Captive Soul
Page 33
“And fire Sibyls, when we use projective energy?” Camille couldn’t help the childish catch in her voice.
Elana shuddered. “Fire Sibyls who manifest projective talents could ignite a village, a countryside, or a continent—but it doesn’t stop there. The metals and ores of the earth, the substances that form the earth’s molten, beating heart, they are full of fire. The most powerful fire known to those with elemental talents. That metal calls to fire Sibyls with projective inclinations; worse than that, it obeys them.”
Camille had a sudden flash of volcanoes blasting out of the earth, of geysers of molten stone raining across North America. Something like that could cause earthquakes and tsunamis. Climate change. Any number of natural disasters. She was pretty sure she wasn’t even thinking of everything that could go wrong.
“It’s almost like a fire Sibyl using her projective ability somehow joins all the elemental talents together,” Camille murmured, fists clenched, knuckles pressing into the stone table.
“She does, in a very primal way. She makes them communicate, though fire remains the base of it all.” Elana turned to John. “Fire is very much like air and water, John. It’s almost everywhere, in almost everything. The fire Sibyl with projective abilities can draw it into her, through her. With skill and training, much of what she does will seem like storybook magic.”
“And the cost?” he asked. “Nothing’s free, right? Everything’s an exchange, so what’s the cost—other than the disaster stuff?”
Elana moved her attention back to Camille. Even though John had asked the question, Camille realized Elana wanted her to hear this part above all else. “Most fire Sibyls with any projective ability die young, victims of their own success. The others have difficulty with emotional balance, because they’re always blending their essence with a mercurial and unstable element. It costs them their life, and if not their life, then their health or their mind.”
Camille knew she had to have realized that, at least on some level, since Ona had visited and tried to give her a few of the sentient basics. Yet to hear it summarized so clearly—it was still jarring.
John was tense now, fists on the table only inches from Camille’s. “Life, health, sanity—are those absolutes? Does it always have to work that way?”
“Those are likelihoods,” Elana said, more to Camille again. “I think it’s criminal that your Mothers just ignored you. Left you to struggle with something so immense on your own. You could have died. You could die now if you ask too much of yourself, untrained as you are.”
“Hold on a minute.” John was shaking his head like he wanted to reject most of what he was hearing. “If this is so dangerous, why did the Mothers allow Camille to finish her training and join a fighting group at all?”
“I don’t think they knew,” Camille said. “I think they understood it could cause problems, that sentient talents had something to do with old catastrophes like Motherhouse Antilla, but thanks to the breeding programs, sentient gifts are so rare nowadays that the Mothers don’t really understand them anymore. The knowledge was lost.”
And me with it.
Fury colored the tops of John’s cheeks a deep red. “Maybe they do know,” he said to Elana. “Maybe to the Mothers, Camille’s like a neat, pretty atomic bomb. They know exactly what she can do and they’re just waiting until they need her to set her off. That’s why you asked me to be sure none of her own was watching her, isn’t it?”
Camille felt everything inside her run hot, then frigid cold. “What?”
She glanced from John to Elana, expecting some kind of explanation, but all Elana said was, “I admit, I’ve considered that they do know, and yes, that’s why I asked you to watch for that, John. The Rakshasa nearly defeated the Sibyls when they first walked the earth. Had it not been for women with projective talent, the Sibyls would not now exist, nor would the world as you know it.”
“They know she’s a weapon.” John banged one fist against the table, but it was too solid to rattle. “They know that in the end, she may be their only hope, and they’ll use her no matter what it costs her.” He focused on Camille, his green eyes burning hot, more angry with every word. “That’s not going to happen, beautiful. We’ll find another way.”
But Camille barely heard what he said.
So much made sense now, and it tore her in half that in Elana’s blind eyes, she saw the things she’d never received from her own Mothers: understanding, acceptance, respect.
“If the time comes, John, you must understand—Camille will do what she believes she must,” Elana said. “It’s why she was born, it’s how she was trained. It’s why the universe blessed her with this talent.”
John stood. “But the Mothers didn’t teach her how to use this thing. She’ll tear herself apart trying to do whatever has to be done to win the battles. She’ll kill herself—all four of them, her quad, too. They’ll all die trying to save everybody else using that kind of power.”
Elana’s hand lifted toward her scarred face like she was dreaming. Her fingers touched the scars with a familiarity that told Camille she didn’t even realize she was doing it. “If Camille and her friends kill only themselves in their pursuits, John Cole, we will all count ourselves fortunate in the end.”
Camille thought the top of John’s head might come off, but she had to leave him to fend for himself a few seconds. Her eyes took in the maps, the beautiful maps, with their lines like Ona had drawn on the sketch she gave Camille.
“Who are you?” she asked Elana, because now she needed to know. “Who are you really?”
Elana hesitated, and for the first time all day, she seemed not to have a ready answer. “I died long ago, my dear, yet I live.”
“You were a Sibyl.” Camille was sure of it, though she had no real feel for what kind.
“I died, as I told you.” Elana’s placid expression got tense, but her words stayed calm. “Whatever I was died with me.”
Gently, not forcing her to move at all, Camille turned over Elana’s right forearm, which was so scarred the marks were hard to see—but they were there. Mortar, pestle, and broom around a dark crescent moon, joined by waves to symbolize water.
“You were a Sibyl,” Camille said again. “And you were born before Motherhouse Antilla was destroyed. The wavy lines they added to our tattoos look different.”
Elana looked down at the stone table, and Camille had no more doubts left. She let go of Elana’s arm. “Can you teach me what I need to know?”
“Camille.” John’s voice sounded wary and tight.
“Don’t make this an issue,” Camille said, barely looking at him because she was so afraid Elana would find some way to disappear like Ona. “Don’t make this make-or-break between us, John, or we’ll break right here.”
He was still standing beside his seat with his fists doubled. “You don’t owe the Sibyls anything, not after what they did to you.”
Camille finally took her eyes off Elana long enough to really look at him, to connect with him and try to make him understand. “None of my oaths is sworn to the Dark Crescent Sisterhood. My oaths are all to the weak, the helpless, all those who need my protection—and to my quad.”
The color in his face deepened. “Please don’t head in this direction. Please don’t put yourself at risk like this.”
“She just sighted my gun, John.”
As she suspected, he had absolutely no comeback for this. He understood exactly what she meant, what she had to do, and why. The red drained out of his face and his hands relaxed, but misery rose into his normally bright eyes.
Please, she wanted to say, though she didn’t really understand what she wanted from him. Support? Belief? Respect for her choices?
He would give her all those things, she was sure of it, and she wouldn’t even have to plead. But how could she ask him to be okay with her setting herself on a course that likely would get her and a lot of other people killed?
That would be too much for anybody.
Seconds went by, then minutes, and Camille knew John had taken his leave, not just of the room but of the aqueduct, and maybe of her, too.
“He’s a strong man,” Elana said, moving her hands on the table until she found Camille’s and held them. “He’ll come to terms with his inability to save you, especially as you know better how to save yourself.”
Camille made herself look away from the chamber door and gaze at Elana, who was sitting below the map marked Heaven. “Whether he does or not, this is something I have to do.”
Elana’s smile was kind, but sad, too. “I know.”
( 32 )
John had been official for four days, had his temporary advisor’s shield for three days, had been allowed into report sessions at OCU headquarters for two days, and had been going half out of his mind about Camille for one day, the length of time she’d been gone.
He pushed his way into OCU headquarters to meet the rest of her quad for their report even though they had spent the time Camille had been gone glaring at him and barely tolerating him on patrol. Camille had let them know she was fine, that she had something to work out and would be home very soon.
OCU officers and Sibyls milled in every available space on the ground floor, discussing maps and charts, arguing about strategies, and proposing options to improve their search for Rakshasa strongholds. John wanted to be a part of all that, but he couldn’t focus on a bet right now. He had told Bela that Camille was with the Bengals by choice, trying to figure something out about her projective abilities—something that she could pass along to them, something that might make a big difference in battles even if he hated the risk it posed.
And you’re the one who took her to Elana. Good going, asshole.
Duncan had to tell him more than once to lock his door at night and guard his manhood, because Bela and Dio and Andy thought John and Camille had been fighting.
And had they fought?
John banged open the conference room door.
No. They hadn’t fought. Camille had made a choice, decided on a course of action that would probably get her killed. No way that was okay. She was being unreasonable.
Or maybe, just maybe, you’ve got no idea what you’re going to do if you lose her.
He sat down hard in the nearest chair, not really able to get a good lungful of air or figure out what the hell he was supposed to do next.
Shit.
War was easier than this.
The conference room door opened again, and in walked Bela in her battle leathers. She had a blank, distracted look on her face, like she was completely lost in thought and irritated by even having to be there. Andy came next, wearing leathers, too, and Dio was right behind her in her battle gear. The three of them sighted him like a target and frowned, but went around the other side of his row and sat beside him in the folding chairs, leaving one chair between him and the first one—Bela.
She sort of nodded at him, a combination Hey and Fuck you very much, you bastard who hurt my friend.
God, these women were different. They could be nine different kinds of pissed off at you but still deal with you like a human.
John had no idea what to do with them.
He was about to ask Bela what she was so tied up about, but the door opened again, and this time John’s instincts prickled.
He turned to see who had come in just about the time he caught her light scent of lilies, this time mixed with the tang of fire.
“Camille.” He stood so fast he turned his chair over. Crap. He’d done that in the restaurant, too, hadn’t he?
I’m fifteen all over again any time I get around her, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Her quad was so busy ignoring him that they hadn’t seen her yet.
The room was filling up fast with people as Camille came over to him and stopped in front of him, inches away. She looked … tired. Her pretty aquamarine eyes were sad and sunken, and she was pale. Thinner, maybe. He wanted to pick her up, carry her straight out of the conference room, and hold her all night.
“I’m sorry,” he said just in case that would help anything.
She closed her eyes. Nodded. Opened her eyes. Looked like she was about to kiss him—and pandemonium broke loose because her quad realized she was standing there.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Why? You left us again, and you’re not supposed to do that!”
“I ought to blow you to Greece and back again.”
It was all jumbled as they hugged her, but John could pretty much match statements to Sibyls. Camille hugged each one of them, and John’s arms ached to hold her even though everybody was getting seated and he still hadn’t picked up the chair he knocked over.
Up at the front of the room, Jack Blackmore and Duncan and all the brothers, both Lowell and Brent, stopped jawing. Blackmore turned around and whapped his hand on the long table.
Camille’s quad sat down, and John grabbed his chair and parked his ass as close to Camille as he could get.
“I feel like we’re running out of time, people, though to be honest, I can’t put my finger on why.” Blackmore started talking about new search grids, with the Lowell brothers tacking up charts on the board behind him.
John glanced at Camille, who had her mouth clamped in a straight line. Beside her, Bela was fidgeting like hell, and that was strange, because Bela was anything but the fidgeting type.
They couldn’t go straight out on patrol after report, not like this. Somebody would get their balls—or, ah, their ovaries?—blown off.
The rest of the meeting went by in a hot blur, with John hearing only part of what was said. When it was obvious Blackmore was heading into the wrap-up, he touched Camille on the arm.
She glanced up at him, taking his breath away for a second.
“We should talk, all of us, before we go out.”
“Yeah.” She gazed at him for a second, like she really wanted to talk to him alone but knew they had to wait.
The fact that she wanted that, though, some alone time with him, that felt like a week’s nourishment and good sleep to John. The big-ass knot in his gut untied, and he thought maybe he could make it through the night without losing his mind.
Camille leaned over and said something to Bela, who gave an emphatic nod and made some gestures to Andy and Dio.
When the meeting broke up, John managed to get up without kicking over his chair again, and he made his way out of the conference room, doing his best to clear a path. He held open the door for Camille and her quad, then the five of them silently filed across the hall to the basement door and went down the steps. Five or six people were on machines working out, but John and Camille were able to pull exercise balls, a chair, and a stack of mats into an unoccupied corner.
John had barely gotten himself seated on a mat beside Camille’s exercise ball when Andy turned loose and let fly. “Okay, spill it. What the fuck’s going on and where the fuck have you been?”
“The Bengals have a leader who understands projective energy.” Camille stopped, and John wondered if she was going to hold some stuff back to protect Elana and maybe get herself in trouble with her girls again.
Bela reacted first, letting out a long, slow sigh. “It’s about time somebody showed up with a clue. Who is she?”
“She’s … old.” Camille rubbed her fingers together once, then twice, and refocused on her group. “Older than you’re going to want to believe. She’s given me permission to talk to you. To be completely honest.”
John’s attention snapped to a man walking across the gym, tall and blond, too smooth in his walk to be completely human. It was Jake Lowell, the Astaroth demon. As he got closer, John could almost see the word trouble blaring out of Jake’s blue eyes. Jake came straight to them, not even stopping to greet anyone else.
Ja
ke shook hands with John, saying, “Sorry to interrupt.” His gaze shifted to Dio. “You asked me to look up some information in our archives, and I found something disturbing.”
Andy managed a fairly dramatic groan.
Camille gestured to the only free mat left, right across from her. “Sit down. Let me go first, and if I miss anything, you fill in the details.”
“Fuck me,” Andy muttered. “I’m not liking any of this, and I haven’t even heard it.”
Dio’s expression suggested she was in total agreement.
Bela was looking fidgety again. What the hell was with that?
Camille wasted no time getting back to business. “The Bengal leader, she was changed a long time ago, during the first war with the Rakshasa.”
“No way,” Dio said. “She’d have to be, what, a thousand years old?”
“Yes,” Camille said. “Rakshasa and Created are immortal. But before she was Created, she was a Sibyl, and we have at least one in our number as old as she is.”
Camille explained to the quad how Elana knew way more than most Sibyl Mothers, how she had built an amazing army of Bengals—and then what she knew about projective energy, how to use it, and how dangerous it was. Then she looked at Jake.
“That’s exactly what I learned.” Jake looked serene and relaxed sitting on his mat, but John could sense the frustration and concern coming off him. “Before the Dark Crescent Sisterhood was fully organized and formed, when the Motherhouses had just begun operation, many Sibyls had strong projective talents. They came into play in the first war with the Rakshasa, which was almost lost until—”
He broke off, looking at Camille.
“Until a quad with strong projective talents killed half of them and put the other half in elemental stasis using their projective talents.” Camille touched her dinar. “The reason this coin has the power it does is because the projective quad made it, to keep the Rakshasa trapped in flame form.”