Captive Soul

by Anna Windsor

  This announcement caused some consternation and an outbreak of small discussions. The human-form Rakshasa against the back walls pushed forward to join in the talk around the table, and Tarek didn’t feel any need to stop his true brothers until they once more grew ready to listen. After a minute or so, the swell of words subsided, and attention began to turn back to Tarek.

  Shafeer, with his boyish American sand-colored hair and splash of freckles, became the one to state the obvious, his higher-pitched voice rising over the swells and lulls of his brothers’ lingering conversations. “If the old magicks have survived, the Dark Crescent Sisterhood could defeat us again.”

  Tarek nodded. “If we leave these four alive to fight us.”

  Total silence took over then, extending as the Eldest stared at one another, Tarek, or the table in silent contemplation.

  “Only four?” asked someone from the back of the room. “We’re afraid of just four Sibyls?”

  Bakr snarled, and for the first time since they gathered, Tarek caught a flash of fur, silver as starlight, along his heir’s knuckles. “It took only four the first time. Your memory is short, Dubar.”

  Jabrail, who had elected to present himself with rich, dark skin to match his black hair, asked perhaps the most important question, for which Tarek had been waiting. “If they still have the strength to do so, why haven’t the Sibyls made a definitive and coordinated move against us?”

  Tarek nodded to Aarif, who once more plunged in with eagerness, filling the tense room with his forceful, youthful voice. “They seem uncertain. Hesitant. Tarek and I question if they fully understand their own abilities and how to employ them—which is why we must act with haste.”

  This time the murmurings and conversations were snuffed out like candle flames under a bell. In each set of eyes, blue, green, brown, black, or any shade in between, Tarek saw the unmistakable gleam of sudden optimism, along with hints of lust for the coming fight. The conference room now smelled of sweat and exertion—like cat and claw and fang and fur. Like Rakshasa. Tarek wanted to roar his solidarity with his true brothers, but it was not yet time for battle cries.

  “We have all shared our experiences and reports,” Aarif said. “We have all had our allies search and explore and report. I believe that without question, the four witches skulking here in Manhattan are the only women on earth other than the Bengal bitch who could do us lasting harm.”

  Bakr’s toothy grin lifted Tarek’s spirits even more. “What is your plan?”

  Aarif spread his arms. “Sibyls with the old magicks aren’t as effective in simple combat, so that’s how we must engage them.”

  “I propose we draw them into a closed space with barriers too powerful for them to shatter.” Tarek placed his hands on the table and leaned forward to be closer to his pride. “Then we meet them in force with our superior numbers and abilities, and we tear them to pieces.”

  Ramar’s expression communicated approval, but he voiced the doubt he carried. “What would cause them to take such a risk, to pursue us into what will no doubt seem like an obvious trap?”

  Tarek smiled, and this time he didn’t try to stop his fangs from extending. “Bait.”

  Aarif, black fur showing along both hands, added, “With a strong enough lure, the Sibyls will come.”

  Now almost every face at the table, including those standing behind, radiated anticipation along with approval.

  “Do you propose to capture one of the four and use her to draw her sisters?” Bakr asked.

  “That has much merit,” Tarek said, “but I believe I have determined an even better enticement. If I am correct, they will come for us with great numbers, perhaps their entire New York contingent, and their human law enforcement associates as well.”

  No one questioned him on this or asked him for more information, and Tarek knew he had his pride’s total trust and support.

  Hasram’s hectic red coloring had settled, and he now seemed to be calculating his own portion of the battle plan. “How will we contend with the Sibyls who do not have the old magicks—the ones who do fight well in close combat?”

  “We will leave their destruction to our allies,” Aarif said, glancing at Tarek for approval, which Tarek gave with a nod. “The sorcerer and his Coven will defend against the demons and paranormals who fight with the Dark Crescent Sisterhood. Our human friend who so generously gifted us with this house, he and his many foot soldiers will meet the other Sibyls in battle, with Created for shields. Sibyls have no natural resistance to bullets.”

  Tarek strode to the wall opposite the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows, and he opened two wooden panels to reveal a white board on which he had drawn a diagram of the location where he planned to carry out his ambitious plan.

  When he looked back at his true brothers to gauge reactions, he saw fangs and claws and fur. He saw gleaming eyes and heard the untamed snorts of approval. The splendid scent of tiger filled his nose, and he felt his own fangs extending.

  “I take it,” he growled, almost overrun by his own elation, “that we’re all in agreement.”

  The dwelling Seneca had provided offered four stories of luxurious rooms, baths, and relaxing areas, but the Eldest chose to congregate for a human-style meal, refreshments, and companionship in the ample walled backyard, beneath leafless trees and among the dead remnants of flowers and bushes. Tarek found the chilled air refreshing, and the stark landscape only fueled his desire for the upcoming battle. Their first move would be brutal indeed, and he savored even thinking of it—though he knew he had a small chore to perform, just to ensure that all went as he planned.

  That chore presented itself in a matter of minutes, as Tarek knew it would.

  Dressed in jeans and a black sweatshirt, Griffen came out the back door of the house, walking quickly into the barely illuminated night. “Tarek,” he called, tension obvious in his voice. “Has Rebecca been here? I can’t find—”

  Griffen’s breath streamed around his face in ragged, misty ribbons, and the scant moonlight caught the exact moment when he took in just who—and what—he was approaching. He came to a clumsy halt when the crowd of Eldest ceased conversation and turned as one to face him.

  The sorcerer’s usually arrogant expression faded, replaced by naked shock, then by a flat, neutral mask Tarek took for barely concealed terror.

  Good.

  Aarif’s lips twitched, but he held back his mirth, and Tarek appreciated his youngest true brother for his restraint. He didn’t want Griffen afforded the slightest measure of comfort or reassurance. The sorcerer had become complacent in his dealings with Tarek and Aarif, perhaps even thinking of himself as equal in stature and status. To come face-to-face with the full measure of Rakshasa power—the strain showed instantly in the dulling of his blue eyes and the rubbery loosening of his arms.

  Tarek gestured to his brothers to resume their festivities, and he and Aarif took Griffen by both arms, helping him walk back to Seneca’s mansion. Once they reached the massive kitchen with its polished stone countertops; its hanging racks of utensils, pots, and pans; and its steadily crackling fire on the hearth that also opened onto the main living area, Tarek let Aarif hold on to Griffen while he faced the sorcerer.

  “You—you didn’t tell me,” Griffen said, still rattled, but having regained enough composure enough to try to meet Tarek’s gaze. “I didn’t know to expect … company.”

  It took some doing, but Tarek calmed himself and chose his words with care and deliberation. “We haven’t been honest or open with each other of late, have we, my friend?”

  Griffen’s eyes darted from Tarek to the back door and back to Tarek again. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  It was a challenge to Tarek to keep his human form. Good practice, but difficult. “Did you truly believe I would allow you or your Coven to overshadow me?”

  Griffen’s mouth came open in mock outrage. “I’m not trying to—”

  Aarif remained in human form but for his fully extend
ed claws, which he raised to Griffen’s throat with a none too gentle warning snarl.

  Tarek lifted one finger to his lips, and Griffen fell silent, though his blue eyes now burned with an indignant rage.

  When Tarek was certain he could speak without lunging at the sorcerer, he said, “It took me some time to understand that your brilliant charms to repel energy also repel my ability to track you and your sister, your thoughts, and your activities. I corrected that oversight some time ago.”

  Griffen’s color turned pasty, though the rage didn’t leave his eyes. Tarek could tell he wanted to ask Tarek how he’d made that correction, but common sense likely gave him the answer before he voiced the question.

  “I didn’t know about your encounter with the Sibyls until after it occurred,” Tarek said, “but I know where you’re keeping your Coven and I know the identity and location of each member of your under-Coven. I know all of your movements since the failed battle in Central Park, and I must say, I’m not pleased with the amount of contact you’ve had with the other Balkan families, or with the Russians or the Italians.”

  Griffen fidgeted in Aarif’s grip. “I’m trying to build allies. Our human army. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  “You’re trying to build your human army, held together by fear of my power.” Tarek let out a low, hungry snarl. “You have forgotten who serves whom.”

  Somehow the sorcerer managed to go totally still and make his voice sound amazingly earnest. “I haven’t betrayed you, culla.”

  “Not yet,” Tarek growled. “And you will not have the chance.”

  Tarek nodded to Aarif, who released Griffen. Griffen rubbed his neck, clearly checking to see if Aarif had broken the skin on his throat.

  Seneca is a wise man, Tarek thought, though he hated that his human ally had noticed so much that Tarek himself had missed.

  Griffen had feigned such interest in becoming Created to ensure his immortality and his power over the dominating army Tarek would one day build to do his bidding, once he had proper control of the human population. Tonight, his fear of infection put a lie to everything Tarek had believed about the man. Tarek’s lips curled away from his human teeth, and he longed to shift to tiger form and chew the human down to bones and gristle.

  The sorcerer seemed to understand that he had given himself away, and his pale face went suddenly dark and sour. His fingers twitched like he might be considering drawing on some of his considerable elemental talents, but Tarek and his true brothers had worked some old magick of their own, making this kitchen and the wine cellar below it an elemental dead zone. Griffen would not be able to draw on his protections here.

  Griffen glanced around, eyebrows pulling together as he realized his helplessness and his peril.

  Oh, how Tarek longed to spill the sorcerer’s entrails on the smooth, modern stone floor—but unfortunately, he needed what Griffen could do, at least for a short time in the future.

  “Since you no longer desire to keep our original bargain, I have a new incentive for your cooperation.” Tarek gestured to the door at the back of the kitchen that led down to the wine cellar.

  When Griffen didn’t move, Aarif walked to the cellar door and opened it. He gave Griffen a sarcastic bow, and gestured to the darkened stairs winding down to the cold chamber beneath the earth.

  When Griffen made no attempt to walk to the door, Tarek gave him a warning growl. “Will you use your own legs, or shall I assist you?”

  Griffen’s eyes flared for a moment, his fingers curling to fists, but he made no response. After a few moments of breathing rapidly, he headed for Aarif, faced off with him for a moment, then turned and marched down the stairs. Aarif followed, and Tarek brought up the rear, fastening the cellar door behind them.

  Before Tarek reached the final step, he heard Griffen cry out—a moment of high human emotion, true pain, and definite fury. He envied Aarif the pleasure of seeing Griffen’s unguarded expression.

  Tarek stepped onto the cellar’s cobblestone floor, gratified to see the six Created he had selected for this duty facing him with silent dignity. They were each in full tiger form, golden eyes bright with intelligence and, thankfully, sanity. He had armed them with swords and rifles to complement their impressive fangs and claws, and once he and Aarif took Griffen from the cellar tonight, these loyal children would slaughter anyone who attempted to enter the space without Tarek’s leave.

  Tarek turned to his right, where rows of wine racks filled the wall in front of Aarif and Griffen. The bottles had been removed to make room for the elementally treated shackles. She had been placed in a semiconscious state using an injection of Rakshasa venom balanced with metal extracts, opiates, and elemental fluids to keep the venom temporarily inert. The shackles fixed her limp, unconscious body to the wooden racks at the wrists and ankles. A flat, band-shaped clamp held her head back to prevent her from leaning forward until she slowly suffocated. In a gesture of mercy, Tarek had left the girl clothed, and he had hooded her so her slack-faced drooling didn’t offend him.

  Still, Rebecca Kincaid was recognizable by her size and shape alone. Her slight frame seemed unnaturally small against the cuffs and chains.

  Griffen didn’t take his eyes from Rebecca, and his words left him in a harsh rush. “Let my sister go, or I’ll kill you all.”

  Tarek allowed himself a chuckle at the sorcerer’s expense, and the sound bounced through the little cellar. “If you had the power to do that, you would have acted by now. We both know you don’t.”

  Griffen turned on Tarek so fast and fiercely that Tarek actually knew a moment’s startled doubt, but he quickly read the mix of abject rage and helplessness on the sorcerer’s face. He took a slow breath of the cellar’s air, which still held a hint of wine bouquet from bottles that had been broken in the removal, then he held up his hand in a calming gesture. “She is unharmed and safe for now.”

  He explained about the stasis induced by the inert venom, and the simple injection it would take to activate that venom.

  Griffen’s gaze whipped to his sister, and Tarek knew the sorcerer wanted to run to her and rip her chains free of the wine racks. Aarif tensed, ready to stop him if it came to that, but Griffen held himself in check.

  “When the four Sibyls who concern me are dead,” Tarek said, “I’ll administer an injection that dissolves the venom and return her to you undamaged.”

  Griffen took this in with another modicum of self-control, impressive for a human. Tarek knew better than to let him regain his emotional balance, so he moved closer to the sorcerer, violating the man’s sense of safety in the ways he knew Griffen would despise the most.

  “If you betray me or disappoint me in any way, she’ll be turned and used as the Eldest see fit.” Tarek knew his own smile was cruel now, as it had to be. “When we tire of her, she’ll be put to death.”

  “We will not spare her any pain,” Aarif said, gazing at the girl in a fashion that suggested he would very much like to have some time with Rebecca and inflict that pain himself. “Her suffering will be proportional to your failures.”

  Griffen went an unpleasant shade of purple, but his mouth remained firmly closed.

  Tarek understood the sorcerer’s feelings, though he felt no sympathy. Rebecca was Griffen’s only real companion, a pride of one, but Griffen’s pride nonetheless. If Tarek were in the sorcerer’s position, he would do all he could to retrieve his kin and protect her from pain.

  After many long, silent seconds, the sorcerer spoke through his teeth. “What do you want?”

  The enraged submission in Griffen’s tone pleased Tarek. Better. Things were already improving between them.

  “I need your assistance in retrieving the lure I intend to use to hook the Sibyls, and when the Sibyls take the bait you will fight with us and help us to destroy the four witches with the old magicks.”

  Griffen let out air through his nose, loudly, almost a snort. “And after that?”

  “Rebecca is yours again, we pa
rt ways, and you will be free to pursue your own desires and aims. And I—” Tarek leaned into Griffen’s face, letting his claws extend before he put his hand on the back of Griffen’s neck and pulled him forward until they touched at the forehead. “I will be free of you. If you cross my path again in the future, I’ll rip out your throat and feed your carcass to the Created.”

  He waited, his eyes inches from Griffen’s gleaming blue orbs.

  “I’ll do it,” the sorcerer said, though Tarek knew Griffen would rather bring the mansion down around them than agree to surrender whatever it was he had been plotting outside of Tarek’s awareness. Whatever it was didn’t matter in the least to Tarek, not now that he had regained control of the servant he had once counted as his most valuable tool in the Rakshasa’s bid to regain their former glory and happiness.

  Tarek let Griffen go. “Report to me daily by noon with reports of your Coven’s progress and the preparation of the Created for battle, or your sister will meet her fate.”

  Griffen’s single nod was so stiff Tarek thought it a wonder the man’s neck didn’t crack at its base.

  The sorcerer spent a few long seconds studying his chained sister, then made his way up the steps and out of the wine cellar.

  “Should I follow?” asked Aarif, who unbeknownst to Griffen had been the sorcerer’s shadow since Tarek realized he needed more direct means of tracking the man’s activities.

  “No. It no longer matter whether or not he complies.” Tarek patted Aarif on the shoulder, promising himself that he would never again lose sight of whom he could trust. “Either he reports to me and I see progress, or we kill the girl, slaughter his Covens, and have done with them.”

  “But the battle—” Aarif began.

  “The Coven is important to our aims, yes, but we could succeed without them.”

  Aarif’s bow was graceful. “Culla.”

  Tarek’s heart swelled anew at his true brother’s loyalty. They had come so far since the days of Strada’s leadership, when Tarek had taken regular beatings for disagreeing with the older brother he now missed with a reasonable detachment.