by Anna Windsor
Dio’s mouth clamped shut. A few seconds later, she muttered. “Sorry. You’re … right, I guess.”
Camille reached out to her, but Dio didn’t take her hand. Camille frowned and let her arm rest against her chair again. “I think these last few years have hardened all of us. Sibyls, I mean. Maybe too much.”
“Losses happen,” Dio fired off without looking at either of them.
“Any loss is too great,” Bela shot back, leaning forward to see Dio’s face even though she was trying to keep her expression hidden. “I say we spend every ounce of blood, sweat, and energy we can making sure none of us goes through that pain again.”
Dio got so tense so fast that Bela was fairly certain she could bounce a penny between the woman’s shoulders and watch it ricochet through the front window. Dio had her head turned toward the kitchen. She snatched her map off the table, and her throat worked as she gripped the paper so roughly the edges tore in her long, trembling fingers.
Camille’s eyes widened at Dio’s display of emotion, and her muscles tightened like she was ready to jump up and do battle. A tiny, tiny bit of smoke escaped from her shoulders, and she leaned toward the weapons closet, obviously ready for anything.
Bela’s nostrils flared at the welcome scent of a fire Sibyl having strong feelings. She waited for Dio to swear or turn loose a howling blast of wind to tear up everything in the living area. Camille could burn whatever she wanted. Andy would put it out. Bela thought about cracking a couple of the walls. So much the better for redecorating. It would be good for all of them to lose their tempers for a few minutes, let out some of the grief. Bela knew she could take it, and she was pretty sure Dio, Camille, and Andy needed it, too.
Out-of-season thunder tickled her awareness for the second time since she came into the living room, and if she wasn’t much mistaken, Dio winced at the sound.
Come on, Dio. Tell me off and blow down some doors. You’ll feel better. We’ll all feel better.
Instead, in a quavering voice, Dio asked, “When’s Katrina Drake’s will supposed to be read? Will the OCU get a copy?”
Bela felt the question like a sharp chop to her midsection.
“Don’t know,” Andy said. Too quiet. Too tense.
Straight back to work again. Okay, yeah, they needed to work. With the Sibyl shortage, they always needed to work—but right this second, they needed to feel.
Dio’s storm-colored eyes met Bela’s, flat and stubborn and already shuttering like she was pulling thick curtains all around her heart and mind.
Damnit.
Her meaning was very plain. The whole feeling and bonding thing—that wouldn’t be happening today.
Bela didn’t hide her frustration. She thought about going back to the basement again, but realized that would be running and hiding. What was she doing, anyway, allowing herself to indulge in fantasies about an unconscious man who didn’t really have a prayer of surviving?
He’ll have it hard, and then he’ll die, just like us, murmured Nori and Devin, and for the first time, Bela wished they’d shut up and leave her alone.
They were telling her the truth, though. Duncan’s plight—that was the reality of it, and it hurt like hell, just like Dio’s attitude and Camille’s broken fire and Andy’s broken heart. And screw Andy, too, for being right earlier, that Bela was trying to get some sort of twisted do-over for Nori and Devin, trying to heal up some of that wound by helping Duncan Sharp recover against the odds.
Bela closed her eyes to escape the silent faces of her quad.
She had to let this attraction to Duncan Sharp go. His life would end soon, no matter what she did, and it wouldn’t end well. It would just be another bunch of pain on top of pain, and she didn’t need that kind of weight on her when she was doing all she could to carry this quad she had been crazy enough to bring together.
When Bela opened her eyes again, Dio seemed to note the tears gathering there. The air Sibyl’s cheeks flushed. Her expression ranged from hard to confused, and finally settled on anxious, and maybe a little ashamed. “I didn’t mean to be such a bitch about the lawyer thing. About—about anything.”
“Thanks,” Bela said, then made herself stop talking through clamped teeth. “If you’d rather one of us flirt with the lawyer, we’ll figure something out.”
“No, I’ll do it.” Dio leaned forward, put a hand on her hip, and managed a little lift in her voice as she said, “I’ll cultivate my curves. They might be dangerous, but they won’t be avoided.”
“Ha—that was Mae West.” Camille faded back into her chair, likely believing the risk for all-out war on the communications platform had passed. “I like Mae West, and I love finding good quotes. Check this one out. ‘He who fights with monsters risks becoming one.’ ” She glanced from Bela to Dio to Andy, then frowned when she seemed to realize none of them recognized her quip. “Nietzsche said that, or something like it. Friedrich Nietzsche. The philosopher? Oh, come on. I know you both studied him just like I did, at your Motherhouses.”
“No, Camille.” Dio actually smiled. “No, I didn’t. Guess I’m less bookish than the average air Sibyl. You can be the house nerd, okay?”
The tang and twinge of elemental energy passed through the room. Bela was about to get excited, thinking it was from her quad—but all across the brownstone, wind chimes started to tinkle.
A warning.
Bela dug her fingers into the edges of the couch cushions. “Oh, shit. What now?”
Andy was bailing out of her chair, swearing and dripping. Dio and Camille had jumped up and taken battle stances near the front section of the living room.
A powerful knock rattled the front door.
Bela’s heart shook with the wood. She shoved herself off the couch and ran for the weapons closet.
(11)
“Friendlies.” Camille’s voice barely penetrated Bela’s haze of fear and determination. “Stop, Bela. It’s okay.” The fire Sibyl stood up from her ready crouch.
Bela’s hand was already on the knob to the closet, and she almost couldn’t stop herself from ripping open the door and grabbing her sword anyway. Dio jogged back to her, breathing hard, and a smattering of wind played across the room. Bela couldn’t see Andy, but one of the fire sprinklers was dripping. Now there was plenty of elemental energy in the brownstone. Finally. When they didn’t even need it.
“I seriously need a long fucking nap,” Andy muttered, doing what she could to dry up the sprinklers. “A week’s worth ought to do it. Camille, please tell me it’s not the next-door neighbor again. I don’t think I can take another round of nosy little old lady.”
“I think it’s Creed and Nick,” Camille said.
Bela’s fingers trembled as she let go of the closet knob and forced herself to settle.
Camille padded to the door, her bare feet pale against the carpet as Bela tried to remember how to breathe. Dio stood herself down by folding her arms and letting out a loud sigh. Andy came into view, moving to stand beside them as Camille opened the door to admit two hulking, dark-headed OCU officers wearing jeans and leather jackets. The two men matched in almost every feature, except one had shorter hair than the other. The Lowell twins, Creed and Nick, as Camille had predicted.
Before the war with the Legion, Bela would have considered killing the half-demon cops on sight, but she was glad to see them now. They had proven themselves loyal to the Sibyls and the OCU, and they were married to Riana and Cynda. Nick Lowell served as the OCU’s official liaison to their quad, and he often went on patrols with them.
Three more men entered with Creed and Nick.
Two wore jeans like the twins, along with Giants jackets. They had sandy brown hair and brown eyes—though one of them looked wilder than the other, with his long ponytail, loud jewelry, and the bits of tribal tattoos visible on his hands and neck. Human, completely, from what Bela could sense, and they had to be brothers. Both were built like football players, but their wary expressions suggested they were either law en
forcement or private security.
The man who entered last had coal-colored hair and a face straight out of some Italian painting, except for the scowl. And the dark suit. All he needed was sunglasses to look like he stepped off the set of Men in Black.
“Wonderful,” Andy grumbled, cutting off Nick Lowell’s initial attempts at introductions. She stared at the man in the suit, her muscles tensing so visibly Bela grimaced, waiting for the waterworks to start.
“Cops and a fed?” Andy’s gaze shifted to Creed Lowell, the one with shorter hair. Creed had once been her OCU partner before her water talents became apparent. “What kind of trouble did you bring us?”
“I’m Jack Blackmore,” the man in the suit said, addressing Andy before Creed or Nick could speak. He jerked his thumb toward the brown-haired men in the Giants jackets. “These two are Saul and Calvin Brent, from the NYPD.” His gaze shifted to something close to analytical as he studied Andy. “So, you’re the one who used to be law enforcement?”
Andy’s smile was halfway to dangerous. “Yeah. Now I make tidal waves and get cooler weapons.”
“Is he FBI?” Bela asked, knowing Andy disliked government agencies interfering with local police business.
Andy’s eyes narrowed, and her cheeks turned hectic beneath her freckles. “I think this one’s worse than one of the Flaming Bunch of Idiots. What are you—NSA? Some black-ops group that runs off the radar? Oh, wait. Wait. Let me guess. Regular Army, pretending to be a fed?”
The dark-haired man seemed stunned for a moment, but recovered quickly. “I’m an OCU advisor, and for now, I’m in charge. Acting captain.”
Andy, who had no doubt been busy forming her next set of observations and insults, froze in place. Dio and Camille moved instinctively toward her, sensing the same gut-level pain Bela felt rolling off Andy like so many ocean waves.
Bela whipped to face Nick Lowell and saw the confirmation on his face. “Out of my hands,” he said, keeping his gaze on Andy.
Nick had partnered with her briefly when she was still OCU, and the two of them had helped bring down the monster who’d killed Sal Freeman. Since then, Nick had been assuming the administrative duties but not the title, because no one felt comfortable replacing Sal.
“One Police Plaza sprang Captain Blackmore on us yesterday, and transferred the Brent brothers to our unit, too.” Creed spoke more to Andy than anyone. His deep voice sounded unusually gentle. “They’re pretty damned good, from what I can tell on paper. I think they’ll be assets against these new creatures.”
Andy didn’t react at all.
Dio and Camille stood less than an arm’s length from her, seemingly unable to take another step, to go to her like sister-Sibyls should and wrap her in their arms. Probably because Andy would have drowned them both if they tried.
Bela really wanted to hit something. Her quad needed a new bunch of stress like they needed a pride of tiger-demons up the ass.
“Where did you come from?” Andy asked Jack Blackmore in an icy voice that would have frightened any sane man.
“Narcotics,” one of the Giants fans volunteered. Saul, Bela thought.
His brother Calvin said, “A desk, but I was Bronx Homicide for years.”
Bela let a measure of her earth energy slide from her body and willed it to wrap around her quad to steady them. To her great surprise, no one shoved away her elemental touch.
“I come from everywhere.” Jack Blackmore sounded suddenly tired and older than he looked. He kept his arms at his sides and held Andy’s chilly stare without flinching. “Anywhere the Rakshasa have been. I’ve been tracking the Unrighteous since the first Gulf War.”
Shock stabbed at Bela’s awareness, and then a vague sense of dread flooded through her. “What did you just call them?” she asked Blackmore. “What word did you use?”
“Unrighteous.” His frown underscored the word, and made it sound even more ominous than Duncan Sharp had done, which was saying a lot. “The Rakshasa have a lot of names, but that’s the one that sticks in my mind. It’s a translation, the best the language guys could do with an ancient word that meant something like unclean, evil, and unstoppable, all rolled into one.”
The Unrighteous will come. That’s what Duncan had told her in that terrible, shifting devil voice, right before he tried to attack. They’ll kill you.
Had that been a threat—or a warning?
Andy was thawing a little. Her posture relaxed enough to calm Dio and Camille, too. Bela slowly reabsorbed the earth energy she had freed, still distracted by the memory of Duncan’s—or whoever he had been at that moment—weird shout.
“We were just calling them kitty cats most of the time.” Andy’s tone was wary, bordering on sarcastic. “The Unrighteous. That sounds biblical. So what are we into here … Captain?”
Blackmore’s deep voice dropped an octave. “Pain. Death. Torture. Evil. Pick your poison.” He glanced at Creed and Nick, both of whom gestured toward Bela.
“She’s in charge,” Nick said. “The mortar, remember?”
“Mortar. The boss.” Saul Brent gave Bela a nod. His gaze shifted to Camille. “Pestle. Communications expert.”
Camille acknowledged him with a tug on her red hair.
Calvin Brent took over. “Dio, you’re the broom, cleaning up messes, always the last woman out of a fight. Andy, you’re the flow, the wavy lines in the Sibyl tattoo, and you’re supposed to be good at healing.”
“Mortar, pestle, and broom around a dark crescent moon.” Saul Brent held out his right arm and tapped the area where Bela’s tattoo was located. “The mark of the Dark Goddess. Do we have it all straight?”
Bela held out her arm for him to see it, as did Camille, Dio, and Andy.
Saul’s grin was bright and engaging. “We got a crash course in the Dark Crescent Sisterhood last night. Followed by a crash course in demons.”
Creed and Nick looked mildly amused. No doubt the Brent brothers had been astounded to learn about the existence of Curson demon officers in the NYPD—never mind Jake, the youngest Lowell brother, who was a full-blooded Astaroth demon who just happened to be good at holding his human form.
Blackmore ignored this interchange and directed his next comment to Bela. “Rakshasa aren’t like constructed demons, and they can’t be summoned, as I’m sure your research has already revealed. They’re much more powerful.” He paused but didn’t wait for a response. “My best operative went down in DUMBO. John Cole was the only person on earth who’s managed to kill some of those monsters before you managed it, which is why I’m here, to ask for your help.”
Bela waited for Blackmore to finish his request. Andy’s posture suggested she would rather not hear the rest of it. Camille and Dio seemed wary, but also resigned.
“The OCU and other police units I helped establish around the world tell me that the Dark Crescent Sisterhood might have a chance against these demons,” Blackmore said. “You proved that to me when you killed one in Central Park.”
“We have a chance against anything that goes bump in the night,” Bela told him, searching his too-handsome face for any sign of emotion and finding none at all. “As Sibyls, we’re committed to defending the weak from the supernaturally strong, and as long as the Rakshasa threaten New York City, we’ll threaten them. We’ll work closely with the OCU like we have since we partnered with them to defeat the Legion.”
“Thank you.” Blackmore sounded relieved, but his dark eyes flickered and grew troubled. He glanced at the Brent brothers, then at Creed and Nick. “We’ve never had a Rakshasa, Eldest or Created, in custody, so I’m sure we’ll learn a lot from Sharp. We’re prepared to share whatever we discover from his examination with your Sisterhood.”
Bela took a second or two to work this out, then caught the frustration in Nick’s expression. Creed was shaking his head, as if he had encouraged Blackmore not to take this course of action.
“Excuse me?” Bela asked as the Brent brothers came to stand beside Blackmore. The three of
them looked ready to move past Bela and search the brownstone top to bottom, whether she agreed or not.
Bela heated up all over from a stinging rush of pissed-off, and her palm itched to hold her sword. The men weren’t threatening her, not really, but they were acting almighty high-handed, and that wouldn’t fly. Even a fractious fighting group would react to that kind of disrespect, and sure enough, Andy was already dripping from both elbows. She tugged Camille with her to take positions on either side of Bela, forming a line between the three police officers and the door to the kitchen and basement. Creed and Nick kept neutral posts near the front door, and Dio was fading back like a good broom, giving herself plenty of room to clean up whatever mess exploded when Bela wouldn’t let the bastards pass.
Dio was also inching toward the weapons closet, using her wind energy to obscure her movements.
“Duncan Sharp was wounded by the demons.” Blackmore’s patient tone just missed condescending. “You’ve had him for days, and you can’t heal him.” He glanced at the basement door. Either he’d studied plans at some city office or Creed and Nick had spilled their guts about the brownstone’s design.
Bela decided she’d emasculate the twins later. “A fire Sibyl Mother is with the detective now, and two more Mothers are resting up for their shift. He’s responding well to treatment so far, and he’ll be staying with us until we believe it’s safe to release him.”
“He’ll become a Rakshasa, if he hasn’t already.” Blackmore was still looking at the door to the kitchen and basement, like he might be weighing his options. “We have a facility in New Jersey that can contain him, but it’s best if we move him before the change is complete. I have a van outside with a reinforced elementally treated steel cage that should hold up against full assault for at least an hour. Saul and Calvin will help me with the transport.”
Nick was frowning, but Creed’s lips were twitching like he wanted to burst out laughing. “Didn’t you hear her, Captain?” Creed did laugh for a second. “The Mothers are here. That’s Sibyl code for ‘You’re shit out of luck.’ ”
