by Anna Windsor
What kind of library did Dio have upstairs, anyway? There were a few rooms, but enough for that much paper and digital storage?
Bela massaged his forearm and answered his question like he’d asked it out loud. “Air Sibyls do a little better with elementally shielded computers than most of us, and Motherhouse Greece keeps searchable archives of newspapers and television news reports in a database that we can access.”
Duncan took Bela’s hand in his and gave her knuckles a quick kiss. “Which newspapers and news shows?”
“All of them, I think.” Bela yawned.
Duncan knew that Sibyl science and equipment outstripped standard human technology, but now he realized it was way more than that. The Dark Crescent Sisterhood had ways of tracking history and information he barely could fathom.
From the couch came a loud “Ouch!” from Camille, followed by a burst of flames and the scent of scorched hair—and a big splash of water.
“Now you fire up and cook something?” Andy pulled a sprinkler head loose and let it shower Camille for her while she patted a cooked section of her red curls. “My hair?”
“Sorry,” Camille muttered as she and the couch dripped.
“Come on, Angel.” Duncan read Bela’s exasperation in the tight lines around her eyes, and he wrapped his arm around her waist. “Let’s get you to bed before you fall asleep on your feet.”
She leaned into his hug, then let him lead her toward the kitchen as Andy and Camille argued about whether the ointment Andy had put on Camille’s cheek smelled like dirty diapers.
“Just you make sure you let her sleep, Sharp,” Andy barked from the couch.
The swinging door closed behind them.
“Or not!” Camille yelled as they headed through the kitchen and down the basement stairs.
When they got to the bedroom, which Duncan now called “the locker room” to make her smack him in the shoulder, Duncan helped Bela out of her jeans and tunic. Her languid movements and closed eyes reminded Duncan of an impressionistic dancer, and he had to keep glancing at the Knicks posters to cool off while he rubbed her shoulders and kissed her head, then pulled back the sheet and blanket for her.
I can do this.…
A few seconds later, when he climbed into bed naked and eased over beside her, his resolve to let her rest nearly fell completely apart.
I … can … do … this.…
She reached out to him and hugged his neck as he tucked her in beside him, making sure the sheet covered her shoulder. “It feels good, just lying here with you, Duncan.”
IcandothisifyougotosleepNOW.…
He pressed his lips against the top of her head. “Rest, before I prove I’m not a gentleman.”
Bela’s soft laugh made his skin tingle. A few moments later, though, her breathing became rhythmic and soft. He kissed her again, closed his own eyes, and—
* * *
And he was standing on the ugly carpet in the hallway outside Reese Patterson’s office door.
“What the hell?”
Duncan grabbed his legs to be sure he was dressed, and he found himself in jeans and one of his Army T-shirts, the same clothes he had worn the day before. He had left them draped over the baseball bats in the chair beside Bela’s bed.
Now he was wearing them. No Glock. No badge. But he had his watch, which told him it was a quarter to eight, about an hour and a half before Bela and her girls would hit the streets and park on patrol—and he was supposed to be with them.
But he didn’t remember putting the clothes or the watch on, much less catching a cab or wandering all the way to East Harlem.
“I don’t sleepwalk,” he said out loud.
John Cole’s voice was cold and flat when he answered. You didn’t. I brought us here.
Duncan twitched at the sound, then clenched his fists at what John said. “What the hell does that mean?”
I waited for you to fall asleep, then took over.
“Took over?” Duncan’s blood boiled huge and fast like water on a gas stove. “You miserable, chickenshit little fuck. If I could get you out of my head, I’d beat the living shit out of you.”
He turned to head back to the brownstone, but he stumbled. Almost fell. His feet felt clumsy, like they weren’t even his. He had to prop his hand on the wall to keep from busting his ass.
John.
“Asshole,” Duncan snarled.
Before he could bash his head against the old paint on the building’s wall, Patterson opened his door. He eyed Duncan like people eye drunks staggering by on the sidewalk. “Um, good. You’re here. Kinda freaked me out when you called—you didn’t sound like yourself.”
Duncan let go of the wall and tested his balance, which seemed fair enough at the moment. John seemed to have taken a powder, which was a good thing, because Duncan was close to beating in his own brains to get rid of the bastard.
“I wasn’t myself, Mr. Patterson.” He tried taking a step. Made it, no problem. That was a relief. “It’s a long story.”
“Well, come in and let’s get this done.” Patterson stepped aside for Duncan to enter. “And Detective, this is on me, for Katrina.”
“I can pay you,” Duncan grumbled as he edged past Patterson into the reception room. He had plenty of money from what he’d banked during the Gulf War and accounts he inherited from his parents and other relatives. Since starting with the NYPD, he’d lived in a small apartment in an old building and spent very little. Most of the time he just worked.
“Appreciate it.” Patterson led the way to his main office, then went around his desk and lifted a stack of papers. “But no, this is gratis. I owe her that, and lots more.”
He handed the papers to Duncan, who was trying his best not to act too surprised or confused, since Patterson had no idea a ghost had brought Duncan to his door without one clue why.
The papers were thick stock, official-looking, with stamps and seals. It took him just a minute of reading to realize what was happening. “Shit. This is the will. John’s will.”
Patterson seemed to take his irritation as shock or leftover grief, and he gave Duncan a somber nod. “I picked it up from Bestro and Perman today. Gwen Perman owed me a favor—but I promised them I’d have you sign everything, to make it official and get it off her to-do list.”
Duncan was thumbing through all the legalese, barely paying attention, and then he got to sections about assets.
His chest tightened right up, staring at all those numbers, and he looked up at Patterson. “No. I don’t want this. I don’t want any of it.”
Patterson’s big mouth pulled into a frown, and he jabbed one thick pointer finger at the paper on top. “Son, that’s four million dollars, and it doesn’t even count the other assets. Full control of the Societal Aid Fund—it’s a lot. Even if you dump the cash, you’re still talking millions.”
Duncan couldn’t speak. He was somewhere between furious and freaked, and John, the stupid bastard, was keeping way quiet.
“Four million dollars changes lives.” Patterson raised both arms and swept them around to indicate the entirety of his office. “I was a backstreet ambulance chaser who got lucky with the Drakes, and to tell you the truth, before I met Katrina, that’s all I wanted to be. But special women can change people, you know?”
Duncan had to clear his throat to keep his composure. “Oh, yeah. I’m clear on that one.”
“Katrina changed me forever.” Patterson’s expression turned sad. “I owe her everything I am, and that’s why I rode you at the interrogation, to come here and see this will. Once I realized you were John Cole’s heir—it’s about Katrina, you see? It’s about her legacy. She passed the baton to John, and he passed it to you. Somebody’s got to carry on her good work. I’ll do whatever it takes to help you do that, Mr. Sharp.”
This was more than Duncan could take. Completely. Four million dollars, a house, a charity organization. What the hell would he do with all that shit?
Leave it to Bela, John sai
d. The house, and the Societal Aid Fund. The money goes to Sister Marianne at Mercy for the Homeless.
Duncan stayed still, even though he wanted to start yelling at John.
Leave it to Bela? What the—
But wait a minute.
In a few weeks, he wouldn’t be here. And the Dark Crescent Sisterhood probably had plenty of need for houses. He’d be willing to bet they had mad skills when it came to business and making money, too. Katrina Drake’s charity would never have to worry about failing, or even being underfunded.
Now you’re getting it. John’s voice drifted through his thoughts, sounding a little smug.
Fuck off, Duncan shot back, as loudly as he could think it. Then he asked Patterson, “How long does it take to do a will?”
The lawyer shook his head, and his gaze dropped to the bulge of the dinar under Duncan’s T-shirt. “Does some kind of insanity go with wearing that coin?”
“Maybe. And I’m going to need access to this money.”
“I can cut you a check from the office war chest. You reimburse me when everything gets changed over, okay?” Patterson took out a pad and pen. “We’ll add a note about the temporary loan to everything else I’ll be drawing up. Okay, Detective Sharp. Your will. Fire away.”
In just under an hour, they were finished. Duncan made sure to leave instructions with Patterson about delivering the will to Jack Blackmore at the OCU headquarters after he died. Blackjack could be a goat prick as a commander, but as a man, he was one of the most honest—and kind—people Duncan had ever known. He’d have enough sense to hold off on giving Bela the will until she was ready to deal with it.
Just before nine, he managed to make it to the outer hall of the Mercy for the Homeless business office on Thirty-fourth near Herald Square, but they were closed. He located the right mail slot, and tucked the envelope with the check into the box with Sister Marianne’s name on it.
It’s what she wanted, John said as Duncan hit the pavement again, heading for the brownstone. Katrina’s foundation needed a shepherd, and the Sisters needed that cash so the mission wouldn’t have to close its doors next week. I promised her, and now I’ve done all I can to keep that promise. Thank you.
Duncan couldn’t find a comeback to that. He resented the hell out of what John had just done to him, but since the moment Duncan made John admit how he’d failed Katrina, John had sounded like a beaten, broken man instead of the cocky bastard Duncan had always known. That last bit, about the Sisters and the foundation—John sounded more like his old self.
To be honest, Duncan didn’t know what he’d do, how far he’d go to fix things, if he ever let Bela down. God forbid if he let her down and his mistake got her killed.
Don’t think it, John told him. You never want to be that man, I promise you.
Duncan cut through a long alley to save time. It was dark, but since John had joined his brain, he could see just fine, light or no light. “Have you taken me over before, John?”
Just once, when you were still unconscious and I was trying to warn the Sibyls that the demons would come for them.
“You scared Bela to death with that shit.” Duncan checked his watch and started to jog.
I know. That’s one reason why I’ve tried not to do it again. I know she’s it for you, Duncan. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.
“Don’t do it again. If you really need something, convince me.”
Silence answered Duncan.
He pulled up short near the end of the alley. “If I can’t know for sure Bela and her quad are safe from me—from you—I’ll go to the Mothers, eat my gun, and let them finish me off. Swear to God. In a full-on battle of wills, you know who’ll win.”
A sigh echoed through his mind along with the sense of John surrendering. Yeah. I do know, Duncan. Fine. I won’t do it again.
“No matter what?”
No matter what.
Duncan turned to jog toward the sidewalk.
A hand shot out from behind a dumpster and grabbed the dinar around his neck.
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 sc
rubbing 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.