Captive Soul

by Anna Windsor

  The other one, the trace on the right—judging by the sheer pulsing power of it—had to have been made by one of the Eldest.

  Camille used her fire to sample the energy again. Bile surged up her throat, and she had to let go of the dinar and jerk back her hand before she threw up the half pot of amaretto coffee she’d drunk before sneaking out of the brownstone.

  This trace was strong. Too strong. It had to have been made by Strada.

  The Sibyls and their law enforcement partners, New York’s semi-secret Occult Crimes Unit, had been searching everywhere for that bastard just like she had, and he’d been right here in this alley, maybe only minutes ago.

  Strada was probably still close by.

  Camille’s hands started to shake.

  He wouldn’t fool her again. No way. Nothing he said, nothing he did—she wouldn’t even listen to him.

  “Like it’s that simple,” she said, as if anyone could hear her. As if anyone outside of her own quad even cared. Half the Sibyls in the city still gave her weird looks because they knew part of what had happened that night a year ago—that Camille had prevented her quad from chasing after Strada and finishing him off.

  “Not that simple,” she mumbled again, but she wondered if she was lying to herself. Camille reached up and brushed the outline of the coin hanging around her neck, feeling its gold ridges beneath her leathers.

  Golden light …

  Blinding, blinding light. So much fire. Fire energy like I’ve never seen, never known.

  The power that had moved through her that night, the energy that her essence had moved through in return, it defied any description.

  Golden light.

  That’s all she could call it.

  As for the apparition with John Cole’s dark green eyes, black hair, and light, spicy aftershave—whatever.

  Even as Camille rested her hand against the proof of Strada’s proximity, that horrible confusion tugged at her.

  In the middle of all that pain and wildness and golden light, how was it possible that John Cole had seemed so real and present that she could have reached out and caressed the stubble on his cheeks?

  He had been there, the entirety of him, only without his flesh.

  Then came the light and the fire. Like lightning, burning through her and into her even as she almost fried herself throwing her essence into that energy, and she’d felt John Cole as he disappeared. Almost like his soul had moved through her own. She had wanted to grab hold of him, to call him back, but the light had exploded into nothing.

  Then Strada had reverted to his human form, healed himself, and opened his eyes.

  His dark green eyes.

  And that’s what made no sense, no matter how many million times she’d gone over this with herself, because Strada’s eyes had been black before—

  Before the golden light.

  It was the next part that really made no earthly sense, and the next part that had kept Camille from using her scimitar to take the demon’s head.

  Strada gave me the dinar. He put this coin over my head, and he helped me to my feet.

  Nothing about him had seemed evil or murderous or … demon. At that moment, Strada hadn’t felt like Rakshasa at all. He’d felt as human as that thing in Central Park a couple of months ago—that thing that was probably Strada, too.

  That’s why Camille had let him go. That’s why she’d kept her quad from pursuing him. That’s why she was so confused now.

  She dug her fingernails against the hard pavement, scraping at the demon trace as it slapped at her senses.

  No more confusion.

  This disgusting bit of left-behind energy told its story without any lies or tricks or distortions. It was truth, and it was demon.

  Rakshasa.

  She had to have been out of her mind to let a killer like that just run off into the night two separate times.

  And now Strada was back again, maybe this time with allies.

  Camille wanted him dead before her own weakness and choices came back to haunt her, before the demon or some of his Created hunted her sister Sibyls or any of her friends.

  Tonight was the night.

  Tonight she wouldn’t lose her nerve.

  ( 6 )

  “We—Duncan, with me in his head—we were down on the pavement in a dead-end alley,” John said, raking across every second of the night he took a demon’s body for his own as he tried to relate the experience to Elana. “No air. We couldn’t breathe, because the bastard was choking us.”

  He told the story in as much detail as he could. He told it openly and honestly, and soon enough, no matter what he wanted, he fell into the past as he spoke, and he lived it again.

  Duncan beat at Strada with both arms as the Rakshasa, still in human form, used the dinar’s chain to strangle the life out of him. Now that Duncan was changing into a Created Rakshasa from his wounds, the dinar no longer repelled the demons—not with its bearer sharing their essence.

  John poured all the energy left in his soul into Duncan’s fight.

  No use.

  Black spots danced at the edge of their vision.

  Everything faded—

  Until fire exploded all around them.

  She came flying through the air like a leather-clad ninja, her red hair streaming behind her and her scimitar raised and flaming with the force of the elemental energy she commanded. Camille landed and swung her sword toward the demon’s neck in one smooth motion.

  Made contact.

  Elemental energy exploded in a crackling blast, knocking the sword from her grip. She stumbled. Almost fell.

  Duncan’s senses failed him and his eyes closed even as John bellowed for him to stay in the game, to find a way, but he knew it was hopeless. Duncan was history. Both of them were history.

  Then John saw her again, even though he was teetering with Duncan on the edge of unconsciousness.

  He smelled her. Lilies. Wild lilies.

  She knelt beside Duncan and John in the alley. Her touch—fiery heat, warming Duncan and John’s body, surging through John’s essence most of all.

  From somewhere else in the alley, people started yelling at Camille to stop—the other Sibyls from her fighting group, trying to save her life. John tried to move Duncan’s lips to tell her the same thing, but nothing worked.

  Camille grabbed the dinar with both hands.

  John felt the contact like lightning. Felt Duncan’s body jerk like it had been hit with a set of shock paddles. The demon jerked, too, and yanked the chain around Duncan’s neck harder.

  “Do something!” somebody screeched, but fire energy fed through the dinar and swept around them like a glimmering golden wall, cutting them off from the rest of the world.

  Hot wind beat against Duncan’s face and body. John tried, but they still couldn’t move. Strada seemed frozen, too, as was Camille. Fixed in position. The energy flowing out of Camille’s hands into the dinar wrapped around Duncan’s head and shoulders. It wrenched at John like a hot crowbar, ripping him loose, pulling him forward, hauling him out of Duncan so fast he thought he’d fly straight into the pavement, all the way to hell.

  Instead, he passed through something soft and warm, vibrating with a power he couldn’t begin to comprehend. Everything left him, past, present, and future. He was nothing and everything, and he could smell the desert and New York City at the same time, and he never wanted to leave that perfect place, that perfect moment, and—

  I’m out.

  I’m out of Duncan’s body.

  And I’m out of … her.

  With a jolt, John realized he’d shared Camille’s body for a second, maybe two.

  He gazed at her without the filter of Duncan’s perceptions, seeing her, really seeing her for the first time. Gleaming waves of auburn hair tumbled down her shoulders. Freckles stood out against her cream-and-roses cheeks. Her big aquamarine eyes got even wider as she stared back at him.

  She’s perfect.

  He had left the prie
sthood long ago, when his only mission in life became killing demons. Good thing. He had no doubt he’d have broken his vows over this woman.

  Reality slammed back to him then.

  The alley.

  With one hand Camille held the dinar against Duncan’s nearly lifeless chest. Her other hand gripped Strada’s wrist, pressing it down to take away the force of his pull on the dinar’s chain.

  Strada. Right here, in easy reach!

  John lifted his hands—and saw nothing but a shimmering, silver image of himself.

  Camille stared at him, wide-eyed.

  He wasn’t supposed to be here.

  He couldn’t possibly be here.

  But he was, and she could see him, and John knew what had to happen. She was about to send his spirit to wherever spirits went. It was over.

  Yeah.

  If he had to finally die all the way and head to hell, this was the sight he’d take with him, and he’d thank the heavens for the gift.

  I understand, he mouthed, hoping she knew he meant it.

  Her pretty eyes closed.

  Energy blasted into John. Another lightning strike, louder, stronger, hotter, this time pushing instead of pulling—

  Shoving him straight into Strada’s body.

  For a split second, John’s senses swam, but the demon’s essence was weak and distant, damaged by repeated attacks and by contact with the dinar.

  Yes!

  John flung his own energy into all available space and took Strada’s body for himself. The demon’s consciousness tried to rise against him, but no way was John turning it loose. He crushed Strada into a tiny speck of darkness in the back of his mind, and—

  And he was looking at her again. At Camille, only from a different perspective.

  Duncan rolled away from them, coming to rest against the back alley wall—breathing. He was okay.

  Camille knelt beside John, the dinar still gripped tightly in her fingers.

  John looked at his own hands and realized he had hold of the chain.

  “Don’t let him fool her,” someone said. “He’ll kill her!”

  But he could never do that. He would never allow anyone to do that.

  All John could do was look at Camille, and she looked back at him, searching his face, locking her eyes on his.

  “Who are you?” she whispered, so softly that only he could hear.

  John didn’t trust himself to speak. He pulled the dinar out of Camille’s hands, shook out the chain, then slipped the necklace over her head. The coin crackled and sparked, then settled against her leathers.

  The coin had keyed itself to her. It would protect her from Rakshasa now, and John was glad.

  “You have to get out of here,” she murmured.

  John didn’t need to be told twice.

  He grasped that he was in Strada’s body, that he looked exactly like the Rakshasa that Camille and her sister Sibyls had come here to kill. Even Camille wasn’t certain what or who he was. He gently separated himself from her and got to his feet so that he could help her stand. Then both of them looked toward the back of the alley at Duncan, who had his eyes open now.

  Duncan’s breathing came shallow and fast, and John winced at the tiger fur beginning to spread across his best friend’s face and arms.

  “Can’t hide, sinner,” John said, quoting a line from their favorite gospel song, hoping Duncan would understand and know that John was still around, that he’d help Duncan any way he could.

  Then John turned and hauled ass out of that alley, without a single clue what he was supposed to do next.

  “I got sick after that,” John whispered. He’d have paid real money for a chair, or even a glass of water.

  “I hid out in Central Park and came in and out of consciousness, but gradually I got my thoughts together. I accessed some emergency funds I had stashed in cash in a bus locker, and I got myself a flat in Harlem. I’ve been watching for the Rakshasa who survived these last few months. Tarek is culla now. I know he’ll bring his pride back to New York City any minute now, and they’ll be worse than ever.”

  When John finished, he rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, wishing he could make better sense of what he had said, of what he knew, the bits and pieces. He’d told the old woman everything, even the parts he’d wanted to leave out. That should have surprised him or at least made him angry, but all he felt was relief. Saying it all out loud made it feel real.

  He was still here. He was still alive and on earth—and he was still John Cole, even if he was wearing a demon’s skin.

  Elana seemed lost in her own thoughts for a time, and John waited, talking himself through a series of mental exercises he’d learned in the service to keep himself calm and steady.

  “Camille used the medallion—the dinar—to enhance her own powers. You believe she channeled her fire energy into the metal and through it. You’re certain of that?” Elana gave him one of her spookily accurate glances. “Through the metal?”

  “Yes.” John had no idea why that was important, but Elana seemed entranced by that detail.

  She remained silent another long few seconds, her face captured by a wistfulness that seemed strange and sad to John. In his other life as a priest, he would have been offering her comfort or, if she was Catholic, the opportunity to take part in the sacrament of confession. As it was, he gave her time, and watched as she slowly collected herself.

  When she finally spoke, it was to say, “You’re right about Tarek. Strada was a monster, but Tarek—that one knows nothing at all but blood and death. He’ll come back to this city and he’ll seek your Camille as soon as he can, since he believes she bested Strada. You should go to her right now. I fear time is short.”

  “I’m watching her as often as I can, but I can’t approach her.” John’s chest tightened, feeling even more certain of that now, after learning that he could accidentally go all tiger and lose ground to Strada. “Not with a demon sharing my soul, if there’s any chance he could take over my awareness.”

  Elana waved this off with an impatient gesture. “Your Camille can take care of herself, but she’ll be strongest with you at her side. I suspect the same is true for you—that you’ll be more firmly your better self in her company.”

  “Have you worked with the Sibyls before?” John couldn’t help staring at her, already guessing at the answer. Still, Elana’s look of pain sent a ripple of shock up his spine.

  “That was a long, long time ago, and it’s something best left at rest,” she said. “For the present, my people need your help, and you need our help exploring Strada’s essence and the abilities you can safely use. You’ll also find yourself wanting a people to call your own. All we ask is that you reveal our existence to no one who doesn’t already know about us.”

  John knew he should consider her offer and weigh the pros and cons, but the relief he felt at telling his story still had hold of him. Relief … and reality … and a positive instinct about the old woman and her Bengal fighters, even the ones who had jacked him in the alley and forced him to come to the tunnel.

  He extended his hand to Elana. “I’ll keep your secrets.”

  She shook his offered hand, and she gave his fingers a squeeze. “I would like one other favor from you, one you’ve already taken as a personal mission, I think.” The look of pain he had seen before made another quick appearance. “Kill Tarek. Kill as many Eldest as you can—but keep Camille Fitzgerald safe.”

  “That’s definitely a mission I plan to complete,” he told Elana as a fresh, new instinct seized him. He turned his gaze to the ceiling of the aqueduct, as if he could see through the stone straight to Camille, wherever she was—and whatever dangerous-as-hell thing he sensed she was doing. “But I’ve got a feeling Camille won’t make it easy.”

  ( 7 )

  Camille heard whispering, tried to listen to it.

  Roars?

  What was roaring?

  It sounded interesting somehow, like if she could just make o
ut what the roars were saying, she’d finally understand something important. She strained to listen, then shook her head and realized the noises were in her mind.

  She’d been lost in thought, examining the energy traces with her pyrosentience and trying to convince herself that this time she really would kill Strada.

  Time tended to get away from her when she sank too far into fire energy or pulled too much into herself in order to use her pyrosentience. She shook her head again, this time to clear it, but it felt too heavy, like it might snap right off her neck just from the weight of its movement.

  “Get a grip,” she mumbled, the sound muffled by the pavement all around her. She had to get herself together before she started imagining giant Asmodai lurching out of the shadows to cut her down.

  There are no Asmodai. No Asmodai left in the world, and nobody left to create them. Let it go, Fitzgerald.

  If she crept to the end of the alley, if she looked into the next alley, or maybe the side streets that led east and west back toward main avenues, she might find stronger remnants of Strada’s trail. Camille checked the trace one more time, then eased her energy back into her body and stood, swaying from the fatigue of using the dinar to enhance her pyrosentience. The coin drained her, probably because it pumped so much power into her elemental skills. She gave herself a count of three to get her thoughts together, then gripped the hilt of her scimitar and headed toward the alley’s mouth.

  A cold wind stabbed at her through her battle leathers, and her fear drove the chill into her arms, her legs, her chest.

  Enough. I’m not some adept fresh out of training.

  She squeezed the scimitar’s hilt tighter.

  She had to do this. She owed it to everyone she cared about.

  She was almost to the alley mouth, and so far there was nothing out of the ordinary. Just brown fall leaves and fire escapes and dumpsters and the wooden gate at the end to close the alley off from traffic. The gate hung open with one hinge busted.