by Anna Windsor
Around his neck hung a Rakshasa tiger-tooth necklace, enhanced by his own elemental workings. The charm blocked probes of his energy, and it would keep the Sibyls from finding him or anyone he gifted with a similar treasure. The serpent tattoo on his left forearm glittered with life, its elemental paints reacting to the power in the warehouse, and the blessed blood of his father surged in his body. The fingers of his left hand curled around the railing of the third-story walkway he was using to watch the training of his newest fighters below. The trail he was leaving for the Sibyls was, of course, a diversion. Griffen felt certain the Sibyls wouldn’t have a clue about his real intentions until he wanted them to know. Griffen knew how to keep himself and his group hidden from detection even when the Sibyls were on the hunt.
He could feel the energy of the Dark Crescent Sisterhood pulsing through the city like a steady, dangerous heartbeat. He could feel her energy. Andy Myles. If Griffen accomplished nothing else in his life, he’d bring her to her knees and shoot her in the head, just like she’d done to his father. He glanced to his right, at his implacable half sister. Rebecca’s pale blond hair curled in ringlets around her otherworldly face, and her bright blue eyes stared down at the warehouse floor. She seemed oblivious to what Griffen sensed, but the activities below had more than captured her.
She liked blood overly much, or perhaps it was suffering she enjoyed. In so many ways, physically and emotionally, she mirrored him.
Griffen followed Rebecca’s gaze. His new soldiers, arranged in three groups of four by his Coven, had been dressed in all black. They stood quietly in front of the holding cells lining the warehouse walls—cells that had become their homes. The cells had been built small to fit in the space, but they looked more like mini luxury apartments equipped with all amenities, including fully stocked refrigerators and cable with porn channels. The rooms also had bars in the walls and across the windows and doors. The metal in the bars had been treated with layers of elemental energy, linked together until it formed barriers known as elemental locks. Inside the cells, under the influence of those locks, the soldiers became just men again, slow-moving and dull from the controls exerted by the locks and the Coven.
Outside the cells, they had to be controlled by the Coven, Griffen and twelve other men with strong elemental talents. He had chosen and trained the men, and they were loyal beyond all reasonable meanings of the word. Nine stood behind the soldiers, adjusting elemental energies to hold them in check until the trial commenced.
The warehouse’s side door opened, and the other three members of the Coven ushered in a fresh set of captives. Fifteen gang-bangers, midrange punks, had been snatched off the streets just like he ordered, to be put to better use than using each other for target practice. The young men shouted and threatened, but Griffen knew they were just posturing. Disarmed, with hands bound behind their backs, they were no match for the firepower Griffen’s men carried.
Rebecca’s breathing picked up and her eyes got impossibly wider. Excitement. Griffen felt it, too.
A few seconds later, the gang-bangers had been lined up in front of the soldiers. Their captors stepped away and made a show of readying their weapons. The meaning was clear enough. Anybody who turned and ran for the door would get cut to pieces.
“Fight or die,” Griffen muttered, and Rebecca’s squeal of delight made him happy.
When the gang-bangers seemed to fully grasp what was happening, they turned back to the soldiers, who at least had no weapons. Griffen couldn’t hold back a laugh. This warehouse in the Garment District, not far from the crime scene the Sibyls would come to investigate, would be the last place the bangers ever saw.
Donovan Craig, Griffen’s second in command, ordered the other eight Coven members handling the soldiers into position behind them, far enough back to keep the warlocks out of harm’s way. Craig was a big guy, all muscle and beard like a rugby player. Irish by birth, he had a loud determination Griffen appreciated and used as often as possible.
“This bunch looks completely human,” Rebecca said, sounding almost disappointed when she got a good look at the black-clad men Craig and the Coven were about to set loose. “Are you sure anything changed when you gave them the serum?”
Griffen smiled at his sister. “Watch.”
He raised both fists and opened his fingers.
The three armed Coven members sent out a burst of elemental energy that released the magnetic cuffs restraining the gang-bangers. At the same time, Craig’s men released their elemental holds on the soldiers.
The soldiers charged forward, silent against the battle shouts and swearing of the captives. Before the street fighters could take a good stance to throw a punch, the soldiers started killing people. Crushing blows to the face, rib-shattering kicks, organ-crushing grabs—and a few threw down their prey and stomped them to death in seconds. Seconds.
Rebecca’s breath left her in a rush. Griffen thought she would have laughed or run down to join the mayhem if she hadn’t been so shocked. He gave Craig another hand gesture, and Craig’s men restored elemental control over the soldiers.
Like a disciplined military unit, the black-clad men stepped back from the carnage. Soon the Coven would adjust the elemental energies until the soldiers returned to the mental and emotional stasis that kept them manageable between battles. Except for the moans of the dying, the warehouse went silent.
“They’re taller than they were before they took the serum,” Griffen explained to Rebecca, “but just a few inches. Not enough to destroy their natural reflexes or make them clumsy. They’re bulkier in the arms, shoulders, and thighs, too. They look completely human, but you just watched how easily they kill with nothing but kicks and punches.”
Her piercing eyes studied each man as the soldiers stood silently below, never glancing in their direction. “How do they handle weapons?”
“Like they were born to shoot and stab. We’ll give them a trial run soon, a real-life situation, and see how it goes.” Griffen gripped the rail again and resisted the urge to jump up on the pipes and tightrope around the walkway in celebration. “The Coven controllers have more range with these, too—fifty feet, and we’ve pushed it to one hundred without losing a handle on their energy. I believe full remote management might be possible if we keep refining the formula.”
“Why don’t we just make them like him? He’s more effective.” Rebecca pointed below to the only real cell in the room, a double-barred space built into the farthest corner next to the other off-limits room, a small laboratory where Griffen did his most important work. This cell had no television or refrigerator because those could too easily be used as weapons. In the cell, Griffen’s earliest effort at transforming a human with the serum he created prowled back and forth, snarling softly to itself.
“It takes all thirteen of us to control him,” Griffen said. “Too much of his human mind and will asserts itself. He’s good for strategic attacks, but he’s impractical for warfare.”
Rebecca’s bright blue eyes still glinted in the low light of the walkway. “You mean he’s not your slave.”
Griffen caught where this little discussion was headed. “It’s necessary for now, for everybody’s safety.”
“Was it worth it, old man?” she shouted down at the cage. “What do you think of immortality now?”
The creature hurled itself at the bars, making some of the Coven stop the cleanup process and work elemental energies to calm the thing. Griffen reached out and took hold of the chain affixed to his sister’s wrist cuffs. If she tried to incite the creature again, he’d haul her downstairs and out of the warehouse. He told her as much with a stern look, and she went back to gazing down at the leftover blood and devastation.
What is she? Griffen had asked himself that question too many times to count. They shared a father, the most powerful of all demons, a Leviathan, and the last of his kind. He had taken the human name of Bartholomew August and lived for centuries before the Sibyls slaughtered him on a mountaintop in
Greece. Griffen’s mother had been elementally strong herself, a skilled Pagan practitioner who had passed along her talents to her son. With August as his father, he could be nothing short of exceptional.
As for Rebecca’s mother, some secrets Bartholomew August had taken to his grave. Griffen studied his sister’s narrow shape and the unusual features that made her seem much younger than her actual years. Griffen wasn’t certain, but he thought Rebecca’s mother might not have been fully human herself. In his quest to restore his own kind to the world, August had mated with many different types of females. Griffen, August had explained, was exceptional among the offspring, and so was Rebecca. The two of them were closer to perfection, and so August had entrusted them with his legacy and his fortune. Worthy—that was how his father had described Rebecca when entrusting her to Griffen’s care.
Worthy.
Good word.
But that didn’t mean she was human in anything other than visible physical form.
August had also warned Griffen that Rebecca might manifest an impetuous and treacherous nature, especially as she aged. Never, under any circumstances, was Griffen to search for Rebecca’s other relatives. If anyone or anything appeared in New York City claiming to be her kin, August had advised Griffen to kill first and sort for disposal later.
Some people might think the treated elemental cuffs Griffen kept on Rebecca’s wrists constituted paranoia or excessive caution, never mind the chain that linked the cuffs and fastened them to his belt. Those people had never met her, and they certainly hadn’t tried to survive her fits of temper.
When she bored with enjoying the blood-smeared floors below, she held up the cuffs. “Will I get time off for good behavior today?”
“When we get back to the apartment.” Griffen made his smile match Rebecca’s, a mix of genuine affection and murderous cunning.
She shifted her pretty features into a pout. “The elemental locks in that place stifle my senses.”
“That’s the point, my dear. When I know where you are and what you’re doing, you can’t get me killed.”
“I would never harm you.” Wide eyes at this statement. She let them drift halfway closed and frowned like a child desperately failing to earn craved approval.
“Not on purpose, I’m sure,” Griffen said, but he wasn’t sure. Not at all. Hence the precautions. Soon he’d find a worthy mate for her. Perhaps the right warlock or demon, or some other creature Griffen had yet to encounter, could continue the gentling of Rebecca and focus her on her true destiny—to produce worthy offspring and carry on the bloodline their father had given his life to establish and advance.
“Let’s go down to the lab and check on our patient,” he suggested.
Rebecca pouted anew. “Why? He won’t be awake. You never let me wake him on purpose.”
Griffen eased up on her chain lead so she could walk at her own pace when they started for their destination. “Maybe today you should have some fun.”
This time her smile made Griffen shiver.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, and led Rebecca toward the stairs to the warehouse floor.
The first part of the walk through the park to the brownstone went fast because Jack couldn’t make himself slow down. The July heat stuck to him, and the smells of freshly mowed grass, mud, and his own sweat threatened to clog up his senses. Nothing like New York City in the summer. The place could get as hot as any beach—only without all the tropical perks.
“Normally, crime bosses and their foot soldiers slaughtering each other doesn’t raise my blood pressure,” Saul said as they neared the Central Park exit that would take them to the brownstone, “but this is fucked. Sooner or later we’ll be facing some kind of freaky paranormal supermob with God only knows what leading it. I preferred it when supernatural shitheads didn’t join forces with human dirtbags.”
Jack thought about the OCU townhouse, nicknamed Headcase Quarters because of the Sibyls, demons, half-demons, and other creatures lurking through the hallways. “We have our alliances. Guess they had to do something to keep up.”
They needed Andy’s quad at the crime scene faster than right now. Bela, Camille, Dio, and Andy had special skills, an ability to use their elemental abilities to investigate crime scenes and track creatures and objects through the energy they left behind or contacted—but remnant energy faded fast.
“That’s weird.” Saul caught his arm for a second, then pointed at a clump of trees near the exit.
Jack saw some dark lumps on the ground and realized they were squirrels. Looked like dead squirrels, and the grass around the furry little corpses had gone brown and dry. Jack’s gaze moved left, then right, then up into the trees where he presumed the squirrels had been. Patches of dead leaves rustled against full, green healthy leaves.
“What the hell?” Jack muttered.
Saul narrowed his eyes at the dead animals. “Might be some kind of blight or disease, but usually that gets trees or critters, not both at the same time, right? Maybe it’s a new thing.”
“Or it’s something weird, like you said.” Unease made Jack’s neck feel a little stiff, but his instincts didn’t give him a full-on blast of warning. Weird, definitely. Important, probably. Directly related to their current case, maybe not. Time for an executive decision. “Call it in and ask the Sibyls on patrol tonight to give it a look.”
“Done.” Saul made himself a note on a pad he pulled out of his pocket, then retrieved his phone and called in the location and situation.
Jack tried to refocus as Saul hung up his phone, then the two of them angled out of the park, walked past an OCU panel van, and climbed the five steps to the brownstone’s front door. With its rough stone exterior and lacy white curtains, the place seemed normal enough to the casual observer. On the inside, the décor was tasteful and modern, with sand-colored walls and neatly stained trim, but Jack knew he was passing through enough elemental protections to drive a hostile paranormal to its knees on the sidewalk below—maybe even bash its ass all the way into the fast-moving summer traffic on the street beyond.
Saul raised his hand to knock, but the front door opened.
The man standing in front of them looked almost Italian with his dark hair and eyes and his tanned skin. The sight of him still shocked Jack for the first few seconds, even though he’d had a few months to get used to the body John Cole had stolen from a Rakshasa demon. A longtime operative in Jack’s secret special forces, John had traded his military career for the NYPD and marriage to Camille Fitzgerald, the unique fire Sibyl in Andy’s fighting group.
“Knew it was you, Jack,” John Cole said, his nose wrinkled like he’d caught a whiff of five-day-old garbage with his powerful demon senses. “You need a shower.”
Saul grinned. “Maybe it’s your litter box. You should check.”
Before the two of them could throw another verbal punch, Jack said, “We’ve got another victim in the Garment District. I need to talk to Bela and the group—and I saw Andy this afternoon in Greece. Well, it was morning here, but you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, we heard.” John stepped aside to let them into the foyer. Above Jack’s head, wind chimes tinkled softly in the summer breeze, a different sound from the coordinated jangle they gave off when carrying Sibyl messages.
Jack glanced at John to be sure he was serious. “That didn’t take long.”
“It never does. Bother one member of a fighting group and they’re all after your blood.” John’s smile was sympathetic. “You should try to remember that, Jack.” He gestured across the waterproof tile of the living room floor to the leather furniture in the room’s alcove near the kitchen. On the brown leather couch behind the massive wooden communications platform that doubled as a worktable, Bela Argos Sharp sat next to her husband, Duncan, a longtime NYPD officer who’d survived a Rakshasa attack and learned to control the demon energy the attack set loose inside him. Bela’s dark hair and exotic eyes contrasted with Duncan’s all-American brown hair and cool bl
ue eyes, but they moved like dance partners as they examined pictures from the earlier crime scenes.
Dio, the air Sibyl with wispy blond hair and a long, tall attitude, occupied the chair across the table from the couch. Arms folded, she studied the pictures at more distance with Camille. Camille’s riot of auburn hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her pretty face had an intensity Jack associated with her endless attention to detail.
As he got closer, another person came into view on the far end of the couch.
He stopped walking, and Saul literally bumped into him from behind.
Saul started grumbling, but Jack didn’t hear anything he said because Andy was sitting right there, legs drawn up beneath her, studying him with her brown and green eyes. She had on jeans and a green tunic that made her shoulder-length red curls look dark and soft and rich, and Jack could have sworn he smelled her. Vanilla and the ocean, blended in a summer breeze.
Every curve of Andy’s body spoke to Jack, and for one hot and bothered second, he couldn’t do anything but imagine her in her underwear again, wet and vulnerable and beautiful on that island beach.
Had that been just a few hours ago?
Felt like a month.
“Jack?” Saul’s questioning voice poked at his brain from somewhere far away, and Jack realized he was just standing there mute and stupid, holding the new crime folder in front of him like a shield.
“Jack,” Jack echoed, trying to get his shit together and force his thoughts back to business and the present. This little-boy woo-woo crap just didn’t happen to him. It couldn’t.
He dragged his gaze away from Andy only to find her reflection in the host of projective mirrors hanging on the walls around the communications platform. He could see other reflections, too—Saul, John, Duncan, and all the other women, just staring at him, and then the group looked at Andy.