Demon Bound

coming,
the Hecate whispered.
There has been war before, war at the beginning and war since, but this will be the vastest, the bloodiest. The old gods and the old ways are rising, parting the layers of the spirit worlds.
    Jack felt a long, slow crawl of unease down his spine. “And I’m supposed to do what about your war, exactly?”
    The Hecate bared her teeth. Her canines were pointed, like her dog servants’.
You will do nothing. You will stand aside, crow-mage, and you will keep your meddlesome fingers out of what is coming.
    Wind stripped the mist from her figure in a sudden gust, leaving her bare before Jack’s eyes.
The one who must act is Petunia.
    “No,” Jack said instantly. “Pete has nothing to do with any of this.”
    You cannot protect her, and to presume is a grave insult,
the Hecate snarled.
She is a Weir, crow-mage. She is a servant of the gateways just as you are a servant of the dead.
    “Pete is an innocent,” Jack snarled. “She doesn’t belong in the Black. She doesn’t deserve your attentions.”
    Petunia was a Weir long before she was your consort,
the Hecate snapped.
She will stand at the head of my army. She will lift us from the hidden place of dreams and place us on the path.
    “Like fuck she will,” Jack snarled back. Pete’s talent brought her under the purview of the Hecate, true, but she’d never had a sign. Never seen her fate, like he had with the Morrigan. “You’ve made a mistake,” he said, softer. “It’s another Weir. Not Pete.”
    The Hecate’s eyes flared.
The Black is rotting, crow-mage. The hag and her consorts, the demons and their
bargains, spreading filth through the worlds like poison in a river. Even now, demons dance in anticipation of the world’s end, and necromancers create offerings to their old gods. Sorcery and sin gnaw the bones of magic, of the druid and the Weir and the hearth witch.
The Hecate looked away from him, and a tear slipped over her translucent cheek.
The world I was born into is gone, crow-mage. But in the fires of war I will rebuild it from ash, and Petunia, my Weir, will open the way. I do not make mistakes.
    She turned back on him, and Jack saw the full glory of the Hecate, her triple face and her owl’s wings and the vast, breathless space between the worlds that the girl’s form walked.
And if you value the world you live in, crow-mage, you will stand down. You will retreat, forget that you know such a thing as magic, and stay away from my Weir until it’s all over.
    Jack felt his jaw twitch. Orders were orders, whether they came from a headmaster or the goddess of the gateways. “Can’t do that,” he said.
    You will,
the Hecate hissed,
or you will burn the world.
    Jack turned his back on her, started for the Naughton house.
    “If I had a shilling for every time I’ve heard that bollocks.”

Chapter Forty-eight
    “Jack?” Pete called to him when he came through the door. “Jack, where’d you go?”
    “Having a conversation,” Jack called. The Hecate’s eyes still burned in front of his gaze.
    Stay away, mage. Or you will burn the world.
    “You left all your things on the table,” Pete said, when he came into the kitchen. She handed him a plate of biscuits. “Expect you’ll be needing them.”
    Jack shook his head, putting the biscuits down on the table, stealing one. “Those are yours now.”
    Pete’s face tightened. “Jack, no . . .”
    “Listen, Pete.” Jack placed his hands on her shoulders. “I haven’t time to explain properly, but suffice to say that there are people and gods in the Black who want you, dead or otherwise. They always will, because of what you are. I’m giving you me kit because you’re going to need it. To defend yourself and not be made to serve someone or something that you don’t want.”
    Pete’s mouth quirked. “Fuck off. Who’d want my service besides musty old ghosts like Treadwell?”
    “Your patron,” Jack said quietly. “The Hecate. The guardian of the gateway. Weirs are her purview, like the Fiach Dubh are the Morrigan’s.”
    Pete sat down hard at the table. “Why does she want
me
? I haven’t done a thing!”
    “You’ve got power,” Jack said. “And there’s some bad shite coming down the road, Pete. Power will be in short supply.” He closed his hand over hers. “Take the satchel. If nothing else, there’s still an unwinding spell needs doing and it’s high time you learned how to cast.” Jack felt about for a fag and lit it, blowing