Captive Soul

by Anna Windsor

  Griffen shook his head. In the glow of city lights, stars, and the moon, his hair seemed more silver than blond. “Already in place. I started a second Coven at the same time I was rebuilding the first, and I’ve been training with them on quieter days. They continue to live in their previous homes, and they’re still going to work, so they won’t attract any attention. I can promote as many as I need, whenever I need them.”

  Tarek gave a gesture of dismissal, too quick, he knew, just like Griffen’s shrug had been. Seneca would know that Tarek had had no idea about the under-Coven, not that a culla should be troubled with such menial workings—but still. He should have been aware, just like he should have had a better idea about the night’s events and how they might play out once the battle started. The Sibyl who wrecked their plan to ambush, wear down, and slaughter several fighting groups at once, she was one of the witches who resided in the brownstone. They had special abilities, those four, and Tarek knew he had to deal with them sooner rather than later.

  Griffen’s winning smile was directed at Seneca this time. “Midlevel talent can always be replaced. Every game has to have its pawns, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Seneca grunted, and Tarek appreciated the fact that the man refused to answer. One culla to another, they had come to understand each other, as much as two such different beings could.

  Tarek centered himself and focused on his Brevin identity, on Corst Brevin’s gestures and tones, to keep himself calm and focused. “For our longer-range plans to be successful, Griffen, we must do more than harass and annoy the Sibyls. They must die, and in great number. We must set an example and find methods to share with our remaining true brothers in other locations.”

  Griffen’s teeth flashed as he smiled yet again, though this grin had a wolfish, aggressive cast to it. “We’re working up to that. If we add a few Created to the mix next time along with some of Seneca’s men, and if we make sure our handlers can’t be harmed, we can destroy as many Sibyls and OCU officers as choose to join our battle.” Once more he shifted his gaze to Seneca, though with better deference this time, not making direct eye contact and keeping his tone respectful, if overly excited. “Even better, when we’re set to carry out consolidation of your empire’s power, teams of man-made demons and the Created could provide comprehensive initial assaults, not to mention distractions.”

  “A pleasing prospect,” Seneca allowed, but only after he glanced at Tarek and received a nod.

  “Not unless the Sibyls in the brownstone are neutralized first.” Tarek gestured across the park to the structure he despised so very deeply. “They have more skills than the rest of the elemental witches. Or, rather, different skills that seem to prove more difficult for us to contend with, especially when we don’t know the breadth and depth of those powers. Find out what they’re doing, Griffen. And get rid of them.”

  Griffen’s expression remained placid but for the briefest flicker in his blue eyes. “As you wish, culla. I’ll make that my priority. I’ll bring up the new Coven members, and we’ll do some test battles with lesser groups, then go after the main targets within the month.”

  Tarek nodded. Much better. “Prepare carefully. The more I observe these women, the more I fear we are lacking much information about their talents.”

  Griffen slid from the bench seat, gave Tarek a halfhearted bow, then strode off toward a park exit. He motioned for his strange sibling to follow him, and she did so, still dancing lightly along like she could hear a sweet melody played only for her ears.

  “He is eager,” Tarek said as he watched Griffen and his sister depart. “Sometimes overly so, but he is talented and his Coven is quite powerful when they work together.”

  “His tattoo is of the old Legion cult that once tried to assume power across the world,” Seneca said, gesturing to his left forearm. “This my men have told me after much research. The dye used to make it seems to have some enchantment, the way it moves around his skin.”

  Tarek nodded. “The tattoo is made of elementally treated metals—very rare, very difficult to create and control. Griffen did it himself, with the aid of his sibling.”

  “So he has had intimate contact with the Legion in the past?” Seneca looked interested, but Tarek sensed the deception and knew the man was uncomfortable. “They began well enough, but in the end, they were crazed. Cult-like. They did not follow … sound business practices.”

  “You’re right in that Griffen had contact with the Legion in the past, but as foe, not ally,” Tarek said to reassure his human partner. “His tattoo is more coincidence than a symbol of belonging. He saw it, admired it, and claimed it for his own. All of this information I took directly from his mind, so I know it to be truthful.”

  Seneca shifted his bulk on the bench, and as he had been on their first meeting, Tarek was struck by the hollowness in his clothing, hinting at more weight loss, though the man could spare many pounds as yet.

  “Could Griffen have some method of deceiving you about what’s in his mind and heart, my friend?”

  Tarek was about to laugh and tell the old crime lord no, of course not, when his hand came to rest on the charm about his neck, the one that confused many with supernatural perception about his true origins. His denial died before he spoke it, and he let his human fingers drift back to a resting position on the table.

  Seneca’s frown was visible even with the barest hints of starlight finding their table. “My men have also told me that your Griffen and his odd sister took on some Sibyls themselves recently, in a brownstone they had packed with these … these Asmodai creatures. They fared poorly in the attempt.”

  Tarek maintained his even expression, but snarling broke out in his mind. The girl, Rebecca, had been insisting that Strada was not dead, or had returned from the dead, and was living with those most troublesome Sibyls. Tarek had seen the man in question, and the resemblance was stunning—but any fool could sense that Strada’s energy was nowhere present in that human shell. It was nothing but a Sibyl trick, to throw them off stride.

  Had Rebecca set out to prove her point?

  Or was Griffen making trial attacks without informing Tarek of his failures?

  It took Tarek a few moments, but he tamed his temper enough to speak normally. “I have learned, Seneca, that nothing is impossible in this world, but I would say that if you fear Griffen is laboring for masters we do not know, it’s improbable. Griffen has something he wants from me, something perhaps only I or one of my true brothers can provide, and he works very hard to receive that reward.”

  This seemed to give Seneca some comfort, but once more he shifted, indicating that he had yet another difficult question. “And you’re quite certain this man is human, that he is what he says he is?”

  “Yes.” Tarek felt more confident in this response, though his ever-analyzing mind added, Griffen’s unusual half sister may be another matter, now that I consider it.

  Seneca remained silent for a time, then his shoulders relaxed and he seemed more at ease. He turned his head to make eye contact with Tarek, something he rarely did because he respected Tarek. Seneca only resorted to facing off when he posed the most important of queries, so Tarek was inclined to listen very carefully when Seneca said, “I suppose the truth of Griffen is neither here nor there, as the real issue is this, Tarek—or should I say, to keep in the habit, Mr. Brevin. Whatever Griffen may prove to be, can you and your true brother Aarif control him?”

  Tarek took his time in answering so that he did not seem too defensive, or worse yet, desperate or untruthful, however perilously close to reality those characterizations might be. “Without question.”

  “I am old, and—as you have probably noted—I am sick.” Seneca once more turned to face the darkness and the trees of Central Park. “I have much to do to secure my business operations for my sons, and not much time to do it. Most of our plans ride on the aid of your Griffen and his mysterious and powerful Coven. I hope for both our sakes that you are correct about being able to
control him, else we will both regret it in ways we can’t yet imagine.”

  Tarek swallowed his surge of anger at Seneca’s boldness, because he had to admit the ailing man was correct in virtually every word he spoke. Because of that, he didn’t abandon his agreement with Seneca and kill him on the spot. Instead, he said his goodbyes, then made his own exit from Central Park without looking back to be certain Seneca departed unmolested. Seneca had his own private security, separate from that hired and trained by the corporation Tarek had established under his Corst Brevin identity—and Seneca’s armed forces were never far from him, even if they could not be readily discerned.

  Tarek traveled in flame form tonight, moving with the fluid grace of fire. Burning across the New York City ground all the way back to his dwelling—it suited his mood. It also reduced his need for security forces like the one Seneca had developed.

  If the Rakshasa were greater in number, or the Created could be more sustainable and stable, Tarek would use them to build his own impenetrable wall of weapons and power. But those were aims he could not achieve, not yet at least. Perhaps in the future, once the Sibyls had been defeated and the way cleared for the Rakshasa to move forward without competent opposition, such goals could be established and reached.

  For now, Tarek had one goal outside of seeing to the destruction of the four Sibyls who resided in the brownstone, and that goal was surprising and new. He needed to speak to Aarif, and the two of them needed to establish contingency plans for managing Griffen and the Coven.

  No ruler who loses sight of his most powerful subjects rules for long—that much Tarek had learned in the time before his imprisonment in the Valley of the Gods. His conversation with Seneca had been—how did humans say it? Ah, yes. A wake-up call.

  Perhaps it was time to give Griffen a wake-up call of his own.

  ( 27 )

  Occult Crimes Unit headquarters, sarcastically dubbed Headcase Quarters, was a little pretentious for Camille’s tastes. She knew Sibyls and NYPD officers had to have a place to interact without public scrutiny, especially given the high number of demons wandering in or out at all hours, and sure, the Lowell brothers owned the place and let the OCU use it for free, but still. At night, the outdoor safety lights turned the place into a five-story showplace with lots of balconies, a black metal safety fence, and dual white entry staircases winding up to a brick landing with big white columns. There was even an eagle seal above the white front door.

  Camille jostled through the door with John and Dio, heading for the emergency meeting. Andy had stayed behind at the brownstone to look after Bela. Camille was still aching from the fight, wearing yesterday’s jeans and sweater, running on literally about an hour’s sleep, and worrying about her quad—yeah, this was going to be fun.

  Inside the townhouse, there was a massive basement gym, a ground floor with a kitchen, a great big conference room, and offices. The next two floors had private bedrooms, occupied by visiting demons and officers like Jack Blackmore, while the third floor had a few rooms but also a huge library. Everything was polished hardwood and expensive carpets and paintings, and it smelled like the wake room at Motherhouse Ireland. All polish and fresh linen and floral highlights to hide … well, better not to think about that.

  High-end living overkill, even if it was being put to good use.

  The conference room on the first floor, where the Sibyls and the OCU shared reports, had wood paneling and wooden blinds, a ton of chairs, and a blackboard and long table at the front. Despite the ample space, the room felt small and stuffy when they got inside.

  “I hate it when it’s so crowded,” Dio grumbled under the low roar of officers and Sibyls rattling around and finding chairs. Camille was thankful she heard no thunder overhead. She didn’t like being Dio’s only babysitter, but she had to admit Dio was getting better at not losing her cool so often, even in large groups.

  “Back with you in a few,” John said, giving Camille’s hand a squeeze before he peeled off to speak to Saul Brent, who was hunched over the main table with his brother, Cal.

  Camille watched him go, hoping to have a second to enjoy watching him walk, but she was immediately besieged by Riana’s triad.

  Dio went stiff beside her, but she didn’t say anything.

  “How’s Bela?” Riana asked, her dark eyes, dark hair, and vaguely Russian looks reminding Camille enough of Bela to make her chest hurt. Behind her, Cynda Flynn let off a steady cloud of smoke from her shoulders, and Merilee kept it dispersed with casual bursts of air energy from her fingertips. At least the smoke blocked out the thick scent of leather, wood polish, sword oil, cologne, and perfume collecting in the air.

  “Tired, but fine.” Camille ignored the little flames dancing along Cynda’s arms, though she really didn’t have issues with Cynda—and she adored Cynda’s little girl, who was one of the lights of Andy’s life. “Andy’s with her. Where are the guys?”

  “They’re all with Blackmore getting ready for the meeting,” Cynda said, scooting her red hair out of her eyes. “The Brent brothers are still working the phones and secure e-mail with the rank and file, making sure everybody’s been notified and checking in with other paranormal crime units across this country and everywhere else.”

  “That move Bela made in the meadow—kickass,” Merilee said, and Camille knew she was waiting for more explanation. Earth Sibyls could shake limited patches of ground and move small amounts of earth without making lots of trouble for surrounding areas. The way-deep, very targeted hole Bela had dug was unusual, especially since everyone knew earthmoving wasn’t Bela’s big strength.

  “Yeah. Desperation breeds invention.” Camille smiled and gave Merilee nothing else. Dio, who had serious issues with Merilee and most other air Sibyls, wouldn’t have said a word for love or money, so Merilee didn’t bother to ask. That was good. Camille wasn’t much in the mood for a tornado outburst.

  Nick Lowell came through the conference room door, followed by his twin, Creed, and their brother, Jake. Jake Lowell was one of the few Astaroth demons comfortable keeping a consistent human form, and he really was a gorgeous, ethereal man, with his tall frame and startling blond hair and blue eyes. In his demon form, he had white hair, golden eyes, translucent pearl skin, great big fangs, claws, and a double set of huge leathery wings—but either way, human or demon, his presence tended to get everyone’s attention. People started moving toward seats, getting out of his way, and barely paying any mind to the man behind him, Jack Blackmore, who for once had on jeans and a white shirt instead of his Flaming Bunch of Idiots suit. Camille made a mental note to tell Andy, then see if she fainted.

  Riana and her group went to join their husbands, and John elbowed his way through the milling crowd, pressing his hand to the small of Camille’s back when he got to her. His touch gave her unexpected strength, and she liked the fact he wasn’t shy about putting his hands on her in public. Let everybody stare. Most of the people in the room probably had no idea what to do with John, and they most likely thought she was a freak anyway—not that she cared.

  She caught John’s hand and laced her fingers through his, and with her other hand she gently took Dio’s wrist. “Come on. We better get seats.”

  They jostled around and sat, all leaning forward as one, straining to hear over the continuing noise as Blackmore said, “So, as everybody probably knows, we’ve got Asmodai again, and we’ve had two strikes using these demons within the last month, one small, one large-scale.”

  His dark eyes looked serious, and his too-handsome face seemed unusually pale. His black hair looked tousled, like he’d run his hand through it a hundred times in the last hour. Add that to the imposing figure of Jake Lowell standing next to him on his right like a silent blond thunderhead, and the effect was disconcerting. The twin Lowells on his left only added to the mood, as dark and big as Blackmore in build and coloring, and obviously just as concerned.

  Camille felt her anxiety crank up a few notches. If she hadn’t been so exhausted
, she might actually have mustered some panic. She realized she was still holding hands with John and sort of holding hands with Dio, but she wasn’t sorry. Let everybody else be hard-asses. She hated even hearing the word Asmodai, much less thinking about them or fighting them. If that made her chickenshit, then so be it.

  “I’ve ordered an increase in production on our elementally locked bullets, and every OCU officer should carry elementally treated blades as backups,” Blackmore continued. “Those of you who were on duty during the Legion conflict, share what you know. We’ll have to reorganize patrols, because paranormal activity may go off the charts now that these bastards are back in play.”

  Sheila Gray from the East Ranger group asked, “Have any other cities reported Asmodai resurgence?”

  Nick Lowell took that question. “Not as yet. Seems like this is an NYC exclusive for now.” His gaze drifted to Camille and Dio, and Camille felt their liaison’s concern like a leaden weight descending on her shoulders.

  “Is there any evidence the Legion is making these demons?” That question came from Riana, analytical as always. “Did we recover anything to analyze to explore that?”

  Jake Lowell fielded her question. “Asmodai were Legion creations, but the ritual can be performed by anyone with elemental talent. We have samples of dirt from the earth Asmodai, but no additional artifacts or talismans. Their handlers”—he gestured to the wooden floor beneath his feet—“burned up in the earth’s core, as far as we know, so not much is left of them, either.”

  People who hadn’t heard about Bela’s primo hole digging muttered among themselves, but Camille ignored them. Dio pulled her hand free and sat back, arms folded, and Camille knew she was working on keeping her temper managed, because Dio hated it when anybody said anything about Bela. Well, about any of them. Dio was a little protective, in her own slightly psycho way. John gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, and when she glanced at him, his gorgeous green eyes told her, We’ll get through this.