by Anna Windsor
He had to put this fantasy with Camille away and focus on his only purpose. John Cole knew his spirit and knowledge had survived for one reason, and that was to kill Rakshasa, to make sure every last one of the demon bastards got wiped off the face of the earth. Then and only then could he leave crazy behind, set himself free, and take the lingering soul and essence of the last demon with him.
The demon living in his own head.
“You’re fucked, Strada,” he whispered to the monstrosity trying to chew its way through his brain.
And the Rakshasa in his head howled, and howled, and howled.
The man stood on a path in Central Park near West Sixty-third, across from one of the park entrances and in front of the brownstone where his gods-cursed enemies chose to reside. A warm, comfortable breeze stirred leaves and branches in nearby trees, making the night crinkle and rattle around him like it had some secret duty and purpose, much as he did. Moonlight lit the few steps leading into the three-story dwelling he sought, but he sensed no powerful energy and saw no sign of activity from within. The plain white curtains in the windows remained still, and all the lights were off.
Too bad.
He had come here hoping to observe, to begin the long and arduous process of learning the Sibyls’ new patterns, and perhaps their new weaknesses.
Caution. Calculation. They won’t expect those things from me.
The man—though he wasn’t a man at all—knew his enemies anticipated his loud and forceful return to the city. They believed he would make a show of strength and draw attention to himself, that he would behave impulsively, leaving himself and his pride vulnerable to attack.
The fools.
He would not put his true brothers, his Created brothers and sisters, or his allies at risk. He was the pride’s culla now, and he had much to learn and accomplish.
Such as remaining comfortable in human form.
Not an easy task for him. He felt confined in this flesh, but holding this strange shape was already becoming easier. Still, his senses seemed duller than they should, and he needed to learn more focus. If he directed his energies properly, he should suffer no loss of his acute hearing, vision, and sense of smell simply because he wore the skin and shape of a human male.
With tremendous force of will, the man concentrated all of his efforts on the brownstone, and slowly, slowly his eyes let him see the brilliant colors of the elemental barriers the Sibyls had constructed and reinforced to protect their lair. Earth, air, fire, and water energy had been layered together and locked so tightly that any paranormal creature attempting to enter the brownstone or any other house on their block without their consent would be repelled—and violently, perhaps stumbling into the traffic of the busy road in front. The barriers could be broken, of course, but at high cost to the invader’s energy and strength.
He closed his eyes and let the colors fade, then opened them again and gazed at the brownstone with only human skill and perception.
Just a quiet home in New York City, with all occupants apparently asleep.
After a time, the man determined that he would gain no useful information this night, and he walked silently and quickly into the nearby bushes. With a sigh of release, he stepped out of his human form, shifting to his natural state as easily as another creature might change positions during a fitful night’s sleep. Dark fur flowed over him as his teeth expanded to their fierce and proper length, and his claws curled out of his powerful paws as his muscles flexed and pulled into their true and superior form.
In his former life, Tarek would have roared, challenging the world to come to him, to try to defeat him and fail—but he had learned much in the last year. Challenge was best reserved for times when he was certain he could win the contests.
With his numbers few in comparison to his enemies, he had to plan carefully and strike with overwhelming advantage. To do that, he must increase his allies and the force he could bring to bear. More soldiers. More weapons. Which would of course entail more money to be spent, and garnering more power to be wielded.
“Soon,” he told the sleeping occupants of the brownstone, confident that they would find nothing, that they would have no hint of his plans before his trap was sprung. He’d throw them crumbs. He’d lead them this way and that, but in the end he would destroy them with a single, glorious move.
Bordering on excited and cheerful, Tarek turned to make his exit from the park.
He had taken only a few steps when a scent came to him—familiar, yet strange at the same time.
Demon? One of his own?
But no. How could that be?
Tarek was culla of the Rakshasa. He knew every member of his own demon ranks, and if this were some renegade Created—hybrids formed when humans were attacked but not killed by Rakshasa—he would be able to tell by the weak spoor.
This scent was too strong. Human, yet tiger. Ripe, but distant from his current location.
He crept toward the smell, making certain to keep to the overgrowth as he moved toward his quarry. He covered ground, crossed a path, and skirted some water—yes, there, just ahead. Perhaps atop the bridge looming in the lamplit city night.
Just as Tarek prepared to leave the relative safety of the plant cover to explore this situation more thoroughly, a woman ran past his location.
A woman dressed in leather.
The shock was so great he barely held back a roar.
One of the Sibyls here—now! He could leap out and take her down with a single swipe. He could tear out her throat before she had a chance to draw her weapon. His own blood thrummed in his ears as he imagined the taste of hers. The night painted itself red as battle lust seized him, and it took every ounce of his new knowledge and self-control to hold himself in check.
Killing her would weaken his enemy but also enrage them. It would announce his return to New York City before he and his allies were prepared, and before he gathered more soldiers to fight in their battles. Perhaps worst of all, he would reveal the fact that one of his allies had developed new but meager protections to make it more difficult for the Sibyls and other paranormals to sense his presence.
Tarek lifted his paw to a thin chain hanging around his thick, powerful neck. On the chain hung a bit of iron around a tooth forged and treated so that it dispersed elemental energy. Not much. Just enough to create confusion for anyone attempting to read his energy or understand what kind of creature he might be. They would perceive him as a flicker across their awareness, not human but not malevolent or threatening, perhaps nothing but a trick from an overactive and worried mind.
No.
He couldn’t do this thing.
He couldn’t go after the Sibyl no matter how desperately his baser instincts wanted to do just that.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, imagining calming vistas and comforting textures. He let himself take in the smells of dirt and grass and water and earth until the battle lust waned and at last set him free. For good measure, he slipped back into human form to place yet another obstacle between himself and impulsive self-destruction.
When he returned his attention to the bridge and found his strange quarry gone, he almost lost control all over again, but once more kept hold of himself.
“Not this night,” he said aloud, his voice more a snarl than human words. “But soon. I’ll find you both.”
( 3 )
August
Asmodai in her dreams.
Asmodai in her daydreams.
Since Camille had been hunted by, then hunted, that thing in Central Park, her old nightmares about the Asmodai demons who’d slaughtered her sister Sibyl right before her eyes had come roaring back. There hadn’t been a single Asmodai reported anywhere in the world since the Legion fell, but the big, ugly, smelly bastards were alive and well in her twisted mind.
An omen?
A portent?
Stop it.
The fact that Camille hadn’t found—or been found by—the thing in Central Park again was t
he only thing sparing her sanity, and now this ceremony-for-the-past shit was threatening to burn up her inner peace more brutally than any Asmodai could ever manage.
She stood on a stone battlement at Motherhouse Ireland with about twenty other women, hating the wind that stung her eyes and whipped her auburn hair into knots she’d never comb loose without yanking herself bald. Heavy clouds turned the landscape gray and damp and miserable, and any second the heavens would open and rain would wash them all away.
Sometimes the hidden valley near Connemara, Ireland, seemed to spread for miles, fresh and green and beautiful beyond words. Sometimes the castle grounds bustled with frenetic energy that couldn’t be equaled, that demanded enjoyment and excitement and smiles and wild, optimistic outlooks. Sometimes Motherhouse Ireland was a haven and a sanctuary, and the only place Camille wanted to be.
But sometimes the place just sucked.
Today the entire world sucked, as far as Camille was concerned.
At least she and her companions had on their battle leathers, though, being fire Sibyls, few of them were wearing the masks. Too confining. Though she figured she’d regret that choice when the rains came and froze her cheeks solid before she could get inside.
She frowned at the fields below the Motherhouse, which were covered with Sibyls about to experience an old-fashioned Irish gully washer. On her left stood the earth Sibyls and brown-robed Mothers from Motherhouse Russia, no doubt trying to be earthy and steady and helpful. In the center, green-robed Mothers and fire Sibyl adepts and warriors huddled together, giving off steady clouds of smoke. Air Sibyls from Motherhouse Greece occupied the field on her right, with their blue robes and windy, breezy gestures and expressions. Just about in the middle of the mix, in her glowing yellow robe, was Andy, the world’s only fully trained water Sibyl, who had arrived an hour ago from Motherhouse Kérkira, in the Ionian Sea. Andy was anything but breezy, and even at a distance, Camille’s keen Sibyl vision showed her Andy’s scowl and tightly folded arms.
Looking at so many Sibyls, Camille felt the absence of her first fighting group like a constant ache in her chest. The two women who had first made her their sister Sibyl were lost to her, gone forever. That was why she had to stand on this stupid wall once every three years, when it was Motherhouse Ireland’s turn to host the remembrance ceremony, and try to keep herself together. Her new fighting group, the only quad in existence, stared up at her from the crowd—Andy in her idiotic yellow robes, Bela in her brown robes, and Dio in her blue robes. They had been together just over a year, but so far they had managed not to kill one another.
What happens if I let them down again?
Camille’s left eye twitched even as she tried to hold her face perfectly still.
What happens when I let them down again?
Tears made Camille blink, worsening the twitch until she surrendered and closed her eyes. Couldn’t the worries leave her alone for just one day?
Heat prickled against her cheeks, and the pungent scent of wildfire and smoke forced her eyes open again. Mother Keara, one of the oldest Irish Mothers, reached the top of a set of steps leading up from the castle. Her unbelievable warmth came and went like an orange wave as she passed Camille on her way to the center of the battlement, without sparing Camille so much as a glance.
Typical.
Camille had never known deep relationships at Motherhouse Ireland after the Sibyl who gave birth to her had been killed in battle. There was one time, before she was even ten years old, when she’d met an old woman down in the tunnels, an old woman she thought might have been a Mother, no matter what she said. Camille had thought that woman might turn out to be a friend, especially after she somehow put a stop to the bullying that had plagued Camille in her early years. Yet Camille had never seen her again. She figured Ona had died or finished going insane, or simply lost interest when she saw Camille really wasn’t going to develop any definitive talent for pyrogenesis. Whatever happened, it didn’t matter, because what was done couldn’t be undone. Camille had finished her training with high accolades in everything but battle skills, and she had never bothered currying favor with her fellow fire Sibyls or the Mothers. She doubted she would ever experience their love or support, but that was old news, and not worth the time it took to cry about it. She needed to stay in the present, and the present was the ceremony, no matter how much she despised every moment of it.
Tiny and wrinkled but still spry, Mother Keara stepped onto a small raised area of stone so she could see the grounds and the Sibyls below. The ropes of gray hair spilling down her shoulders were too heavy to move in the wind, but her green robes snapped in the sharp gusts. Without preamble, she raised both gnarled hands and loosed two massive gouts of fire from her palms. Her orange flames shot toward the thunderous sky, rebellious, seeming powerful enough to part the clouds, but the sky didn’t stir.
“Aban, Angela,” Mother Keara shouted without looking at notes. “Abel, Victoria. Abhen, Westra.”
Her voice blasted against the clouds, as forceful as the flames she had released.
The names.
Goddess, the names.
All those lives. All those women.
Camille listened to the list with growing numbness as Mother Keara recited them all, any killed in battle all the way back to the time before Sibyls even called themselves Sibyls, and the numbness gave way to a slow burn in her gut when her mother’s name rang out in Mother Keara’s lyrical Irish brogue.
By the time the older woman’s recitation moved on to air Sibyls, Camille didn’t bother trying not to cry.
“Carmella, Bette,” Mother Keara said soon, too soon. Camille coughed from the blow, mostly to keep from sobbing out loud. Bette had died in battle, right beside Camille. They had been ambushed by Asmodai demons in Van Cortlandt Park, near the Old Croton Aqueduct. Nothing anyone could do.
Sure. Just keep telling yourself that, and you’ll get Dio killed, or maybe Bela or Andy. Sibyls always worked in groups, with earth Sibyls serving as the mortars, responsible for picking the group and holding it together. As a fire Sibyl, the pestle of the group, it was Camille’s job to handle communications and close-quarters fighting. Simply put, she was supposed to keep her mortar alive at all costs. Air Sibyls served as the brooms, battling from a distance, charged with keeping perspective—and sweeping up messes. Water Sibyls were supposed to be in charge of flow, but Andy was the only water Sibyl in a fighting group in the world right now, and she wasn’t so good with regulating her own emotions, much less helping her fighting group regulate theirs. As for healing, the special talent of water Sibyls, Andy hadn’t quite figured out that skill, either.
Their quad was far from perfect.
Oh, hell.
Their quad was a train wreck waiting to happen, but Camille loved her new sister Sibyls desperately. She’d die before she’d let any harm come to them.
“James, Alisa,” Mother Keara announced.
Camille’s heart lurched.
She hadn’t realized Mother Keara had moved on to the earth Sibyls lost in battle.
Hold it together. Hold on, hold on …
But she couldn’t. Not really. Alisa James had claimed Camille for a fighting partner and taken her away from Motherhouse Ireland. Then Alisa had been locked up at Rikers Island for a crime she didn’t commit and murdered in jail. Camille had never had the chance to protect her.
Her thoughts tore free and floated toward the rain-swollen sky, and for a few seconds nothing seemed true or concrete or tangible, not even her own body or the hard stone beneath her leather boots. She felt like crap. She felt like before, when she was a little girl who couldn’t find any safe place, or later, when she ran away from the deaths of her fighting group and hid for years inside the thick stone walls of Motherhouse Ireland.
Bela. Dio. Andy. Camille recited the names to herself, imagining them like anchors pulling her down from the clouds.
They were still alive, and she had a responsibility to them. She absolutely c
ouldn’t allow herself to go to pieces again, especially not on some frigging stone wall in front of just about every living Sibyl on Earth.
Bela. Dio. Andy.
Camille’s emotional fog started to clear. She couldn’t let anything happen to this fighting group. She had to keep finding ways to be better at what she could do, to be stronger so she could do her part to keep her quad whole and safe.
The woman next to her elbowed her, and Camille raised her chin.
The reading of the names had ended, thank the universe. Mother Keara was talking about Sibyls and strength and determination, and about ridding the world of perverted energies and evil creatures who used the elements to do harm.
Camille realized she was shaking and weeping, and the sigh she released seemed to come all the way from her toes. Losing both of her first sister Sibyls within weeks of each other had shattered her, but some of the pieces had been glued back together. Bela had come for her, claimed her for a new fighting group, and challenged her to return to the land of the living. Bela had challenged her to fight.
“We fight,” Mother Keara announced, echoing Camille’s thoughts as she finished the remembrance. “We fight for fairness. We fight for honor. We fight for the world. Let our strength burn in your souls now and always, until we meet again.”
Once more she lifted her arms and fire blasted from her palms.
The Sibyls around Camille gave off dense smoke and let fly with their own flames. Camille raised her hands for Bette and Alisa, and for the bits of her own soul that had died with them. The fire energy around her glowed like the sun in her eyes. She could taste it, smell it, touch it, even glory in it, but no flames burst out of her body. She barely smoked and she didn’t drop so much as a trickle of sparks.
Her teeth clamped together, and she wanted to swear and cry and kick something. Her chilled fingers curled into fists. How was it possible that she was a fire Sibyl, born and trained in a Motherhouse, and she couldn’t create her own element with any reliability? Not even now, when she would give a body part to honor her dead fighting group with a show of her own strength.