Captive Soul

by Anna Windsor

  The big god kept roaring, kept swinging his sledgehammer fists.

  Camille squeezed the hot coin in her hand.

  If I use this thing, I’ll melt where I stand.

  But if she didn’t, her quad and the demon-man might get crushed before she managed to suck in a full breath of air.

  Camille pulled in all the fire energy she could manage and shoved it back out again, through the dinar, straight toward the god’s big horned head.

  Kalfou lurched when her blast hit him, and that was all the demon-man with Camille’s scimitar seemed to need. He charged even closer, hooking the scimitar into the god’s chest and yanking himself upward before Kalfou could swipe him off like a gnat.

  Wind, air, earth, and fire hit the god in the face again.

  The god roared as Cole-Strada hooked an arm around his neck, drew back the scimitar, and rammed the sharp hook of the blade directly into his wide, bellowing mouth.

  The ear-crushing crack and shock wave of elemental energy shifting out of this plane of existence drove Camille back to the pavement. More hot air slammed into her as Kalfou made his escape from the alley, pushing her down until her ears, her face, her head, her whole body throbbed from the pressure. She had no strength left, not even enough to lift her head off the heated asphalt. Her vision flickered and her eyes closed. She fought the darkness, but she felt it closing in around her, slipping over her and shutting her away from the world.

  Strong arms took hold of her and seemed to pull her back from oblivion, back into the smoldering, smoking and eerie-silent alley.

  “I’ve got you,” said that deep, entrancing voice she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since she first heard it, the night of the golden light.

  Camille felt more muscles pressing against her face, her aching arm and shoulder. A carved chest, singed and bruised but still perfect. The demon-man’s grip was firm but so gentle and comforting. “Be still, beautiful. You’re pretty banged up.”

  “Don’t move, you crazy-ass bastard.” That was Dio, with wind screaming through every word she spoke. “I don’t know what kind of mindfuck you’re trying to pull, but we’re done with it, and we’re done with you.”

  Camille winced at the crash of thunder even though her eyes were closed.

  Bela’s voice sounded just as deadly. “Don’t even twitch, Strada.”

  “I won’t hurt her,” Cole-Strada said. Camille couldn’t see his face and she was glad, because she couldn’t take another ounce of pain.

  “Let go of her right now, nice and slow. No sudden moves or we’ll cut you to pieces.” Andy’s command was matter-of-fact, and the forceful push of water energy touched Camille’s essence, cooling her down and giving her some measure of comfort.

  “Think,” said the demon-man. “If I were really Strada, could I get this close to the dinar? I’m John Cole. Camille helped me take this body the last time you fought the Rakshasa.”

  Seconds seemed to tick by.

  Earth and air and water energy twined into Camille, giving her strength, but not enough to struggle for her freedom, especially when she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  “Let her go,” Dio said again, but this time Camille didn’t hear any thunder.

  “I’m taking her back to the brownstone, to the infirmary room I know you’ve got in your basement.” John Cole—because that’s who Camille was hearing—sounded calm and determined. It was him. She was tired of fighting her own confusion and disbelief, and right that second she didn’t care what it cost her. She wanted it to be him, and that was the reality until someone convinced her otherwise.

  “After you take care of her,” he said, holding her a little closer, “put me in whatever kind of elemental bindings you want until you summon your Mothers to examine me. They’ll confirm what I’m telling you, but I’m not letting Camille go until I’m sure she’s safe.”

  Don’t let me go, she wanted to say. Not now. Not ever.

  Okay, yeah, she had lost whatever was left of her mind.

  The last thing she heard before she finally slipped into an involuntary healing trance was Andy’s low, whispered, “Fuuuuck me,” and that, at least, seemed somewhere close to sane.

  ( 11 )

  John led the way to the brownstone, cradling Camille as he powered forward, paying close attention to her breathing. Even. Steady. He thought she was stable, but she was pale and it seemed she weighed no more than a feather. Her auburn hair touched her cheeks, highlighting the lack of color in her pretty face and making her seem tired and fragile. Too much stress. Not enough time to rest and eat. He’d be making sure that changed as soon as she felt better.

  “You might want to slow down,” Andy called out to him as he reached the steps of the brownstone, but John couldn’t think past getting Camille inside, where she’d be safe and her quad could help her heal. He hit the first step—

  And a big, mean fist of stupid clubbed him right between the eyes.

  His muscles went wobbly and his jaw clamped into place. Strada’s essence howled like a psychotic parasite, wriggling in his head until John wanted to retch up every burger he’d sucked down for the last two weeks. All of his energy went to keeping his grip on Camille—and not puking.

  He stayed on his feet, pulling Camille against him like an anchor, and shook his head to clear his senses.

  He’d been to this brownstone before, been inside it for weeks when he lived in Duncan Sharp’s head. He knew the Sibyls protected themselves from paranormal attacks with elemental locks. The locks hadn’t affected him when he was nothing but a powerless, hitchhiking spirit, but with leftover demon essence in his head—shit.

  “Good job, tiger-man.” Andy’s water energy splashed against his back, pushing him up a step. “You know, I really don’t talk just to hear my own voice. Next time I tell you to slow down, maybe you should listen.”

  “Sorry,” he managed, grinding his teeth against the stabbing pains behind his eyes. He pulled Camille closer as Andy’s water moved him another step, and another, cooling his back and neck as it splashed into him. Bela and Dio passed him on either side, and Bela opened the door. Dio went inside first, and a second or two later, the skull-crushing pressure eased. John stumbled through the door behind Bela, one hand gently over Camille’s face to keep the sudden light from bothering her.

  Andy slammed the door behind her, pushed past him and stormed through the entryway. She crossed the living room and didn’t slow down until she reached the alcove near the swinging kitchen door. Weird yellow light played off the leather sofa and four leather chairs surrounding the gigantic wooden table that John remembered because it served double duty as the quad’s communications platform. They used the platform to talk to the Motherhouses and other Sibyl groups, and occasionally to transport objects or people across long distances.

  The sources of the glow, a dozen projective mirrors hanging on the walls of the recessed space, were quiet and dark except for strange, candle-like flickers that seemed to live in the glass—energy from ancient channels coursing across the earth. With his new, shared demon essence, John could sense the power in those channels. It pulled at his skin, as if daring him to come closer.

  “Far enough,” Bela said.

  “I’ll take her downstairs—” he started to say, but elemental shackles clanked as Dio slammed them closed around John’s ankles. Immediately his senses dulled and his strength ebbed.

  “Far enough,” Bela repeated, steel in each word. Her eyes went hard as she reached for Camille.

  Another set of elemental cuffs clamped hard around John’s thighs, stinging his insides and deadening his senses almost as much as that first punch from the supernatural locks on the brownstone. He let Bela collect Camille from his arms, but only because he’d made a deal. His gut twisted like he was losing something precious, even though he realized somewhere deep in his mistrusting heart that these women knew how to take care of their own. Bela would die for Camille, just like he would. Of that, John was completely certain
.

  “I hate little suck-ass wannabes who summon Vodoun gods they can’t control.” Andy threw her blood-coated face mask on the nearest leather chair, then opened the kitchen door for Bela. “And why is it always me who gets totally and completely splatted with ritual blood when all the wind starts blowing? Chickens, pigs—it’s a damned conspiracy.”

  John leaned forward, watching Camille as Bela carried her away from him, until the door swung shut and blocked Camille, Bela, and Andy from his view.

  The room felt suddenly cold and empty—and a little breezy. Wind chimes rang, random and discordant, and John’s spongy focus squeezed and shifted. He realized that Dio was still with him, moving in front of him, pulling at his right hand to fit it into a set of elemental cuffs. He lifted both arms to make her job easier. “Will I get a neck collar and chain, too?”

  “Don’t crack jokes, asshole.” She slammed the right cuff down and locked it. “I’ve got a big collar if we need one, and I’m sure I could find a leash.”

  John felt his lips twitch as he held back a smile. “Duncan was right. You’re the real hard-ass of this operation, aren’t you? Every unit has one.”

  Dio didn’t answer him, but dark lightning seemed to flash across her eyes. Yeah, that was her role, no doubt about it, but he didn’t get much of a sense that she liked it.

  “Back when I was in Duncan’s head, he asked you to kill him if he ever got out of control and tried to hurt Bela,” John said, figuring she’d remember that little exchange.

  “Fuck off.” Dio kept her unforgiving gaze on the last cuff she was fastening, making sure he was about as mobile as a cooked Christmas turkey right before carving.

  John knew that saying anything else would be pushing his luck, but he also knew that winning the right to work with Camille and keep her safe involved scoring a few points with the other women in her quad. Herding cats would be too tame a metaphor for that prospect. Herding porcupines might be more to the point. Porcupines with serious attitudes, giant fangs and claws, and deadly elemental power—not to mention swords, throwing knives, dart pistols, and who knew what else.

  “What if I ask you to make that same deal with me now, about Camille?” John kept his eyes level and his chin up, and he felt a surge of triumph even though Dio banged the last cuff shut and let his arms fall so fast and hard he almost flew ass over teakettle into the communications platform. With his legs locked together, he didn’t have much balance.

  Dio stood a foot from him, glaring like she wanted to slug him right in the face. “I don’t make deals with demons, and you don’t even know Camille.”

  John hopped until he found his center again, never breaking eye contact. “I’ve touched Camille’s soul and she’s touched mine.”

  “You’re a delusional dickhead.” Dio pushed him backward with both hands, and this time he did slam into the platform, sitting down hard to keep from pitching sideways.

  “Call the Mothers, then.” He kept right on looking at Dio, trying to challenge her without getting himself killed. “They’ll examine me and tell you the truth.”

  Dio studied him in total silence for a moment, then shook her head. “Our quad doesn’t do much business with the Mothers unless we have to. We have other ways of finding things out.”

  An unwelcome wave of surprise swept through John, and he had a sense of all his carefully laid plans crumbling as he watched an unfriendly smile spread across Dio’s face.

  He shifted on the table to sit up as straight as he could. “What other ways?”

  Her smile turned positively predatory, and she leaned in close to make her point. “If you think I’m a hard-ass, demon-man, just wait till you meet our friends.”

  Huge.

  Camille sensed it before she saw it, a moving, burning wall of death. She hefted her scimitar as the demon burst out of the little building in Van Cortlandt Park.

  “Damnit!” Bette screamed. “Too big!”

  She tried to shoot the thing with her crossbow, but it came on too fast. Moving. Rippling. Shifting. The sulfur stench of it made Camille’s eyes water. The Asmodai was tall, then short; wide, then flat. Camille saw its face and she wanted to shriek. Flat, badly shaped clay. Utterly inhuman, with eyes like small burning pits from hell.

  She swung her scimitar hard, but it caught the blade in its not-human hands. It ripped her sword straight out of her grip and hacked Bette shoulder to hip. Then it threw down the blade, knocked Bette to the ground with the force of its elemental power, and turned on Camille.…

  “Wake up.”

  She heard the voice. Woke. Fell asleep again, and this time dreamed a little bit better.

  At least, she thought she was dreaming, because as far as she knew, sharks didn’t swim through the brownstone’s living room. But in her dream, the whole space was filled with crystalline water, and big, gray, toothy shapes swept back and forth and back and forth around a piece of live bait chained to the ceiling.

  She didn’t like sharks.

  They reminded her too much of Asmodai, with their dead, elementally loaded eyes, or maybe the girls she’d grown up fighting, or the Mothers—all rolled into one nasty package.

  “It’s time to wake up, Camille.”

  Oh, great. There was a shark in her bedroom, too. A little one with white skin, weird gold bracelets on its arm, and scars on its face where one of its eyes was supposed to be.

  “Wake up,” the little shark commanded again.

  Camille tried to shake her head, but it made her brain hurt, so she stopped. “I can’t wake up. I still need to heal. Bela told me to.”

  Before she went to swim with the sharks in the upstairs living room.

  Camille had no idea why she felt like talking to the shark in her bedroom, but her mouth kept moving. “This used to be her room, you know, but she asked me for mine upstairs, so she and her husband could have more space.” She yawned, becoming more and more aware of a dull, throbbing ache between her eyes. “Most fire Sibyls can’t stand to live in basements, but it doesn’t bother me. Bela lets me use her lab down the hall, too—and I haven’t blown anything up. This month, at least. Most fire Sibyls can’t be in labs, either.”

  The little shark hovered beside her bed, beginning to look a little worried, though it was hard to read worry on a shark face. “You’re not like most fire Sibyls. I thought you knew that by now.”

  Great. A sarcastic shark. Just what the world needed. Camille definitely didn’t feel like arguing with a smart-mouthed fish, so she said, “Yeah. I know. The Mothers wanted to throw me out of the Sisterhood when I was a kid.”

  At this, the little shark fanned its tail and swept back, its toothy mouth opened in a mockery of surprise. “Throw you—? You thought—” The shark interrupted itself by laughing, and it couldn’t seem to stop for a few seconds. Finally, giving off billowing wreaths of bubbles, it managed to choke out, “They wouldn’t have dared.”

  Camille narrowed her eyes to get a better look at the shark, wondering what the hell that was supposed to mean, but the water in the bedroom seemed to be receding. She could see the walls now, with their cream-colored paint and forest-green trim. The dark greens of her furniture came into view, and the two posts at the end of her full-sized bed. The bedclothes, cream to match the walls, were rumpled around her bare legs, and she realized she was wearing one of her green silk tank tops with matching underwear—silk PJs in all forms and fashions were a guilty pleasure she indulged. The pajama set was pretty dry, but her sheets were damp and the dinar against her chest under her tank seemed to be stuck to her skin from all the moisture she’d shed in the healing trance.

  She had a lot of lamps for a relatively small room—both table and floor lamps—and they were all switched on at the softest settings. Above her head, fastened to the ceiling, six small sets of copper wind chimes danced and tinkled, responding to elemental energy but not communicating any clear messages from other Sibyls, or warning of dangerous paranormal energy. The pictures on her walls, an oil rende
ring of Motherhouse Ireland, a pastel of Motherhouse Greece, a pen-and-ink sketch of rambling, ancient Motherhouse Russia, and a watercolor of the newly finished Motherhouse Kérkira, had all been created by Dio, who was an amazing artist. Dio had framed them all in tasteful wood, stained green to match the room’s trim and Camille’s furniture.

  Camille glanced at her desk in the far corner—small, neatly organized, stacked with pieces of metal and library texts about metallurgy. Nothing out of order. Everything seemed in pretty good shape, so why was she dreaming about a—

  “There, that’s better,” said a hoarse, crackly female voice.

  Shark …

  Camille turned to her left to find the little woman perched on the chair that went with Camille’s desk. She must have pulled it over to Camille’s bedside.

  “Ona.” Camille no longer found Ona’s scarred face and bald head difficult to look at, and her green tunic and breeches fit her so loosely she almost looked like she was wearing Mothers’ robes. Camille realized she was glad Mother Keara and other Sibyls had seen Ona at the remembrance ceremony, or she might be convinced she was dealing with yet another ghost in her life. “How did you get here? Did someone call you and fire up the projective mirrors?”

  Ona’s smile was kind, but her words came out firm and definite. “I don’t need anyone to open channels for me, Camille, and I don’t have to be summoned to know I’m needed.”

  Camille knew that was all the information she’d be getting on that subject. Ona’s blunt style unsettled her, but she was almost starting to like it. Maybe even envy it.

  Right about then, she had a slow, disorganized memory of a whole bunch of pig blood, a big Vodoun god eating people—and the night’s battle came back to her in full. Camille groaned as she sat up and rubbed both sides of her head.

  Then the next memory hit her, and this had a much bigger punch.

  He’s here.

  The thought pounded at her, making her heart beat faster.

  He’s right upstairs.