from the cupboard and check in on Bael and Sleeping Beauty. The two of them are completely out of it. My eyes keep drifting back to the steady beat of her pulse on her bare neck. The points of my fangs break through as hunger scratches my throat dry. I look down at the juice box in my hand, then back to the Nom.

Moving so fast the bird can’t even take flight, I catch him, holding him in such a way that I avoid getting stabbed by his beak. He’s making a heck of a racket, but the need to feed roars louder in my ears. Stepping into the doorway, I throw the bird like a football down toward our gym before slamming the door and locking him out.

Bael stirs in his sleep but doesn’t wake, not that it would bother me if he watched me feed from our housemate. Using the same urgency as I did when dealing with her feathery guard, I move unnaturally fast to lift her before I settle in behind her.

There’s no question, no self-flagellation clouding my judgment, as I lick along her carotid, chasing the right place to feed. Her skin is soft, even delicate, as my fangs sink into her artery. Vibrant life—rich and precious—pours down my throat as I pull in mouthfuls of her blood.

She might be a Nom, but she tastes fine. Really fucking fine, actually.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I’M CLOSE TO TAPPING OUT

Desire lures me from a deep sleep. My panties are already damp, and I float in dreamy yearning as I trail my fingers over them. I barely touch myself down there, and the sensation gathers, feeding the slow-spreading need.

A hand cups mine, helping me find pleasure.

And that’s when my arousal dries up.

I twist around and find the owner of the hand lying behind me. “Arlan! What the fuck? Get your hands off me. Actually, get your whole body off me. You’re disgusting,” I shout while I throw my arms and legs about, trying to dislodge him, but he’s like a damn barnacle I can’t shake off.

Panic explodes as I feel his resistance, and I act instinctively, punching him in the face. His arms fall away, and I get the space I need to escape him, crawling over my bed, ready to run out of this damn house.

Except I collapse in a heap when I go to stand up, as the empty floor isn’t there anymore; it’s now a body.

“Hmm, what’s this?”

“Put the lights on, Arlan!” I screech as I fight grabby hands for the second time in the space of a handful of seconds.