Demon Bound (Black London, Book 2)
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Thirteen years ago, Jack Winter lay dying in a graveyard. Jack called upon a demon and traded his soul for his life… and now the demon is back to collect its due. But Jack has finally found something to live for. Her name is Pete Caldecott, and because of her, Jack's not going to Hell without a fight.
Pete doesn't know about Jack's bargain, but she does know that something bigger and far more dangerous than Jack's demon is growing in the Black. Old gods are stirring and spirits are rising--and Jack doesn't stand a chance of stopping them without Pete's help.
slamming a door and a basket. “Laundry’s all gone to shit.” Elsie didn’t stir. Her eyes were distant, gray mist drifting across the surface of her pupils while her fingers, nubby with arthritis, communed with her cards. Jack’s eyes did something similar when he was in the throes of a spell. Pete said it made him look “like one of those bloody kids from that spooky village movie.” The next card flipped, and Jack’s breath stopped. Death, his skeletal form standing atop the highest tower in the
name, I’m taking that chance, mate.” The demon felt inside its coat pocket and Jack felt the rotten snap of its magic. It produced a small blue folder, stamped with red. “This will get you where you need to go,” it said. Jack took the ticket, inspected the destination. BANGKOK stared back at him, the ink blurred and off center on the line. “I haven’t a passport,” he said. “Explain to me how, exactly, that’s my problem?” the demon said mildly. Jack spread his hands. “You want me to go fetch,
from every corner of Patpong. “No you’re not,” Jack said. He went in Seth’s minuscule freezer and found a packet of frozen mixed veg that was dated three years past. Sticking it against his face helped with the dull ache, but not the sting. “You haven’t been sorry for a thing since the doctor slapped you on the arse and made you cry.” “All right, probably not so very much,” Seth admitted. He settled himself in a cracked vinyl armchair in front of a telly crowned in rabbit ears, lines of color
the mouth, pour whiskey down its throat, and kick him with steel-toed boots for fourteen years before he left Manchester. And he wanted Jao to share the knowledge, wanted to crank the fucking rib spreader to the maximum and break the sneaky wanker’s jaw. Instead, he leaned close to Jao’s ear, close enough to smell sweat and the last vestiges of cologne. “You should be,” he hissed. “You should be,” Jao shouted. “You think you the worst thing to come through my door? You think I’ll tell you when
time to learn how to be a dirty low-down bastard.” “Just go,” Hornby groaned. “Every minute you’re here, he’s closer to finding me.” “Should have thought of that before you made the deal,” Jack said, picking up his kit and starting for the door. He fully intended to follow through on his threat if Hornby didn’t cooperate. Jack would be fucked, then, and Hornby might loose the knots in time to survive. Or he might not. Jack would be in Hell either way. “My sister had lukemia,” Hornby muttered