Captive Soul (8 page)

“The Rakshasa are back in New York City.” Andy stopped beside Bela and let the waves she’d brought with her crest against the wounded dumpster. “Fuck me. That’s all we need.”

Dio’s wind smashed directly into Camille’s face, pasting her lips to her teeth and pelting her with pebbles as it passed. By the time Camille’s eyes stopped tearing enough for her to see, Dio had stopped in front of her and had her finger right in Camille’s face.

“What the
hell
were you doing out here without us?” Dio’s gray eyes crackled with energy, and somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled. “I’m the broom of this quad, but you better not leave me sweeping up your body parts because you did something jackass stupid!”

Dio jerked her finger away, then let her arm fall to her side. Camille glanced from Dio to Bela to Andy, seeing their concern and their frustration with the chance she had taken. All of them, Camille included, had suffered terrible losses in their pasts, and what she’d done tonight—what she’d been doing for months—no doubt brought back fear, mistrust, and worry for everybody.

“I was tracking him,” Camille admitted. “Tracking Rakshasa.”

That sounded lame. She wanted to ram her head into the dumpster. Her quad had finally achieved something that passed as a fighting rhythm, and now she’d thrown them all off again. “I’m the one who let Strada go. It’s my responsibility to find him and kill him—and besides, I thought I needed the practice with my pyrosentience to be more useful to all of you. I’m sorry.”

Andy frowned, her pretty face so atypically serious that Camille couldn’t keep looking at her. “It’s a great thing, working on your pyrosentience,” Andy said, “but using projective elemental energy is dangerous all by itself, and you’ve been doing it all alone, then adding Rakshasa to the equation. I’m getting better at this whole water Sibyl healing thing I’m supposed to be able to do, but I can’t sew you back together if you melt yourself or let a cat-demon eat you for dinner.”

“I know—” Camille started, but Bela cut her off.

“When I chose you as the pestle for my quad, I knew you weren’t strong with pyrogenesis, and I didn’t care.” Bela’s tone stayed even, but Camille heard the fear-driven anger in each syllable and understood it. “Making fire on command, that’s not what’s important to me or any of us. If you take a risk like this again, we’re going to have problems.”

“I’m sorry,” Camille repeated, wishing she could find something better, or some promise that might make a difference. If that threat had come from Dio or even Andy, it would have stung Camille, but from Bela, the mortar of her quad, the woman who held them all together, it cut like a blade against her throat.

For a few moments nobody said anything.

Then Dio hissed out a breath and tapped the throwing knives sheathed on her belt. “Yeah, well, next time we come face-to-face with that ass-wipe demon, he’s going down.”

Andy grumbled something Camille didn’t quite get, but she caught the part about chopping Strada’s dick off before they moved on to hacking off his head.

Bela put out her hand. “Come on. We need to call the OCU about the Rakshasa, and get the word out to other Sibyls that the demons are active in the city again. Then we need to get home without waking Mrs. Knight next door and get some sleep. We’re back on patrol—
together
—in about fourteen hours.”

Camille took Bela’s hand, but as they started for home, she couldn’t help glancing down the dark side street where Strada had made his escape.

Or … it might have been John Cole
.

Don’t be stupid. Of course it was Strada, screwing with you to get more intel on the Sisterhood
.

Or something like that.

Maybe he wanted the Sibyls to kill Tarek so he could have his pride back without a fight. Really, Camille didn’t know what game the Rakshasa was playing, and she didn’t give a shit. She was through falling for his lies.

Flames broke out in her mind, even though no fire found its way to her skin and no smoke puffed from her shoulders in the dark, rainy night.

Like Dio said, the next time Camille crossed paths with that tiger bastard, the demon was going down.

(
 8 
)

October

Tarek sat beside Griffen in the opulent high-rise conference room, taking in the shades of mauve and taupe in the wallpaper and expensive accents and paintings. The oak chairs and long, rectangular conference table had been polished to a perfect shine along with the hardwood floor, leaving a faint scent of lemon in the air. Even the drapes, blinds, and windows had been rendered spotless.

Pity.

Much of it would have to be replaced when this meeting concluded.

Tarek realized that since the death of his beloved oldest brother, Strada, he had begun to abhor waste of any sort, even blinds and curtains that would be ruined, or hours spent cleaning a room that was about to be soiled so badly it would have to be stripped to studs and rebuilt to scrub away the filth.

He glanced down at the dark silk suit he had chosen to highlight his tanned skin and dark hair. Strada had always preferred silk. Tarek had thought his brother foolish for his choice of clothing—for wearing clothing at all and staying in human form so frequently.

Now that he was
culla
, he understood Strada’s reasoning.

With Strada gone, and with the damage done by the cursed John Cole and the Sibyls, the Eldest Rakshasa left in the world numbered only twenty-one. Tarek felt incredibly responsible for each of those lives. If he and his true brothers were to thrive in this modern landscape after a millennium of captivity in the Valley of the Gods, they had to find allies, strategies, and safety. They had to both blend in with and stand out among the humans teeming across the planet, and they had to learn how to better use humans to achieve Rakshasa goals of wealth and power … and survival. Remaining in human form helped Tarek understand his potential friends and enemies much better, and presenting himself in a handsome flesh-and-blood shell made negotiations much easier than showing up with fur, fangs, and claws.

Most of the time.

“Three minutes.” Griffen smoothed his short blond hair and adjusted his own brown suit—also silk, but low-grade, and not among his favorites. The sorcerer knew they would be sacrificing much of what they wore today, but the means would be worth the end. “Are you ready?”

“I am.” Tarek glanced at the clock over the conference room door, then noted that Griffen must have closed the room’s hall-side blinds before he arrived.

The conference room door opened, and their host, Ari Seneca, strode in reeking of confidence and spices. Modern aftershave. Tarek managed not to wrinkle his nose to close out the cloying scent. The big man, dark-haired despite the years obvious in the wrinkles at the corners of his oil-black eyes, had another underlying odor, one Tarek couldn’t identify, but he thought it might be the acidic tang of serious illness. He filed this fact for later consideration, then noted that the man’s black suit hung at the shoulders and chest, as if Seneca had recently shed weight and hadn’t yet had his clothing tailored to account for the difference.

Seneca left the door open and surveyed them, his eyes lingering on Tarek, as if surprised Griffen had only one associate in attendance. Tarek stood with Griffen and shook Seneca’s large hand, giving nothing away with his even, practiced expression and his new human name, Corst Brevin. It impressed Tarek that Seneca was willing to place himself at risk and come to this meeting alone, save for a newly hired set of allies. Ioannis Foucci, Seneca’s rival, likely would arrive armed and flanked by personal guards.

“I’m confident we can resolve this situation today,” Griffen was saying as Seneca seated himself at the head of the conference table.

“I am more concerned about the aftermath.” Seneca’s European accent was thick, and his dark eyebrows pulled together as he spoke.

Griffen’s smile seemed relaxed. “My associates are very talented, and you’ve given all the staff on this floor the afternoon off.”

Seneca leaned forward and propped one elbow on the polished table. “Foucci is no fool. He will have plenty of support. Contact times. Contingencies.”

“He’s out of his league.” Griffen’s smile stayed full even as his blue eyes took on a colder edge. Seneca made a rumbling noise deep in his throat. Not a challenge. More of a surrender.
You have no idea of the power you’ve purchased
, Tarek thought, studying the man who had hired them.
But you’re about to understand
.

From down the long hallway outside the conference room, Tarek heard the soft ring of an elevator bell.

Seneca got up from his chair, moved to the open door, then exited the conference room to allow three very large men with obvious firearm bulges under their gray suit jackets to enter. The men glanced around the room, then adopted smug expressions Tarek assumed to be related to their superior numbers. As they positioned themselves, Seneca greeted his opponent with widespread arms, a jovial smile, and much false camaraderie. Tarek glanced toward the hallway and saw his target, Foucci, familiar to him from photographs supplied by Griffen, pull back from Seneca’s embrace. A fifth bodyguard stood directly behind Foucci, this one smaller than the rest, but with more intelligent eyes. His gray jacket concealed two bulges, and Tarek saw a third at his right ankle.

Foucci had silver hair and a face lined and tanned from years of outdoor labor before he’d moved up the ranks of his crime clan. The older man was thin but fit, which made Tarek frown.

Stringy and tough. Not his favorite sort of meat.

He didn’t let this thought occupy much of his attention as Foucci, Seneca, and the fifth guard came into the room. Foucci sat while the fifth guard took a spot directly behind his chair. Seneca closed the conference room door, and by the time the heavy wood settled into place, Seneca’s expression had changed to something darker and less inviting. He came to sit on Griffen’s left, leaving Tarek with a direct line to Foucci if he stood and walked around the right side of the conference table.

Tarek gave Foucci a polite smile.

Seneca’s voice was rough and low when he spoke, gesturing to the room full of armed men arrayed around Foucci. “I’m disappointed in this show of force, my friend.”

“We are not friends.” Foucci’s thin lips pursed between statements, like he was smelling something unpleasant. “And I have no intention of surrendering any territory east of the Hudson.”

Tarek assessed Foucci, from the pace of his heart to the scent of the sweat breaking out beneath his high white collar. Nervous but determined. Definitely dangerous, as humans went. Seneca was wise not to tangle long with this one. He might have proved a menace.

Seneca waved a hand toward the covered windows, to indicate the city spreading out beneath them. “All the territory in Manhattan was mine before your arrival. I still consider it so.”

Foucci’s pulse grew louder and faster, and strips of color crept into his thin, pocked cheeks. “And you back your claim with what, fancy buildings?” His dramatic sweep of the arm indicated Tarek and Griffen. “Crooked lawyers or foolish underlings?”

“Do you believe in magic?” Seneca smiled at his fractious guest. “I speak of witches and ghosts—and let’s not forget vampires, as those legends are so uniquely our own.”

The question seemed to give Foucci momentary pause, and Tarek felt the shifting of elemental energy in the room as Griffen began to tamper with the weapons carried by Foucci’s guards. Griffen drew off the power rising from the Coven’s rituals in the basement and channeled it through himself, his fingers occasionally jittering against the table’s surface as he targeted key parts of the firearms. Ammunition. The trigger mechanisms. Chambers.

Seneca continued with his assigned task, keeping Foucci engaged until Griffen had had time to complete his work. “It’s not such a hard question, really. I’ve come to believe in a great many things since my arrival in New York City. Witches have particularly captured my interests. Perhaps I should call them sorcerers, since that’s the term some prefer when they dabble in the darker arts.”

Foucci’s guards exchanged glances. One made a strange gesture involving his finger and his temple, and Tarek assumed they were casting aspersions on Seneca’s sanity. Foucci himself could only sputter for a few moments, but at last his voice caught like a gruff engine and roared loud in the otherwise still room. “I haven’t come here to talk madness and fantasy, you bastard! Either acknowledge my rights to the territory we dispute, or fight me for it. My clan is prepared for whatever you bring to us.”

Seneca let his guest double his fists and pound them against the oak table once, then again, before answering with a clipped “I doubt that.”

Foucci shoved away from the table and stood, shaking, though Tarek couldn’t tell if it was from rage or frustrated confusion. “This was a waste of time.”

“Sit down,” Seneca said, his voice growing more deadly with each word.

Foucci remained on his feet, glaring at Seneca, ignoring Griffen and Tarek completely. “Witches. Sorcerers. If I had known you were mad, I wouldn’t have bothered with this formality.”

His guards tensed, and Tarek saw their hands slip toward the weapons Griffen was adjusting.

“I’ll ask you once more: sit down,” Seneca said, his tone positively icy now, his black eyes blazing a warning any fool would have recognized as lethal.

Griffen pressed his palms flat on the table, a prearranged message to Seneca that they had nothing left to fear from the conventional weaponry possessed by their opponents. “We are leaving.” Foucci gestured to his guards, but before he could step away from the table, Seneca got to his feet and transformed his face into a false mask of sorrow.

“Poor choice, my friend.”

“I told you, I am not—” Foucci began, but broke off, staring at Tarek.

Tarek smiled at him and let his fangs show, along with the paws and claws he had revealed only moments before. The fabric of his suit began to rip at the seams since it was actual clothing instead of aspects of his own body he had transformed into clothing-like layers.

Seneca was too focused on his opponents to look at Tarek, which was a good thing. Tarek had no doubt the man would have reacted, given that Griffen hadn’t shared this aspect of their plan.

“Holy shit,” the guard behind Foucci muttered, ripping a Colt out of one of his chest holsters as his four companions drew a variety of automatic pistols. He pointed the weapon at Tarek and squeezed the trigger.

The weapon didn’t so much as give a click, its firing mechanism welded into place by Griffen’s targeted heat.

The guard glanced down at the weapon and cursed as his associates opened fire—or tried to.

Two of the guns backfired due to strategically plugged chambers, killing their shooters instantly. The stench of gunpowder and burned flesh rushed through the room, but the fire alarms had been disabled, and Seneca had already cautioned other workers in the building that there might be some minor bangs and loud noises as they addressed plumbing and electrical problems on the upper floor.

The other two weapons didn’t fire, but Seneca had removed two small knives from his pockets. Before the other two shooters could understand what had happened, they struck the conference room floor with blades buried in their skulls, directly between their eyes.

Foucci’s last standing guard, the smart one, had tried all of his useless pistols by then. He pitched the last one at Tarek, grabbed his charge, and thrust the old man behind him.

Tarek, fully in tiger form now, approached the two men in an unhurried fashion.

“Holy God,” somebody muttered, and Tarek realized it was Seneca, moving farther back, toward Griffen, as the man finally grasped the totality of the force he had brought to bear. Griffen was using his pocket telephone—cell phone, yes, that was the term—to summon his half sister Rebecca, the Coven, and the Created from the basement. They would come by way of the stairs, to avoid distressing workers on the floors below.

Foucci lapsed into the language of his birth, using old words that Tarek recognized.

Albanian. Yes. He knew this speech.

“Djall,”
the man growled in his native tongue, his dark eyes wild as he pressed himself against the conference room wall, using his guard as a shield. A painting crashed to the floor beside them.

“Djall,”
Foucci said again, then in accented English, “Devil!”

“Dreqi,”
Tarek corrected, preferring the Latin-influenced alternative, which formed the root for the Romanian name Dracul and conjured up all sorts of terrifying, bloody legends. “And thank you for the compliment,” he added in flawless English before he threw the guard across the conference table, seized hold of Foucci, and tore the man’s silver-haired head off his shoulders.

Blood frenzy seized Tarek as the delicious liquid filled the air, the room, his senses, his mind, his consciousness. He ate with abandon, not caring what he tore or ripped or destroyed. When he finished, the Created would feed from the carcass, and the Coven would clean away all trace of the kill, burning the room down to basics, then painting it anew. Seneca would have to deal with obtaining new carpeting, drapes, and furniture at his leisure, but Tarek assumed a Balkan crime lord could handle such minor details with ease.

He was only partly aware of Seneca’s continued expressions of shock and Griffen’s calm, soothing voice.

“You asked for a thorough job,” Griffen was telling Seneca as Tarek swallowed the last bit of stringy meat he chose to endure. “And I told you—my associates are more than capable of any task.”

“What is he?” Seneca asked, gripping Griffen’s shoulder as Griffen dragged the last living guard off the floor by his collar.

Griffen didn’t answer that question, keeping his attention on the guard. The semi-conscious man groaned as Griffen slammed him down on the conference table.

Tarek shifted back to human form, brushing off the rags of his soiled, torn clothing and altering some of his outer essence to resemble the dark suit he had just destroyed. Following Griffen’s lead, he didn’t speak to relieve Seneca’s anxiety and doubt, but instead allowed Griffen to finish the last bit of their plan.