Captive Spirit (26 page)

Duncan yelled as an electric shock tore from his neck to his heels. He twitched and jumped from the current, but he grabbed the hand holding the coin, locked his grip on the wrist, and forced the hand backward until the coin dropped free.

A yelp of pain turned into a wail as Duncan kept bending the wrist.

A very human-sounding wail.

With a big heave, Duncan jerked a man out of his hiding place behind the blue metal trash bin to Duncan’s right, then grabbed him by the fabric of his black hooded sweatshirt.

The hood came away to reveal a fairly normal-looking guy with short blond hair and blue eyes. No special or unusual marks, nothing that stood out. This guy could get lost in an airport in a big hurry, and nobody would notice him unless he pulled an Uzi and started shooting.

Blondie struggled but couldn’t get himself loose. When he tried to kick Duncan, Duncan slammed him against the edge of the dumpster hard enough to crack all the bastard’s teeth.

“What’s your name?” Duncan’s question came out in a growl, and the coin around his neck gave a sharp, long, painful buzz. The metal burned into his chest, and John’s thoughts blasted forward to join with Duncan’s. Duncan’s awareness expanded until colors and sounds and smells seemed twice as strong. Then three or four times what they should be.

The air in the alley got colder.

Duncan held on to Blondie, but his attention shifted to the far end of the alley. Nothing visible to his eyes—but he could smell it.

Ammonia. Ammonia and blood.

He turned back to his captive. “Wanna bring your furry buddy over here and have a party?”

Blondie wheezed from the blow against the dumpster, but he choked out, “I—I’ve got a message. From my
culla
. From Strada.”

Duncan shot a look at the Rakshasa blocking one of the alley exits. The creature had dark fur. Not the demon leader Strada, according to John’s memories, but one of his brothers.

The sealed wounds along Duncan’s neck, chest, and shoulder started a low, slow ache, as if in response to the Rakshasa’s presence.

Recognition curled in Duncan’s gut.

That’s the demon who infected me
.

With every fiber of his being, he wanted to crack Blondie over the head, storm down the alley, and kill the demon. Only John’s desperate, wordless pleas held him back. Strength and will were one thing, but suicide—it wasn’t time for that yet, and the Mothers and Dio weren’t here to clean up the changing-into-a-demon mess.

Blondie must have taken his silence for waiting, so he spit out his message. “You’re already infected, and no matter what help you’re given, you
will
die. Strada thinks you’re strong, that you’ve got a lot of potential. Join us. Come with me now, and we’ll let the Sibyls live.” Blondie’s cold blue eyes narrowed. “We’ll let Bela Argos live.”

Duncan smashed the bastard against the dumpster two more times, feeding his rage at the Rakshasa into each blow and denting the metal. “What do you know about Bela and the Dark Crescent Sisterhood?”

Blondie’s eyes were shut, and his face had twisted into a grimace. His answer came out in a whisper.

“Everything.”

Duncan drew back his fist to splatter the asshole’s nose all over his knuckles, but the Rakshasa at the end of the alley let out a howl that made his neck and back go stiff.

Two bass, bellowing roars answered the tiger-demon.

Blondie raised his shaking hands, and something hit Duncan in the face.

The night went dark.

Stinking, crawling things wriggled across Duncan’s skin.

Energy
, John said.
Bad energy
.

Duncan couldn’t help pawing it off his skin with both hands, and the rodent in the black sweatshirt took off like Old Scratch was right on his ass.

The Rakshasa at the end of the alley had all he could handle, too, busting tail to lope away from two giant golden … somethings.

“Shit.” Duncan finished scrubbing invisible bugs off his face, then weighed running away faster than the demon against using the dumpster lid to fight. “Why’d you leave my Glock at home, John?”

The golden monsters charged him, and Duncan ripped the dumpster lid free. Adrenaline supercharged his shout as he raised the square piece of metal, intending to clock the biggest monster upside its big golden ear.

Right about that time, the monster shifted into Nick Lowell. He had a golden chain around his neck, and his badge, but he didn’t have a shirt on. The other monster turned into Creed Lowell, but at least he was dressed.

Duncan thought his brain might be melting, but John’s perceptions and his matched up. Definitely Creed and Nick. Duncan kept his dumpster lid ready anyway. He’d seen Rakshasa shape-shift before, in DUMBO, but they’d only held the shapes of his friends for a few seconds.

Nick and Creed slowed, then stopped in front of him, and stayed Nick and Creed.

Then Creed looked at Nick and laughed.

Nick smacked his palms against his bare chest and groaned as he made eye contact with Duncan. “Blow it out your ass, Creed. At least I got my pants this time.” He jerked a thumb toward Creed. “Pretty boy here thinks he’s superior because he can shift without cooking his clothes. I’m still, ah, working on that trick.”

“I see that.” Duncan lowered his metal lid as his pulse fell back to some semblance of normal.

“Riana and Cynda picked up a massive elemental surge over here.” Creed glanced toward the mouth of the alley in time to wave at three women in battle leathers and a tall guy in jeans. With big white wings. Who was flying. “You okay, Sharp?”

“I’m not okay.” Duncan stared at the flying man. “But I’m not injured.”

Nick followed Duncan’s gaze as he pulled a T-shirt out of his back pocket and yanked it over his head. “That’s our brother Jake. He’s an Astaroth, but he’s invisible to most humans in his demon form. He’s harmless unless you piss him off. What the hell are you doing way over here?”

“Too much to explain.”
While I’m staring at a flying man-demon thing with big white wings
.

Duncan shut his eyes for a second, trying to stop the subtitles he could see in his mind. He wasn’t even sure John was doing that. It was probably him, because he’d had enough of weird shit tonight.

“I need to get back to the brownstone.” Duncan opened his eyes and tried to look calm and normal. “Can one of you ride shotgun?”
Because the idiot ghost in my head got me dressed and dragged me out without my Glock
.

“You go with him,” Creed told Nick. “I’ll stay with Jake and the triad. Meet us over by the Reservoir?”

“Done.” Nick pointed to the near exit of the alley as Creed ran back to join the Sibyls … and Jake the flying demon. “This way’s fastest. It’ll take us right down the west wall beside Central Park.”

“Sounds good,” Duncan said.
As long as there aren’t faeries or some shit waiting in the trees
.

They left the alley, walking at a good clip.

To settle his thoughts as John retreated to the back of his consciousness, Duncan asked, “So, how’s Blackjack doing with his bum knee and eye?”

“He’s, ah, over at Presbyterian, in the burn center—but they’re letting him go tomorrow.” Nick sounded casual, like that kind of shit happened all the time at Headcase Quarters. “Mother Anemone thinks she can fix the scars.”

Duncan gave this new development some thought, then asked, “Mother Keara or your wife?”

Nick sighed. “My daughter. But Mother Keara put her up to it.”

A block or so later, Duncan had to laugh. “I’ll bet Blackjack thought he knew everything about the supernatural until he met the Sibyls.”

“His learning curve with the Dark Crescent Sisterhood has been pretty steep.” Nick took the lead as they crossed to the Central Park wall—and Duncan actually felt a twinge of relief when he didn’t catch a hint of any faeries. “He’d better get a clue before he loses something the Mothers can’t reattach.”

Another few blocks went by before Nick said, “I’m surprised Bela and her bunch let you out unsupervised, Duncan.”

It was Duncan’s turn to sigh. “They didn’t.”

“Oh.” Nick gave Duncan the “You poor bastard” look as they turned onto Sixty-fifth. “That’s too bad, Sharp. Your learning curve’s gonna be steep, too.”

(26)

When Bela saw Duncan coming up the block with Nick, she almost gave in to the shuddering wash of relief and sat right down on the brownstone’s front steps. If Mrs. Knight hadn’t been in her face, she might have run to him and kissed him. Then punched him right in the face for letting her wake up without him and panic that something terrible had happened.

“The explosions just have to stop—and the smells. It’s terrible.” Mrs. Knight ignored the rest of the quad and glared at Bela like she was the one repeatedly detonating beakers in the basement lab, which Mrs. Knight didn’t even know about. At least Bela hoped she didn’t.

Mrs. Knight’s red silk jogging suit made her face look darker in the yellow lights from their porches and the streetlamps. “In Charleston, I never had to deal with this level of disturbance from my neighbors. What are you trying to do, anyway? Fumigate the block?”

“We
have
seen a few cockroaches,” Camille said weakly, then noticed Duncan and Nick approaching, and brightened a bit.

Andy and Dio saw them, too, and Andy let off a few rivulets of water as she glared in Duncan’s general direction.

Mrs. Knight eyed Duncan and then Nick as they walked up to Bela. “What, no leather pants? You boys can’t be going to the same costume party.”

Duncan glanced down at his jeans, and Nick touched his T-shirt, like he was trying to be sure the fabric was still there.

Mrs. Knight rolled her eyes and stalked off to her own brownstone, grousing about inconsiderate dolts and what the police would make of those leather jumpsuits and realistic-looking costume swords. Under different circumstances, Bela thought she might like the old witch, if she’d just quit slowing them down when they were trying to get out on patrol.

“That woman’s feisty,” Nick muttered. “I’d quit pissing her off if I were you. She reminds me of the Mothers.”

Bela barely heard Nick, or the greetings he exchanged with Andy, Dio, and Camille before he took off, jogging toward the Reservoir. She grabbed Duncan’s hand and led him into the shadows beside some stairs to give them a little cover, then let go of his wrist and faced him, her pulse starting to rise—and not from pleasant sensations. For once, his handsome face and gripping eyes didn’t work their magic, and she still wanted to hit him.

He stood a few inches away from her, deadly handsome in his jeans and Army T-shirt, and she imagined she could feel the heat rippling off his muscled arms. Whatever he’d been up to, he didn’t seem to be hurt, or—

Or what? Closer to turning into a demon?

Bela’s anger flagged. Her quad drew closer, like they could sense the roil of emotion in her belly.

You know it won’t be like that. The Mothers said he’ll be fine, then when the time comes, he’ll go quickly. No lingering, terrible suffering. Their wards will see to that
.

But what if she wasn’t with him when the moment did arrive? She wouldn’t get to say goodbye, or hold him or kiss him one more time.

Tears tried to push toward her eyes. “Where the hell did you go?” The question came out with force, but her voice shook. “And what the hell were you thinking? We’re supposed to keep a Sibyl with you at all times.”

“Sorry, Angel.” His gaze fixed on hers, melting her even more. “It wasn’t exactly my call.”

She punched him in the shoulder, but not hard. “What does that mean?”

“I’ll explain all that later.” He got hold of both of her hands before she could hit him again and pressed them to his chest. Then he glanced at Camille, Dio, and Andy. “The important part is, I ran into a Rakshasa and his human helper. Sidekick. Minion. Whatever the hell you want to call him. Blond hair, blue eyes, about shoulder height on me, wearing jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt. They ambushed me in an alley.”

Bela’s fingers fanned across Duncan’s green T-shirt as her heart gave a big skip. “Black sweatshirt with a hood?”

“Shit.” Andy’s steady drip picked up speed, making dozens of dark circles on the sidewalk. “Like the bastards who tried to pervert the healing.”

“Has to be.” Camille put her hand on her sword hilt. “
Damnit
. I’m not ready yet.”

Dio’s wind had kicked up to a fair breeze, and she was scanning the wall along Central Park. “Which alley? If we start there, maybe we can finally track the assholes. The trail will be fresh.”

Duncan let go of Bela and grabbed the chain around his neck like it could help him remember the exact spot. “Fifty-seventh and Madison, or real close to that. The bastard jumped me at the end of the alley. Popped out from behind a blue dumpster and grabbed my dinar—shocked me like a live wire, but I got hold of him and bashed the bin with his head a few times. We should be able to find that dented dumpster.”

Bela still had her hands on Duncan’s chest. She let herself stare at him a few more seconds, then pulled herself together to gear up for the run to Fifty-seventh and Madison. Dio had her hand on her knives, turning south with Andy, when Camille shouted, “Wait!”

The powerful sound shocked Bela, never mind the single tendril of smoke that lifted off Camille’s left shoulder.

Camille grabbed Duncan’s arm before he could leave the alcove. “The man in the alley, did he touch the coin? Actually put his hand on it?”

“Yeah.” Duncan lifted the chain and dinar toward her. “Think you can do something with that?”

Camille hesitated, then took the coin in her fingers, jerking and clenching her teeth against the jolt of that first contact, while she worked out how to interact with it. Duncan stayed still, grimacing, but Bela shuddered from the ripple in her earth energy, and both Dio and Andy reacted with frowns.

The three of them moved in enough to block public view of the area next to the stairs as targeted streams of fire, each little orange lasers, flickered from the tips of Camille’s fingers as she handled the worn dinar. Her blue-green eyes focused on it so intently Bela half expected the gold to heat up and flow across Camille’s palms. Her expression moved from excited and curious to distant, and finally she smiled.

If Bela hadn’t known Camille, she might have backed away from that expression. It reminded her of Mother Yana’s ancient wolf, right before she sank her teeth into some smart-ass adept.

“Come here, all of you.” Camille’s voice didn’t have the mingled demon tones of John Cole enhancing it, but her instruction carried the pop and hiss of fire behind it, as sure and terrifying as Mother Keara when she was being fierce.

Fire was … speaking through her. Projection. The reverse of the usual energy exchange Sibyls used to fight and manage their powers.

Dio and Andy didn’t budge an inch.

Bela couldn’t say she blamed them, but she sucked it up and stepped closer to Camille, careful to keep a firm shield of earth energy between her and the dinar—and the fire Sibyl. When she got close enough, she used her own enhanced perceptions to study the coin as it shimmered in the dancing light of Camille’s grasp.

“Use your earth energy to touch my fire, like we did the night of the healing.” Camille’s eerie, flaming tone and the smoke now pouring off her shoulders were enough to make Bela’s heart race. “You can’t help me follow the trace if you don’t sense it, too.”

Bela slowed her own breathing and tried to keep her tone neutral. “If our sentient energy gets away from us, it could do even more damage than kinetic energy. You saw that with what happened in the alley outside the townhouse. The Mothers haven’t given us the go-ahead to try that again, and I agreed that we wouldn’t.”

Camille, or the fire inside her, snarled.

A line of fire broke across Duncan’s left arm.

Bela used her earth energy to snuff the flames before he even got through wincing. Somehow, he managed not to move, which was probably a good thing, given Camille’s sudden possession by her element.

“Since when do you give a shit about permission, Bela?” Camille’s voice got louder, with an echo like distant explosions. “Do it. I can control us both if I have to.”

Duncan gave Bela a look like,
I’m okay with it if you are
, even though it was his neck on the line. Literally. If Camille blew apart or lost her awareness, he’d get torched first.

“You’re asking me to trust you with my life, Camille.” Bela heard herself talking, even though she felt pretty sure Camille and Camille’s fire wouldn’t listen. “And Duncan’s, and Dio’s and Andy’s, too. You’re asking me to trust you with the safety of New York City.”

“Yes, I am.” This time Camille spoke more quietly, like she might be trying to prove she could regulate the deadly energy flowing through her, magnified by her own determination and emotions.

Damnit, fire could be tricky.

Either she did this or she’d lose Camille forever. Maybe not to fire, here, tonight, but later, when Camille couldn’t get past Bela’s lack of faith in her.

Can’t hide, sinner
.

Duncan’s line, John’s line, the words from an old song Bela had never heard before, from a place she had never even visited, rang through her thoughts.

She thought she grasped another layer of the meaning.

This was one of those times when Bela couldn’t back away from the choices she had made. She had taken herself to Ireland and chosen Camille over the objections of the Russian Mothers and Mother Keara’s warnings. She had nurtured Camille, encouraged her to find herself again—and now here she was.

Camille was ready to fight like a fire Sibyl, and wielding a power that might turn out to be greater than anyone knew what do with.

All Bela had to do was trust her.

With everything.

Bela gathered her earth power until she couldn’t hold another ounce. If she was going to do this, she’d try to be sure she was the only one who paid a price if it went wrong. She wouldn’t let herself look at Duncan as she joined Camille in front of him and tried to focus on the coin.

Her earth energy rumbled in her mind and heart, shifting again, making new little earthquakes in her awareness. She tried to recall the exact flavor and smell and feel of making herself into an elementally charged equivalent of a projective mirror, but she couldn’t quite grab the memory of it.

Instead, she started with sampling the coin, letting her earthy awareness slide forward through Camille’s fire. Touching the dinar with her elemental power didn’t create one of those gut-shocking ripples she had felt when Camille took hold of the coin, so Bela extended her hand and rested two fingers on its hot golden edge.

Perverted energy slammed against her senses.

Her head snapped back.

Mistake!

But no. No, it wasn’t.

She kept her shaking fingers right where they were and made herself breathe through the dark, terrible sensations. The toxic energy—she was reacting to traces of it. Bits of leftover force magnified by Camille’s pyrosentience. Bela fed earth energy into Camille’s perceptions, and let Camille’s power feed her own. She used some of the swell to shield Duncan, but the rest she focused on the dinar.

The traces grew even more obvious, taking on a poisonous dark green color. She thought she could smell them, too. Putrid, like eggs turned black with rot, or meat with mold. It would have made her queasy if Camille’s energy hadn’t steadied her. Bela had no doubt she would notice where energy like this—and this
specific
energy—had touched earth.

A breeze lifted Bela’s hair as Dio joined them. To Bela’s wildly enhanced perceptions, she looked like she belonged on Mount Olympus, her blond hair giving off a stark golden light, and her skin turning pale white-olive, like alabaster.

“One for all, all for one,” she muttered, the power of air hissing through each word, and Dio touched the coin, too.

Bela roared with the influx of power.

The groaning of the earth ran through her again as thunder and lightning echoed over Central Park. She remembered—yes, yes, this was it, this was how they had done it before at the townhouse. They needed water now, and that would make their elemental sentience stronger than ever.

But Andy held back.

Andy, of all people.

Bela waited as Dio acclimated herself, then seemed to get the pattern of the perverted energy enough to track it through the air.

Andy never joined them.

When Bela let herself acknowledge that Andy wasn’t going to participate, she said, “Release together, on my mark.”

Dio and Camille nodded.

“Mortar,” Bela said. “Pestle.”

On “Broom” they let go, and the dinar bounced back to Duncan’s chest.

He covered the coin with his palm. “Damn, Angel. That was intense.”

Bela touched his fingers, then turned with Dio and Camille to see about Andy, who was still standing right where Bela had left her.

Dio stalked over to the end of the stair railing where Andy waited, wind whistling across the street until the trees in the park started swaying. “What was that about?” Dio got right in Andy’s face. “You’re a Sibyl and in our quad—but you’re following rules because you’re a Mother, too?”

“Back off,” Andy told her, but she didn’t drip or wash Dio into the gutter, as Bela expected. Dio seemed surprised by this, too, and she instantly stopped blowing stuff over in Central Park.

Camille’s approach to Andy was gentler. “We can track this energy without you, Andy, but we’d be stronger if we had your input.”

“Or dead.” Andy looked at Bela instead of Dio or Camille. “You three have been at this since you were babies. I just started learning a few years ago. There’s no way I could challenge my water power like that. I’d kill us all.”

Dio pursed her lips and looked guilty.

Camille seemed to understand with no issue, but Bela immediately wanted to kick herself. Andy had gotten so smooth with using her water energy that Bela tended to forget what a short time Andy had been a Sibyl. She was the only member of the Dark Crescent Sisterhood not born to her element and trained since childhood, save for the handful of women who had shown up at Motherhouse Kérkira once Andy’s talent had manifested.

“I’m sorry.” Bela put her hands on Andy’s elbows, relieved to feel the dampness on her leathers. “Sometimes I don’t do so well, keeping up with three other Sibyls instead of just two. I’ll keep working on it, I promise. And I will get better.”