by Anna Windsor
“I am taza Elana.” The woman gestured to herself, then to the silent, staring men in the chamber and the tunnels. “Since you’ve retained your host’s supernatural strength and senses, what do those senses tell you about us?”
John frowned and sampled the air again. “That you’re demons—but also not demons. I smell as much human as I do tiger.”
“Yes.” Elana lowered her withered hand. “We were once human, all of us, before we were scratched or bitten by Rakshasa.”
“You’re trying to tell me that you’re Created?” John gazed at Elana, then glanced at some of the fighters again. No patches of fur, no tails, no crazy fangs or wild eyes like most people turned into demons by Rakshasa wounds.
No way.
These were normal-looking guys, not insane killing machines with shoddy control over their demon essences. They looked like an out-of-uniform army regiment standing around a four-foot-tall blind colonel.
“All Created go mad,” John muttered, repeating the rule he had followed since he started hunting Rakshasa. No Created could be trusted. All of them lost their minds and started slaughtering anything in their paths.
“Not all.” Elana reached out to touch the arms of her nearest fighters, two big bubbas who could have been WWF wrestlers before they ended up in an aqueduct under New York City. “We call ourselves Bengals, and we keep ourselves apart from the creatures who stole our lives—when we’re not hunting them. The Rakshasa Eldest and their minions would force us into slavery or murder, or claw us to shreds on sight.”
John’s gaze traveled from Elana and the bubbas to the six guys who had taken turns whacking at him with dumpster lids in that alley. “They were tracking Strada to kill him.”
Elana’s nod confirmed his suspicion. “When they found you, they sensed something amiss in your essence. You weren’t what they expected, so they brought you to me instead of taking your life.”
John brought his focus back to Elana. “Now that you’ve made your inspection, you know I’m telling you the truth. I’m John Cole, and I’ve got Strada’s body. So, what now? Do we make an alliance and help each other wipe these demons off the face of the earth?”
“Perhaps.” Elana folded her thin arms. “But first I want to know how you came to possess that flesh.”
John sighed.
There it was.
The question he didn’t want to answer, and the information he’d kept Elana from reading in his mind when he let her go sifting around in his consciousness. “That’s off-limits. Sorry.”
Elana’s expression sharpened, like she was sorting him out all over again. Then her strange eyes narrowed. “I think I understand. You want to protect the woman.”
Her casual statement jolted John so deeply he almost jumped to his feet and let out one of the snarls echoing from the back of his mind. His fists clenched as crazy came charging at him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it, or the memories he didn’t really want to ignore.
Auburn hair, so long he could wrap his hands double in the soft strands.
Wide, sad eyes, aquamarine like the ocean after a storm.
An exotic scent, floral, like the yellow fawn lilies he used to gather for his mother in the spring when he was a kid back in Georgia.
He’d used remnants of Strada’s knowledge to shut those images away from Elana, he was sure of it.
So how did she know?
And she did know. He could tell from her posture, from the look on her face. She had some of the information, and she was expecting him to supply the rest.
“You can’t hide thoughts from me, John,” Elana said, gesturing for him to stand. “I’ve been on this earth far too long. When it comes to understanding the ways of the mind and how such powers work, I have almost as much experience as the one who once lived in that body.”
John barely heard her as he got to his feet. He struggled with himself, with a weird, tingling burn starting in his feet and trying to more upward to cook his legs.
What the hell was happening?
It didn’t feel right, and he wanted it to stop.
The snarling in his head got louder. Way too loud.
John sucked in a breath, then let it out slowly, imagining he was back in the desert on a throat-parching hike.
Ignore the heat. Keep the pulse low. Muscles easy. Mind clear. That’s it. Focus. Drive it back down.
He shook his arms like he was loosening up for a run. Drive it back down.…
John eyed the multitude of Bengal fighters standing at an approximation of parade rest. He had spent so many years keeping secrets, it sucked having anyone see him nearly lose control, much less a bunch of demons. Half demons. Whatever.
Yeah. That’s it.
The burn in his feet slowed, then slowly faded. The snarls got quieter, too.
Down … down …
Elana raised her small hands and made some gestures, and the chamber and feeder tunnels began to empty. The two big bubbas beside her took off with everybody else, but the six fighters who had brought John to the tunnel stayed near their leader, standing three on either side of John, positioned to cut him off if he made a sudden move for Elana. These had to be her personal guards, and John was betting only the best of the best got that honor. That was why she’d chosen them to go after Strada, even if it put her at some personal risk, unprotected while they were away.
When she turned her attention to John again, she studied him, this time with sympathy and maybe some compassion. “The transition is disorienting, I know. Growing accustomed to holding the supernatural in your own essence and learning to control it, it’s very difficult.”
John stared at her, caught between rattled and pissed. “What just happened? Did you do something to me?”
Elana shook her head. “You experienced a deep emotional shock, and you almost shifted to tiger form. That’s how most Rakshasa learn to shift in their early days.”
“Tiger form.” John’s own voice fell into the stone chamber and seemed to land flat, echoing in his mind. He knew he had Strada’s strength and senses, but he hadn’t given a thought to having the demon’s shape-shifting abilities.
Not possible.
Not good.
No. Uh-uh. This was just a body with some extras. He wouldn’t be letting his bones and sinews stretch, his skin grow ugly white Strada fur—not happening.
“I can—I almost—” John rubbed the back of his neck. “Am I a Bengal now, like you?”
Elana shook her head again, this time more slowly. “You’re a man in a demon’s body. There is no word for you.”
John’s pulse surged in his ears, the volume of the snarls in his mind cranked up, and his muscles went tight all over again. His feet tingled for a second, but he stuffed down the sensation.
No word for me.
Well, he knew a word.
He had learned it what felt like a million years ago, in tiny Southern churches dotting the Georgia countryside.
Abomination.
Elana’s personal guards looked like they were thinking the same thing. Their very human but large hands twitched against sword hilts, like they truly wanted to use the blades to rid the world of John and the compressed, barely restrained essence of Strada that John was still hauling around in his head.
Abomination.
Shape-shifter.
Tiger-demon.
No fucking way.
Elana’s unblinking gaze held no judgment. “I think you’re more Bengal than anything else, John Cole. You have control of Strada’s spirit, but I think it’s wise that you don’t allow yourself to delve too deeply into his more powerful skills. I also suggest you do not shift to tiger form, even if you gain understanding of how to make the transition on purpose. Strada could overtake you.”
“Won’t be happening.” John made himself breathe carefully, slowly and evenly, holding on to every inch of his awareness. The snarls in his mind died back to a tolerable level. When he was sure he could speak normally again, he asked, “S
o how do I get rid of what’s left of Strada’s consciousness?”
“You don’t.” Elana gave him another sympathetic look. “Battling with the demon king you carry in your mind, that’s the price you pay for this second chance at life.”
Another surge of emotion threatened John’s control, but this time he beat down the sensation before the snarling got louder. His thoughts shifted to the moment when his spirit had entered this body—and, before that, the moment his awareness had passed through the woman who had helped him claim Strada’s flesh.
Camille.
He had shared space with her, only a second or two. A moment of the most perfect peace he had ever known, being part of her, mingling his essence with hers.
“You’re thinking about the woman again,” Elana said, from what might have been a thousand miles away. “She’s a Sibyl, isn’t she.”
Not really a question.
Good, because John didn’t want to answer.
Elana’s smile was gentle. Encouraging. “You would have learned about Sibyls last year, after the Rakshasa attacked your best friend, Duncan Sharp.”
She really did know everything. Whether she’d gotten it from his mind or somewhere else, John didn’t know, and he figured it didn’t matter. If this woman really was as old as she claimed, if she knew as much as she seemed to about powers of the mind, he needed her help—and maybe, just maybe, she needed his.
“Duncan was a detective with the NYPD.” John made himself loosen up again, until he was standing in front of Elana more like a normal guy than a tense soldier ready to grab for a weapon he hadn’t even brought to this fight. “He started investigating Rakshasa killings and thought I was the murderer. The night he finally found me to arrest me, I was tailing the Rakshasa and he got caught in the cross fire. A group of Sibyls saved him.”
Elana’s unseeing eyes fixed on his with eerie accuracy. “Sibyls are an ancient order of female fighters, trained from birth in Motherhouses around the globe. They have elemental power—earth, air, fire, and now, I believe, the water Sibyls are making a comeback from the long-ago tragedy that destroyed them, thank the Goddess.” This time her smile turned very sad, then a little wry. “Like me, some Sibyls can live a very long time.”
“They saved Duncan,” John repeated, still not wanting to mention the woman he was determined to protect, even though Elana probably already knew her name. “Their fighting skills, and the medallion I gave Duncan to keep him alive. It’s a dinar from the Afghan temple where the demons were trapped, and it repels Rakshasa.”
Camille’s still wearing it now, I hope.
“You chose death at the hands of the demons,” Elana said, “but Duncan Sharp used the dinar to hold your essence in this plane of existence. For a time, you resided with him, inside his body. We learned this from Duncan himself, when he was making his own transition into a Bengal from his Rakshasa wounds.”
John hated the thought that Duncan had become part demon because of him. Just another sin and failure to stack on top of his ever-growing mountain of mistakes. Since the moment he saw the Rakshasa break out of their temple prison, he’d been adding crap to that teetering pile, starting with failing to reach the young soldier who had so stupidly wandered into the containment design etched into the temple floor and picked up the dinar.
Elana’s expression had shifted back to interested—and almost needy, in a weird sort of way. “Duncan couldn’t tell us what occurred in the alley the night your spirit left his body. What happened with the Sibyl who helped you, John? That’s what I wish to know, and this time, please, leave nothing unsaid. Your secrets are safe here with me and my guards.”
John didn’t respond. He was fairly certain Elana and her Bengals were good guys, that they’d be no danger to Camille Fitzgerald, but that risk was hard to take.
“I know she’s a fire Sibyl,” Elana added, as if to get him talking. Her white eyes flashed. “And I know her name is Camille.”
John’s muscles tensed, and the nearest Bengal guard reacted immediately, drawing his sword and jabbing the tip against John’s chest. John figured he had Rakshasa resilience now, so if the guard didn’t spear him in the heart with specially treated metal, cut off his head, burn his body and head, and spread the ashes in different locations, he’d reconstitute. Just come back to life, like a cartoon character springing up after getting whacked with a grand piano.
He wasn’t completely certain about that, though.
“I’d die before I let anyone hurt her.” John kept his gaze level on Elana’s face, ignoring the sword drawing blood directly over his heart. “I’ll kill anyone who tries, no matter who, and no matter how long it takes me to find him. Are we clear on that?”
Elana opened her arms and turned up both palms, as if she were sealing a solemn vow with a prayer. “Completely.” She carefully pushed her guard’s sword away from John, and after a stern look from her, the guard sheathed his blade.
“Talk to me, John,” Elana said. “Tell your story so we can both understand what happened. If I have that information, I might know better how to assist you with controlling Strada’s essence—and how to help you keep Camille safe from all those who would harm her for what she did … or what she might do.”
John thought things over for another minute or so. He did trust the old woman, though he couldn’t put into words why. A soldier’s instincts, or maybe a priest’s, or maybe just the hope of a desperate, tired man who needed allies. Whatever it was that drove him, it was John’s turn to close his eyes, shut out the world, and let his thoughts turn fully back to that moment in time when he stopped being a ghost in Duncan Sharp’s head. When he left Duncan and took the body he had now.
When John spoke, the words carried him back, until he could feel and smell and taste the entire scene, and that’s how he related what happened, as best he could.
( 5 )
Camille had never been afraid of dying—but as she had learned all too well, everything in life was subject to change.
Tonight she was scared half out of her mind. The tattoo of the Dark Crescent Sisterhood felt dull and lifeless on her skin as the dark alley near East Harlem pressed against her senses, and her heart pounded harder with each step she took.
Closer.
She was moving closer to death.
Camille could taste death’s coldness in the early fall air and feel its icy stillness biting into her chilled fingertips. Her Sibyl instincts screamed for her to break off, to get the hell out of the alley, but Camille made herself keep walking.
The streets of New York City seemed quiet after a late-season rain. Her black leather boots splashed at the edges of puddles, and blood rushed in her ears. So loud. Too loud. Her breath came out in whispers, stirring against the freckles on her cheeks and her long auburn ponytail.
Her scimitar swung in its leather scabbard and tapped against her calf as she walked. On a chain around her neck, tucked beneath the zippered leather of her bodysuit, the dinar burned against her bare chest like it usually did when she used it to magnify her weak skill at pyrogenesis, but that was the only heat Camille knew in the increasingly cool night air. Damnit, if she were better at making fire, she could at least warm herself up and keep hunting longer.
She really hated giving up early. It felt like letting down Bela, Dio, and Andy all over again. If she didn’t find that cursed demon soon … well, she would. End of it. Her instincts gave a little shiver, and not for the first time in the last month, Camille had an eerie sense that she was running out of time.
She swallowed a fresh rush of dread and fear and knelt in the pitch-dark alley. Her leather-clad knee hit wet gravel as she eased her scimitar’s tip up and back, to give herself enough room to move. Some creature or energy had blown out all the safety lights before she got here. Her Sibyl vision allowed her to see well enough in the dark, but that kind of seeing wasn’t what Camille was after.
She stretched out her right hand over the pavement in front of her. With her left hand, she t
ugged down the zipper of her battle leathers and slipped her fingers inside, to the chain and then the coin underneath.
Drawing a breath of air so chilly that it stung her nose and burned deep in her chest, Camille summoned her fire energy. Tonight it came easily enough, flowing into her from the sparks she could see dancing at the edges of her vision. She pulled it into her essence, then released it again, sending it out through the dinar and her fingers until the ground beneath her outstretched hand seemed to change.
Rippling rain eddies and water-soaked asphalt took on a translucent glow, silver, then pearl, then clear as a sheet of glass. Thin streams of blue flame crackled from Camille’s fingertips, touching the pavement below. As her fire made contact with the ground, dozens of colors blazed into her awareness. She picked up the dull brown energy of human footprints, and the gray nothingness of tires and oil and gasoline. Then pulsing reds and yellows and golds and silvers—different signatures from the city’s myriad of paranormal creatures and humans with elemental talent. And underneath those colors, or more like to the side of them—
There.
The trace she’d been following.
The tracks formed a wide line, radiating a poisonous green and giving off perverted energy that made her stomach lurch.
“Demon,” Camille said out loud, startling herself with the sound of her own voice.
No question about it, and no question about which type of demon had made them. This time she had the bastard, and this time she was sure.
The Rakshasa had definitely returned to New York City.
Camille took in a breath, then blew it out, wishing she could spit fire like some of the fire Sibyls she knew. Instead, she studied the disgusting traces of energy, using her fingers and her fire much more than her eyes.
Rakshasa came in two flavors, Eldest and Created. The Eldest were the original demons, larger and more intelligent, and definitely more powerful than the Created, demons they made by infecting human beings. The trace on the left, Camille couldn’t quite read. It seemed to alternate between natural and unnatural, strong and weak. Probably a Created, or something she hadn’t seen before.
