Captive Spirit

by Anna Windsor

  Strada gently moved Camille away from him and got to his feet, helping her up as he stood. Then he, too, stared at the back of the alley, to the tight, shaking heap that was Duncan.

  “Can’t hide, sinner,” Strada said, then turned and rocketed out of the ally, leaving no trace of energy that Bela could see.

  Camille started toward Duncan, but Dio’s wind knocked her back before she could take a second step.

  “Don’t.” Dio sounded like she had a knife in her chest. “He’s—he’s gone.”

  Gone? Bela shook her head, staring from Dio to Duncan. How? She’d just gotten him back! How could he be gone if she could see him moving?

  Camille eased away from Dio, putting herself at an angle where she could cut off any approach to Bela and Andy. Her fingers rested on the dinar, like she was ready to fend off a Rakshasa.

  Dio had her throwing knife in one hand and Camille’s shamshir in the other, and she was crying.

  Bela tried to pull away from Andy but failed. “What are you doing, Dio?”

  “Hold her,” Dio said to Andy, and Andy did.

  “Dio, you leave him alone!” Bela managed the yell, but her voice cracked to pieces and she was sobbing before she finished.

  Duncan got to his feet, and Bela knew a totally new pain, one that tore her insides so completely she didn’t know how she’d ever piece herself together again.

  Duncan wasn’t a man anymore.

  He had orange fur with black stripes, and fangs, and claws. Still the same beautiful eyes, but the gray glow had a demon fervor, and she sensed his lust to kill.

  “Don’t let her watch.” Dio choked on her own words as she lifted her throwing knife.

  Andy tried to block Bela’s view with her hand. “Close your eyes, honey. Please.”

  “Leave him alone!” With a lunatic burst of strength, Bela shoved Andy away from her and tried to stand, but couldn’t.

  Duncan turned toward her, and the feral look in his eyes went soft. Almost sad. He made a rumbling sound in his tiger’s throat, and Bela could have sworn he was trying to say her name.

  Dio raised her throwing knife. Aimed.

  And didn’t throw it.

  All Bela could do was cry, and look at him, and want to see something different.

  Duncan let out a strangled roar, then took off out of the alley.

  “Ah, damnit!” Dio started after him. “Damn me!”

  Andy ran toward her, but Camille powered forward and leaped in front of both of them.

  The fire that exploded from her hands and arms and head, from her entire being, made an inferno that completely sealed the exit to the alley. Roaring curtains of flame shot over the tops of the alley walls, and sparks rained around her like a fountain made of orange, sparkling lights. The dinar on her chest glowed a violent white-yellow as it channeled her pyrosentience.

  “Enough!” The fire echo in Camille’s voice made Andy and Dio slam their hands over their ears. “We’re going home now!”

  Bela stared at all that fire, so grateful to Camille that she wanted to kiss her. Her sobs alternated with bursts of laughter. It would take all of her earth energy, all of Dio’s wind power, and all of Andy’s water to even make a dent in those flames. And he’d gotten away. Duncan was gone. Rakshasa. Demon. Lost to her—

  But free, and alive, and that did matter, somewhere deep inside.

  Dio raised both hands. She slowly sheathed her throwing knife, then carefully, very carefully, placed Camille’s shamshir on the alley pavement in front of Camille. “I’m fine with going home,” she said as she stood, tears still streaming down her pale face. “Really.”

  “Fuck me.” Andy stared up at the flames for a few more seconds, then turned and limped toward Bela. “Give me a hand, Dio. We’re out of here.”

  (39)

  Bela stared out the window at the leaves of Central Park, studying the fall shades of yellow and red and orange, and thinking about Duncan. That was nothing new. She thought about him every day, and she had for three months. She rubbed her healed arm without much thought, not because it ached, but because it helped her remember.

  Sometimes she thought she looked out the window so much because she hoped she’d see him, hidden away in those trees, looking back at her.

  That wouldn’t happen. And if it did, he’d probably be coming to kill her.

  A ghostly blond shadow flickered past the glass, and Bela knew it was Dio, creeping down from her archives to go to the kitchen. She’d eat fast, then disappear upstairs again. The only time Bela ever saw her was on patrol, and then she didn’t talk.

  Andy and Camille had gone to Headcase Quarters to take the report for their next patrol, and with just Bela and Dio in the house, the silence could get maddening. It was time for that to end.

  Bela broke away from her vigil, walked across their gorgeous new water-resistant tile floor, stationed herself outside the kitchen, and waited.

  In a few minutes, Dio pushed through the swinging door, head down—and Bela caught her by the shoulders.

  Dio yelped and let off a blast of wind as she looked up.

  Bela deflected the wind and didn’t hit back with her earth energy.

  Dio tried to twist away, but Bela wouldn’t turn her loose.

  “We can’t keep living in the same house without ever being in the same space except when we’re on patrol.”

  Dio got a little paler, though Bela wasn’t even sure how that could be possible. When she spoke, her voice sounded like Camille’s used to, just a whisper, hardly enough to hear. “Do you want me to leave?”

  The question made Bela’s heart twist. “No. Of course I don’t.”

  “That sounded definite.” Dio seemed surprised but also relieved.

  Bela risked letting her go but held her gaze. “I was never angry with you for going after Duncan. You’ve been angry with yourself. I’m just not completely sure why. Do you hate yourself for trying to kill him, or because you didn’t?”

  Tears welled in Dio’s clear gray eyes, but she didn’t answer.

  “Don’t keep shutting me out, Dio.” Bela leaned toward her, just enough to invade her space on purpose. “I’ll have to hug you and freak you out.”

  Dio looked briefly horrified, then sank down on the new leather sofa in front of the communications platform.

  Bela took the leather chair across from her and let her have a moment.

  A breeze drifted through the redecorated brownstone, carrying the scent of new furniture and grout, of paint and washed linens. To Bela, the whole place smelled like starting over—if Dio would let that happen.

  “I let him down. I let you all down.” Dio’s eyes went to the ceiling, and the chimes tinkled softly from her distress. “He made me promise to do it because he said I was the hard-ass of this group, but in the end, I couldn’t.”

  Bela had to close her eyes against the sweet quake of pain that created. When she thought she could speak without sobbing, she said, “That sounds like Duncan. And I’m not surprised you agreed to try.”

  Dio focused on Bela, really looked at her, maybe for the first time since Duncan had run out of the alley. “Why?”

  “Because you’re stronger than the rest of us.” Bela rubbed her palm against the soft leather of the chair’s arm. “I’ve always known that, and Duncan must have known it, too.”

  “I’m not. I—no, Bela.” Dio shook her head. “I move the air around and draw pretty pictures, and sometimes I make thunder and lightning I’m not allowed to use. That’s not strength.”

  Bela didn’t argue with her. Truth never needed defending. In time, Dio would grasp the reality of her own nature, and Bela could wait for that.

  Dio’s eyes turned almost luminescent, from emotion and reflections of light and colors from the projective mirrors. “Do you hate me for trying to kill him?”

  “For trying to protect me from my own heart? No. And I’ll never hate you, for any reason.” Bela scooted forward in her chair and squeezed Dio’s hand. “We di
d our best that night. I made a terrible bunch of mistakes, leading you all into an elemental trap that got us blown up. When my senses were so numbed, I thought everyone was dead—it’s a miracle everybody walked out of that rubble.”

  Dio captured her fingers, and her next question seemed infinitely harder to answer. “Are you going to make it, Bela?”

  Bela’s breath hitched. She tried to smile but didn’t quite get there. “I’m trying” was the best she could do.

  Chimes rang loud through the brownstone, pushed by a strong burst of outside energy.

  Bad memories drove Bela to her feet, but not faster than Dio.

  The front door banged open and Andy came in, jeans dripping on the easy-to-dry tile. Camille came next, her golden dinar glittering in the afternoon sunlight.

  They stared at Dio and Bela, then both of them smiled and walked over to the table. Camille sat in the chair next to Bela’s, and Andy perched on the other end of the couch from Dio.

  It seemed halfway normal, the four of them about to talk about the report, and Bela had five whole seconds of respite from her endless inner grief.

  “Still no Rakshasa activity.” Andy spread herself out on her favorite end of the couch and grabbed a towel off the stack Bela kept there for her. “They’ve pulled out of New York City, or hidden themselves so completely we can’t find them.”

  “No luck on finding Samuel Griffen, or Rebecca Kincaid—or Walker Drake.” Camille frowned. “Nick and Creed are fairly certain, based on bank transactions and phone records, that Rebecca hired the Rakshasa to take out Katrina and Jeremiah, and anybody else she thought might keep her away from Walker.”

  “She’s sixteen.” Dio let go an air-stirring breath. “What will we do with her if we catch her?”

  “Hello?” Andy mopped her face with her towel. “This little girl hired her brother’s coven and an army of demons to murder an entire family so she could have her boyfriend. I think we can file that under ‘will be tried as an adult.’ ”

  Camille fished a leather bag from her jeans pocket as she shook her head. “We may not get to take her to court. The way they disappeared, I’m not convinced that all of them are completely human.”

  “Rakshasa?” Bela was starting to wish she’d brought a notepad. She made a mental note to move a supply of pads and pens to the other end of the couch.

  “Or something powerful enough to fool Rakshasa,” Camille said, digging in the little bag.

  Everyone shivered at that, Bela most of all.

  “Is Jack Blackmore back yet?” she asked to change the subject.

  “Still in Russia,” Camille said. “Can you believe that? I figured Mother Yana would have fed him to the wolves.”

  Dio shrugged. “Maybe he’s teachable.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.” Andy threw her towel on the communications platform. “Let’s see if he survives Motherhouse Ireland.”

  Camille finished rooting in her bag and held her closed fist over the communications table. “Since we’re all together again—and all talking instead of avoiding each other—I have presents.” She laid out six pieces of metal on the smooth wood, charms in the shape of crescent moons like their tattoos, each with its own delicate chain. “I finished these last night. Pick the one that speaks to you.”

  Bela went straight for the copper moon and relished the pure, powerful feel of it when she slipped it into her fingers. She fastened the chain around her neck, and the special metal buzzed against her chest.

  “Feel that?” Camille grinned. “It’s keying to you. It’ll work best for you now, always.”

  Dio’s silver piece glittered at her throat, looking like it had always been there, and like it always should be. Andy had picked out a different shade of silver, darker, almost like iron, and it seemed perfect around her neck, too.

  Camille scooped up the rest of the metal crescents and slid them back into her leather bag. “The rest I’m keeping for now. If other triads want to try them, they’ll have to get an okay from the Motherhouses. I don’t want an earful from Mother Keara about ‘changin’ the ahrder of the universe’ and shit.”

  Andy snickered.

  Dio rubbed her chin like she was thinking. “Can you say shit with a Irish accent? ‘Shite,’ or something?”

  Bela pressed her charm into her chest, drawing a taste of earth energy through it until her fingers tingled. With a sigh, she stared at the living room wall—and froze.

  “Hey, guys. Check out the wall.” She pointed. “Do any of you sense that energy?”

  One at a time, Andy, Dio, and Camille used their charms, Camille’s being the dinar, to sample the water, air, and fire energy coming from the next-door neighbor’s house.

  “Mrs. Knight.” Andy said her name slow and drawn out, like an accusation. “I think we better go have a conversation with her, right now.”

  “I was wondering when you’d work it out.” Mrs. Knight, who told them her first name was Karalynn, had a nice smile when she wasn’t all lit up about something. “If we’re good at anything, it’s shielding. Have to be, or we wouldn’t be alive—or in charge of our own lives.”

  They sat on the floor in Mrs. Knight’s living room, which had no furniture at all.

  “Who is we?” Bela asked, fascinated. “What is we? Yours isn’t an energy we recognize. We never would have seen it if we didn’t have some new technology that makes trace elemental energy more obvious.”

  Mrs. Knight pursed her lips, deepening the lines on her face. She pulled at the hem of her blue silk jogging pants and sighed. “Please understand. My hesitance isn’t because I don’t like Sibyls or don’t think you do good work. It’s because we’re so vulnerable.”

  Bela didn’t press, and neither did anyone else. Camille even looked a little guilty, since it had been her charms that led them over here.

  Mrs. Knight seemed to come to some decision. She stopped fiddling with her clothes and met Bela’s gaze. “We call ourselves Bengals.”

  “Bengals?” The word caught Bela off guard and tripped up her self-control. Her nails dug into the carpet, and the earth gave a slow, whispered rumble. “Tigers? Like Rak—”

  “No!” Mrs. Knight’s finger stabbed toward Bela’s face, her tone hard and emphatic. “Those bastards stole our lives from us. You have no idea what it takes to get away from them, to find a way to think and live and function again. We try to help each other, but anytime we reach out, we risk everything.”

  Bela slowly came undone, listening to that, trying to grasp it, to understand—and not run to a thousand desperate hopes that would break her heart and break it ten times again.

  Camille placed her hand over Bela’s and smiled at Mrs. Knight. “Please tell us exactly what Bengals are.”

  “Don’t you know?” Mrs. Knight smiled—and she shifted.

  To a thin, tall creature with orange-and-black-striped fur, fangs, and claws. The change was instant. One moment she was human, the next a tiger.

  Bela fixed on the color of her fur, fighting back memories and three months of nightmares and standing at her front window, staring into Central Park.

  “We call ourselves Bengals, because those of us who can think for ourselves always have this coloring.”

  Ah, Goddess, help me …

  Mrs. Knight shifted back to her human form. “My family was attacked in Charleston, South Carolina. My husband died, and my son went mad and ran with the demons, then got killed by some of the other Created. They’re bloodthirsty. They have no minds left. No souls.”

  Bela couldn’t form a rational question, but Andy asked one for her. “Why do you still have your mind? What makes the difference?”

  “We don’t know, any of us.” Mrs. Knight’s pensive expression shifted toward sad. “Maybe it’s a genetic thing, or a random but regular fluke.”

  “If you’ll allow it, we could run tests to try to find out,” Camille said. “Maybe even—”

  “Find a cure?” Mrs. Knight sat back, stretching her arms out behind he
r. “I’m not sure I want that anymore—though I’ll let you do your medical tests. I just want peace, and I want to help others like me. I bring them in here and keep them long enough to set up shelter for them. And yes, I picked this place because you’re next door. A lot of us are starting to do that. So, shake and burn and flood whatever you want. I have a feeling you’ll prove useful to me sooner or later.”

  Bela couldn’t take it anymore. The words burst out of her before she could do anything to stop herself. “Did he come here? After he turned? Did Duncan stay here with you?”

  “If he did, I wouldn’t tell you.” Mrs. Knight’s face suddenly reminded Bela of one of the earth Sibyl Mothers. “Our secrecy is absolute. I’ll reveal myself, but I’ll die before I out another Bengal.”

  “Please.” The plea came from Dio, and she sounded so miserable that Mrs. Knight softened a little.

  “Another group of Bengals reached out to your Duncan—and that’s all I know,” she said. “He could have gone anywhere, and he may never come back here. Sometimes it takes years to regain enough self-control to risk seeing people from your past. For some, it’s never possible.”

  Dio reached for Bela and gave her knee a squeeze.

  Bela had a vague awareness of Andy and Camille offering her smiles, gentle touches. Encouragement? Support?

  She had no idea. She couldn’t process a single word.

  Mrs. Knight went on for a minute or two about how Bengals usually stayed in other cities from where they changed, to cut ties and make fresh starts away from prying eyes and lives they could never have back again. Bela tried to keep listening, but she couldn’t do it. Some time later, she realized everyone was still talking, but she couldn’t hear them anymore, and she couldn’t stay in the room anymore, and she couldn’t even stay inside without her head exploding. She did her best to make some polite excuse, but she had no clue what she said before she got up and slipped out Mrs. Knight’s front door.

  Outdoors.

  Thank the universe. She could breathe.

  The night air stung her nose, but it didn’t clear her thoughts. She needed earth, and more of it than she could touch through asphalt.