Captive Soul (25 page)

(
 25 
)

John felt … something.

A tingle across his brain. A stutter across his heart. Almost like somebody had just fired an energy arrow straight through him, and outward, onward, into the whole city. The sensation made his pulse beat faster.

In the time it took him to think about that, Camille yelled, “North! North now!” and the Sibyls ran away from him so fast they were nothing but black blurs in the night.

“Shit!” He took off after them, and he had to pound grass and dirt to keep up with them as they swarmed north toward—

Whatever was happening.

And something was.

John felt it for sure now, strong and biting and dark against his senses. He smelled it, too. Rotten and strong and wrong for the city night.

The women ran like hell and kept running, farther and farther, toward the Reservoir, then past it, all the way to the North Meadow. John pushed his legs to the limit, finally keeping pace, drawing down inside himself to better work this new body, to find his new stride and maximize the abilities that came naturally to him.

Seconds later, he saw dust roiling through the night. Battle screams sounded out of the thick cloud, echoing into winds that slashed dirt off ball fields and pathways. Flames roared as the ground shook under his feet. The rattling almost tripped John, but the Sibyls never slowed down.

Camille’s scimitar flashed in the moonlight seconds before she plunged into the dust cloud and out of sight. Bela and Andy, weapons ready, leaped into the fray behind her.

John swore and charged after all of them.

The ball field dirt hit him like a grit tornado, scouring his face and arms. He tried to use his new senses, or at least his old ones, to figure out what the hell they were fighting against. He saw big Frankenstein-like shapes, a lot of them, human but not human, swiping left and right at anything that moved. Demons, like the ones he and Camille had faced in that basement, only there were different kinds. Some of them had on suits. Some of them wore jeans. Some were naked and way beyond nasty, features shifting every second or two, all lumpy and unreal, like they only knew how to pretend to be people. And they stank, these things, bad enough to make his eyes water. Had to be about thirty of them, maybe more, and they had strong energy, elemental cores—but the energy felt wrong. Twisted.

“Asmodai!” Dio’s voice carried to him through the fray, and a throwing knife whizzed past him and hit one of the big bastards right between the eyes. It crumpled into dust that blew away in the increasing winds.

John targeted the nearest Asmodai and pumped an elementally treated bullet into its chest, heart level, dead hit. It collapsed with a spray of sizzling water, dousing Camille. The water raised welts across her chin and forehead wherever it landed on her. She ignored it all and leaped high enough to hack off the head of another one of the things. This one turned into wind that hit John in the face like a whirling cloud of grave rot.

He coughed and choked it back up, feeling like his lungs were on fire. Jesus, these demons smelled like old death and puke.

Bela and Andy were working on a bigger creature, this one spitting flames out of its eyes and ears. John sighted it but didn’t have a clean shot. He couldn’t help thinking the demon looked like a fresco of Satan come to earth. His old priest’s instincts kicked in, and he wondered if holy water or prayers would have any effect—not that he’d be able to use weapons like that, since he’d walked away from his vows.

When Bela ran the demon through, she whirled and tackled Andy, shielding her as a wave of fire blasted outward, scorching everything it touched with sick-looking green heat.

What the hell
?

John didn’t have time to think.

Sibyls seemed to be everywhere at once, faces he recognized and some he didn’t, just a blur of steel and arrows and flames and whirling stars and knives. Some human officers were there, too, some male, some female, all wearing goggles, targeting the big bastards and firing, firing, firing.

Good strategy.

Keeping Camille in view, John picked out ugly nonhuman heads and eyes and mouths high enough to shoot at without collateral damage, and he fed them bullets.

For every creature he took down, another stumbled into view.

Did these things breed on the spot or something?

Where were they coming from?

“Woods!” he heard somebody yell, as if to answer his question. A voice he knew from his time with Duncan.

Was her name Riana? Or maybe it was that group’s air Sibyl, Merilee.

“Handlers, in the trees behind the field!”

Bela brushed past John, and he saw her raise a hand to the charm at her throat. She held up her sword, pointing it toward the trees. The energy that blasted out of her, targeted through that sword, nearly made him gut-sick, it was so harsh. He sensed more than heard earth tearing open with a crack and rumble in the distance.

Bela crumpled to her knees, and Camille threw herself in front of Bela, hacking at the knees of one of the big Asmodai. Another fire-spitter. Andy fired a dart at its head. Missed.

John popped it three times in its jowly cheek, then shouted when the blast of green fire rolled over Camille and Bela.

A wave of water from Andy splashed across them a split second later, putting out every last ember.

Camille was up before John reached her, leathers and hair smoking, face and hands blistered, screaming as she dared anything else to come near Bela, who was still on the ground, struggling to get back to her feet. Whatever Bela had done to those assholes in the trees, it had cost her. John grabbed her arm, pulled her to her feet, then used her sword to skewer a shambling demon-wreck charging her from behind. He shot it before it evaporated into stinking dirt, just for good measure.

When he shot the next fucker before it could reach Camille, turning it to wind, he had a moment to realize the demon numbers were finally going down. The Sibyls and the OCU were gaining an advantage. Maybe.

Bela sagged in his grip, and he realized she’d lost consciousness. He lifted her over his shoulder, keeping his Glock arm free to fire. Camille took his left to guard Bela.

“Got your back,” Andy yelled, and a blast from her sidearm let him know she had stopped shooting darts and reverted to her old police standard. Good enough for these demon assholes. The creature she shot stumbled, then burst into a cloud of dirt.

The dust on the ball field started to settle.

John turned left, then right, searching. Sibyls had weapons at the ready. A lot of swords were on fire. OCU officers were staggering to their feet or searching for targets just like he was doing, but no more demons presented themselves to get Swiss-cheesed.

“I can’t believe it!” somebody yelled. “How the hell did we get Asmodai again?”

Andy joined Camille and put her arm around Camille’s shoulders.

It was then that John saw Camille’s wide-eyed, tight-jawed stare and the way she was gripping her still-raised scimitar and shaking. The red burn marks across her face and hands were already fading, and when Andy let out some of her water energy, they seemed to fade faster.

Camille’s expression didn’t change, though. She seemed stuck. Frozen. She wasn’t really here, at least not in mind or spirit, and he figured he knew what she was seeing in her mind, what she was thinking about: Bette, one of the women from her first fighting group.

She got killed by an Asmodai in Van Cortlandt, and there was nothing I could do to save her, either. Losing them nearly drove me crazy. Maybe it did. I still haven’t decided.…

The sight of her so undone made his heart ache. If he hadn’t been carrying Bela, he would have tried to talk her down, to hold her if she’d let him. He would have done something.

Stand down, soldier
.

The thought drifted through his mind, along with an image of Blackjack pulling a rifle out of his hot, locked-up hands.

Valley of the Gods.

Everybody had been dead but him, and it had been Blackjack who’d come for him, Blackjack who’d almost gotten his ass blown off by a freaked-out priest who hadn’t been able to save a single life but his own that day.

“Stand down,” he murmured, and Camille glanced at him like she was keying on the sound of his voice. “You’re not crazy, just wounded in the heart. It’ll get further away, even if it never gets better.”

Her gaze softened, then her focus grew sharp and she seemed to realize he was carrying Bela.

“Breathing’s regular, pulse is good, no blood.” John rattled off all he knew like he was talking to a medic in the field, and he was glad to see Camille’s features relax enough that he wasn’t worried about her tapping out again. “I think she just got floored by whatever she did with her earth power.”

“She tore the hell out of the demon handlers,” Dio said, jogging up with two other air Sibyls. John recognized Merilee Alexander Lowell from the North Manhattan bunch and Karin Maros from the East Ranger group. “Yanked the ground out from under their feet and sent them straight to hell, best we can tell, then covered it all back up again nice and neat. It was a big hole. A huge one, and way deep, but she kept it small enough that she didn’t disrupt anything major.”

John wasn’t totally sure, but that sounded hard to do—unleash a power that destructive but hold it to such a small, focused area.

“We found the ritual pattern for creating Asmodai burned into the ground in the woods,” Merilee said, “plus the elemental tools and a bunch of trash they must have been using to target the bastards.”

John shifted Bela’s weight on his shoulder as a nearby OCU officer asked. “What exactly were those things again?”

“Man-made demons,” Karin told him. “Asmodai. Check your reference manual. We’ve fought them before, back when the Sibyls were at war with a bunch of jerks who called themselves the Legion—same creatures who attacked at that brownstone a little while ago.”

“And it’s obvious all the secrets of demon making didn’t die with the Legion,” Andy said.

Merilee’s frown seemed intense. “Or maybe some of the secret-keepers stayed alive. I’m heading out. We’ve got OCU wounded to get back to the townhouse, and headquarters needs to know about this. Is Bela okay?”

“Yeah, she’ll be fine,” Andy said. “We just need to get her to bed, then feed her pretty good when she wakes up.”

“That was amazing, what she did.” Karin gave Bela a reverent look. “But dangerous. I’m not sure she should take risks like that with projective energy.”

Andy’s smile turned a lot less friendly. “You’d rather she left the bastards up and moving to make more Asmodai? Next time I’ll see what we can do.”

As Andy finished talking, thunder rumbled in the clear sky overhead, and John sensed unusual energy. Not malicious, just strong as hell.

Karin frowned, and the expression didn’t look right on her normally happy face.

John saw Merilee’s cautious glance, first at Dio and then at Bela. She seemed okay with Andy, but Camille got another guarded look, then both air Sibyls took off to do whatever they needed to do.

“Y’all are popular,” John said to Andy, who was steering Camille toward the brownstone.

“They can all fuck themselves,” Andy said, still using that overly sweet voice. “I’ll pay a porn producer to film it.”

“Shut up before you give me nightmares,” Dio muttered, stalking past them with energy literally crackling out of her elbows.

John remembered about Dio being able to make weather, about that being another Sibyl talent that no Sibyl really wanted to have, like this projective energy thing—but he hadn’t known it meant she could shoot lightning from her elbows.

That was … amazing.

“People are always jealous of power,” he said as Dio let it thunder two or three more times, probably just for the hell of it.

She sort of smiled at him when she finished, and so did Camille.

“Okay, troops,” Andy said. “Let’s move these tired asses home.”

(
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“Your Asmodai demons fought well,” Tarek told Griffen as they sat at the isolated park picnic table far from the ambush site, using the dark for cover. Tarek’s brown woolen suit and expensive full-length coat protected him from the worst of the cold, and it reinforced his human identity of Corst Brevin, though all his companions this night knew that persona to be a shell. The elementally treated tooth pendant around his neck had been reinforced, shielding his life signature from detection better than ever.

Seneca, seated beside Tarek, was dressed similarly, and he did not seem bothered by the fall chill, either. His dark hair remained slick atop his large head, and his breath issued in short, foggy bursts. Above them, stars glowed in a wide sky, making an impressive halo above distant buildings.

Griffen occupied the opposite bench at the table, and he wore only jeans and a dark sweatshirt. “Man-made demons are strong, as I told you they would be, and infinitely easier to direct and control than Created. Asmodai are suitable for mass attacks and diversions, and they work well as supplemental fighters. In the past, many groups have made the mistake of using them as primary foot soldiers. Definitely not smart enough or durable enough for that role.”

Griffen’s hood remained down and his sleeves were pushed up, revealing the odd twin-serpent tattoo that took up much of his left forearm, yet Griffen’s pale skin had no flush from the chill air. Tarek found that a bit strange now that he knew more about human bodies, but he assumed the sorcerer had divined ways to protect himself from the cold, much as his clever charms crafted from the teeth of the Created protected Tarek and his other true brother in New York City, Aarif, from detection by the Sibyls or other sensitives. Griffen’s half sister, Rebecca, much slighter than her brother, wore only a short-sleeved T-shirt with a rock concert slogan along with her jeans and tooth charm, but she frolicked in a nearby clearing, dancing to music only she could hear, as if the moonlight were truly the brightest, warmest sun.

“You lost good men in the demonstration tonight,” Seneca said to Griffen. “Three of your trained sorcerers. For that, I’m sorry.”

Griffen’s shrug came too quickly. “They were expendable.”

“I find that wasteful.” Tarek found himself unable to curtail the sharpness in his tone. “You should be more cautious with talented people. Valuable time will be lost while you find and train new men.”

Griffen shook his head. In the glow of city lights, stars, and the moon, his hair seemed more silver than blond. “Already in place. I started a second Coven at the same time I was rebuilding the first, and I’ve been training with them on quieter days. They continue to live in their previous homes, and they’re still going to work, so they won’t attract any attention. I can promote as many as I need, whenever I need them.”

Tarek gave a gesture of dismissal, too quick, he knew, just like Griffen’s shrug had been. Seneca would know that Tarek had had no idea about the under-Coven, not that a
culla
should be troubled with such menial workings—but still. He should have been aware, just like he should have had a better idea about the night’s events and how they might play out once the battle started. The Sibyl who wrecked their plan to ambush, wear down, and slaughter several fighting groups at once, she was one of the witches who resided in the brownstone. They had special abilities, those four, and Tarek knew he had to deal with them sooner rather than later.

Griffen’s winning smile was directed at Seneca this time. “Midlevel talent can always be replaced. Every game has to have its pawns, wouldn’t you agree?”

Seneca grunted, and Tarek appreciated the fact that the man refused to answer. One
culla
to another, they had come to understand each other, as much as two such different beings could.

Tarek centered himself and focused on his Brevin identity, on Corst Brevin’s gestures and tones, to keep himself calm and focused. “For our longer-range plans to be successful, Griffen, we must do more than harass and annoy the Sibyls. They must die, and in great number. We must set an example and find methods to share with our remaining true brothers in other locations.”

Griffen’s teeth flashed as he smiled yet again, though this grin had a wolfish, aggressive cast to it. “We’re working up to that. If we add a few Created to the mix next time along with some of Seneca’s men, and if we make sure our handlers can’t be harmed, we can destroy as many Sibyls and OCU officers as choose to join our battle.” Once more he shifted his gaze to Seneca, though with better deference this time, not making direct eye contact and keeping his tone respectful, if overly excited. “Even better, when we’re set to carry out consolidation of your empire’s power, teams of man-made demons and the Created could provide comprehensive initial assaults, not to mention distractions.”

“A pleasing prospect,” Seneca allowed, but only after he glanced at Tarek and received a nod.

“Not unless the Sibyls in the brownstone are neutralized first.” Tarek gestured across the park to the structure he despised so very deeply. “They have more skills than the rest of the elemental witches. Or, rather, different skills that seem to prove more difficult for us to contend with, especially when we don’t know the breadth and depth of those powers. Find out what they’re doing, Griffen. And get rid of them.”

Griffen’s expression remained placid but for the briefest flicker in his blue eyes. “As you wish,
culla
. I’ll make that my priority. I’ll bring up the new Coven members, and we’ll do some test battles with lesser groups, then go after the main targets within the month.”

Tarek nodded. Much better. “Prepare carefully. The more I observe these women, the more I fear we are lacking much information about their talents.”

Griffen slid from the bench seat, gave Tarek a halfhearted bow, then strode off toward a park exit. He motioned for his strange sibling to follow him, and she did so, still dancing lightly along like she could hear a sweet melody played only for her ears.

“He is eager,” Tarek said as he watched Griffen and his sister depart. “Sometimes overly so, but he is talented and his Coven is quite powerful when they work together.”

“His tattoo is of the old Legion cult that once tried to assume power across the world,” Seneca said, gesturing to his left forearm. “This my men have told me after much research. The dye used to make it seems to have some enchantment, the way it moves around his skin.”

Tarek nodded. “The tattoo is made of elementally treated metals—very rare, very difficult to create and control. Griffen did it himself, with the aid of his sibling.”

“So he has had intimate contact with the Legion in the past?” Seneca looked interested, but Tarek sensed the deception and knew the man was uncomfortable. “They began well enough, but in the end, they were crazed. Cult-like. They did not follow … sound business practices.”

“You’re right in that Griffen had contact with the Legion in the past, but as foe, not ally,” Tarek said to reassure his human partner. “His tattoo is more coincidence than a symbol of belonging. He saw it, admired it, and claimed it for his own. All of this information I took directly from his mind, so I know it to be truthful.”

Seneca shifted his bulk on the bench, and as he had been on their first meeting, Tarek was struck by the hollowness in his clothing, hinting at more weight loss, though the man could spare many pounds as yet.

“Could Griffen have some method of deceiving you about what’s in his mind and heart, my friend?”

Tarek was about to laugh and tell the old crime lord no, of course not, when his hand came to rest on the charm about his neck, the one that confused many with supernatural perception about his true origins. His denial died before he spoke it, and he let his human fingers drift back to a resting position on the table.

Seneca’s frown was visible even with the barest hints of starlight finding their table. “My men have also told me that your Griffen and his odd sister took on some Sibyls themselves recently, in a brownstone they had packed with these … these Asmodai creatures. They fared poorly in the attempt.”

Tarek maintained his even expression, but snarling broke out in his mind. The girl, Rebecca, had been insisting that Strada was not dead, or had returned from the dead, and was living with those most troublesome Sibyls. Tarek had seen the man in question, and the resemblance was stunning—but any fool could sense that Strada’s energy was nowhere present in that human shell. It was nothing but a Sibyl trick, to throw them off stride.

Had Rebecca set out to prove her point?

Or was Griffen making trial attacks without informing Tarek of his failures?

It took Tarek a few moments, but he tamed his temper enough to speak normally. “I have learned, Seneca, that nothing is impossible in this world, but I would say that if you fear Griffen is laboring for masters we do not know, it’s improbable. Griffen has something he wants from me, something perhaps only I or one of my true brothers can provide, and he works very hard to receive that reward.”

This seemed to give Seneca some comfort, but once more he shifted, indicating that he had yet another difficult question. “And you’re quite certain this man is human, that he is what he says he is?”

“Yes.” Tarek felt more confident in this response, though his ever-analyzing mind added,
Griffen’s unusual half sister may be another matter, now that I consider it
.

Seneca remained silent for a time, then his shoulders relaxed and he seemed more at ease. He turned his head to make eye contact with Tarek, something he rarely did because he respected Tarek. Seneca only resorted to facing off when he posed the most important of queries, so Tarek was inclined to listen very carefully when Seneca said, “I suppose the truth of Griffen is neither here nor there, as the real issue is this, Tarek—or should I say, to keep in the habit, Mr. Brevin. Whatever Griffen may prove to be, can you and your true brother Aarif control him?”

Tarek took his time in answering so that he did not seem too defensive, or worse yet, desperate or untruthful, however perilously close to reality those characterizations might be. “Without question.”

“I am old, and—as you have probably noted—I am sick.” Seneca once more turned to face the darkness and the trees of Central Park. “I have much to do to secure my business operations for my sons, and not much time to do it. Most of our plans ride on the aid of your Griffen and his mysterious and powerful Coven. I hope for both our sakes that you are correct about being able to control him, else we will both regret it in ways we can’t yet imagine.”

Tarek swallowed his surge of anger at Seneca’s boldness, because he had to admit the ailing man was correct in virtually every word he spoke. Because of that, he didn’t abandon his agreement with Seneca and kill him on the spot. Instead, he said his goodbyes, then made his own exit from Central Park without looking back to be certain Seneca departed unmolested. Seneca had his own private security, separate from that hired and trained by the corporation Tarek had established under his Corst Brevin identity—and Seneca’s armed forces were never far from him, even if they could not be readily discerned.

Tarek traveled in flame form tonight, moving with the fluid grace of fire. Burning across the New York City ground all the way back to his dwelling—it suited his mood. It also reduced his need for security forces like the one Seneca had developed.

If the Rakshasa were greater in number, or the Created could be more sustainable and stable, Tarek would use them to build his own impenetrable wall of weapons and power. But those were aims he could not achieve, not yet at least. Perhaps in the future, once the Sibyls had been defeated and the way cleared for the Rakshasa to move forward without competent opposition, such goals could be established and reached.

For now, Tarek had one goal outside of seeing to the destruction of the four Sibyls who resided in the brownstone, and that goal was surprising and new. He needed to speak to Aarif, and the two of them needed to establish contingency plans for managing Griffen and the Coven.

No ruler who loses sight of his most powerful subjects rules for long—that much Tarek had learned in the time before his imprisonment in the Valley of the Gods. His conversation with Seneca had been—how did humans say it? Ah, yes. A wake-up call.

Perhaps it was time to give Griffen a wake-up call of his own.