by Anna Windsor
His fists clenched in her hair and he had to let out his groans, let his body move with her as she stroked with her hand, her mouth, pulling him in and out of paradise. When he looked down at her, she was stretched across the bed naked, the curve of her firm ass rising as her legs crossed at the ankles. Her toes stretched and wiggled like she was thoroughly enjoying herself.
John was more than enjoying it. He was hostage. Completely captivated. He’d had plenty of experience, but nothing like her, so light but so powerful and intense. He gave her control and didn’t want to do anything else. Sweet God, that tongue—
His hips started to move. Sweat broke out along his shoulders, his back, and she kept sliding up and down on him, taking him in completely, then sliding him out again, hand and mouth, hand and mouth.
“Can’t hold it much longer,” he told her to warn her in case she wanted to ease up and finish with her hands, but she didn’t slow down. She went faster, a little harder, and purred her satisfaction.
The vibration drove him right over the top.
John’s body jerked and knotted, and he shouted with his release. She didn’t let him go, didn’t back off, taking every bit he could give her and making his pleasure last until he was completely spent. He lay back on the pillows—more like collapsed—wiped out from the incredible sensations, still running her soft hair through his fingers.
“You’re incredible,” he said, not able to get his voice louder than a cracked whisper.
Camille kept touching him, softer and slower, letting every last bit of energy play out of him before she let go. Then she moved herself up along his body, warming him an inch at a time.
“I was thinking the same thing about you,” she murmured, her breath hot against his belly. “Incredible.”
Her lips eased up to his chest, then she slid her nails across his nipples, sending tiny electric shocks through every muscle he had. John stood the subtle torture as long as he could, then pulled her into his arms and cradled her under his chin. For a time, they didn’t speak, because no words seemed necessary. John thought he could lie there forever, demons and the world’s needs be damned.
It was Camille who broke the silence gently. “Thanks for coming home. I was afraid you wouldn’t.”
John held her closer and closed his eyes as he kissed the top of her head. “I debated hitting the road. After what that girl did to me and how easily she did it, I don’t feel like I have as much control over Strada as I thought I did.”
“I don’t know any way to defend against the energy that girl used to attack you, except maybe the paranormal technology in that tiger tooth necklace we retrieved—if Bela can analyze it, and if we can turn the energy and make it stable.” She ran her nails over his chest again, giving him those shock-tingles. “I’d say that’s a long shot.”
John didn’t hold out much hope for that, either. Anything created by Rakshasa and sorcerers couldn’t be good. “Might give us more insight into why we haven’t been able to find any trace of the Rakshasa, if Tarek has his boys using those pendants.”
Camille’s nails drummed across his skin. “But how would they extend the protection to entire buildings? Unless you think the Rakshasa just have Eldest in town and they aren’t building hordes of Created they would need to hide.”
“Maybe not here,” John said. “Maybe they’re keeping the little kitties salted away somewhere, with one of their new criminal element allies.”
She went quiet, maybe thinking, maybe realizing they had just made love for the first time and now were talking about hunting demons instead of what to do next in the relationship.
John thought about that for a second and realized he was totally okay with it. Hell, he had dreamed about being able to be so relaxed with a woman at other times in his life. Did they have to analyze every little thing?
This thing with Camille, it was different in every way. It was just … happening as it happened.
“When you’re not working out with the guys at OCU headquarters, where do you go?” she asked, trailing her fingers under his chin in small, relaxed circles.
“Sometimes to my apartment, or to the park to run.” John caught her hand in his, rubbed her knuckles, debated half-truths, and decided honesty was the best option, even if it carried some risks. “Sometimes I train with some other fighters.”
“The Bengals. The ones who helped Duncan?” Camille slid off him and rose beside him, her aquamarine eyes bright with interest. “Mrs. Knight explained about that when we first learned about the Bengals, though she didn’t give any specifics. Are they good?”
John gazed at her, realizing she’d been hoping for this answer when she asked the question—though he had no idea why. “They’re the best warriors I’ve ever taken on.”
She chewed her bottom lip for a second, probably not trying to look adorable, but succeeding anyway. “The next time you’re headed there, can I go with you?”
That caught him completely unprepared. His breath slowed and he almost pulled away from her, but he made himself be still and think.
Come on. She has no idea the weight of what she’s asking. Just be straight with her.
The best he could offer was “I don’t know.”
She looked down at the bed, clearly disappointed. “I understand how secret everything has to be. I’ll be happy if you just ask—you know, whoever’s in charge. If that’s okay.”
God, he hated seeing her disappointed in any way, even over this. “If I knew what was on your mind, it might be easier to make the request.”
Camille kept her eyes on the sheets. “They know techniques I don’t know, so I could learn from watching, or they could teach me. I want to keep getting stronger every way I can, especially since I’m being careful with projective energy.”
John pointed to the burn holes all around them on the sheets. “It’s not like you don’t have the ability to make fire. You burned plenty when we got hot enough, beautiful.”
He could see her frowning even though she wasn’t looking at him. “If I were a re—I mean, a normal fire Sibyl, I really would have scorched the place.”
Ouch.
John was pretty sure she’d almost said If I were a real fire Sibyl. He reached out and stroked her cheek with his fingers.
No way he could stand her seeing herself as inferior to anyone, for any reason. Her analogy came back to him then, the one she’d used at the restaurant about good soldiers who couldn’t shoot as well as the rest of their squad.
John had worked with men like that before, and he knew from experience that nothing he could say would make those soldiers feel any better about themselves. He just had to teach the guys the tricks of the trade. He had to help them learn to shoot straighter.
Camille’s fire, that was a whole different ball game. He had no idea how to help her tap into that skill, but if fighting better was what she wanted, he could do something about that, couldn’t he?
John mentally went over his agreement with Elana about not revealing the Bengals to anyone who didn’t already know about their existence. Well, Camille knew. Her sister Sibyl, the mortar of her fighting quad, was married to a Bengal. That qualified.
Showing her the hideout in the Old Croton Aqueduct, that might be dicey, but Elana had taken a special interest in Camille. She had wanted Camille safe, so maybe she’d accept a visit. If she wasn’t inclined to be hospitable, Camille might get the sparring she was looking for—only not the way she intended.
“Next time I’m due there, you’re with me,” he said, tousling her hair. “And if I were you, I’d wear something with padding—and bring that big pocketknife. For now, though, we need to get up and eat. Patrol comes early, doesn’t it?”
But she started kissing him again, and he was pretty sure they’d be grabbing one of Andy’s weird sandwiches on the way out the door.
( 24 )
If Camille had kept a diary, she might have been writing something like this:
Endless weeks of dock watching with
zip to show for it: about as much fun as picking flies off a horse’s ass.
Raspberry, pecan, and cheddar sandwiches on pumpernickel made by Andy: good for a few burps with interesting flavors.
Nonstop pre-patrol sex: perfect.
“It still feels weird,” John murmured to her, “doing this with other people again.”
Camille shivered from the dark, dank cold, then shifted on her haunches and glanced at him, gratified that he was still just as handsome as he was five minutes ago. The OCU body armor Blackmore and his buddies had loaned him the first night he went out with the Sibyls fit him like a sleek black glove, even though he griped that he’d gotten out of the habit of body armor when he fought demons. Kevlar didn’t help much against prehistoric-sized claws and teeth. Neither did battle leathers, but Camille had them on anyway.
John was crouched beside her in the shadows on her right, while Bela and Andy, both in full battle gear sans face masks, knelt on her left. Dio was somewhere in the night, guarding them from behind and above. They were on dock duty again, hidden from the world by two rock retaining walls and a big blue trash bin. Elsewhere in the city, the North Manhattan triad was busy canvassing for any hint of Rebecca or Samuel Griffen, or Tarek’s alternative human identity of Corst Brevin. Every other available patrol was managing the usual—Vodoun rituals out of control, renegade Pagan practitioners and other types of troublemakers, people selling real paranormal charms or artifacts (whether they knew it or not), kids with some elemental ability making mischief, and the hundreds of frauds and phonies who liked to play at supernatural talents to con people out of their money.
Camille never thought she’d miss fortune-teller sweeps, but at the moment, chasing a bunch of idiots down a back alley while they frantically shed Tarot cards and crystal balls actually seemed appealing. At least all the running might keep her warm.
John’s breath rose in steady, feathery plumes as he took his turn studying the nearby dock with night vision binoculars that had special Sibyl-added glass that would illuminate demon trace in addition to normal infrared heat signatures. Now that he’d been on patrol with them enough times, he was starting to get the hang of the lenses.
“Flecks of red,” he said. “Living creatures, probably mice or rats—and some trace paranormal plumes, minor, either old or weak.”
The cold night air smelled like the water, but she didn’t catch any whiffs of cat piss or even the stench of a random dead body, though the occasional icy breeze across the trash bin was a little hard to take. She knew she needed to stay on full alert, but each night they came out and found nothing, it was getting harder to feel anything but increasing irritation—and the slow deadening of hypothermia.
John coughed when he got his own faceful of chilled trash bin stench. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Demon super-scent ability, pretty easy to use, but not something I’d recommend. I bet Spider-Man didn’t have this much trouble getting used to his radioactive spider powers.”
He handed the binoculars to Camille.
“I bet Spidey slammed into buildings and broke his dick ten or twelve times,” Andy muttered. “That just wouldn’t be appropriate to put in comic books. Anything, Camille?”
A minute or two later, Camille sighed. “Nothing but rats. Probably suffering from frostbite on their little rat feet.”
When she was sure the lenses wouldn’t tell her anything more, Camille lowered the binoculars and raised her hand over the dinar, letting her fingers hover above the circle the coin made in her bodysuit, but she didn’t unzip the leathers to touch it. She was getting to the point where she didn’t have to make direct contact to send out her energy. What little bit Ona had taught her made it that much easier.
Camille had noticed that Bela wasn’t touching her copper charm as much, either. Maybe projective talents got stronger with use. That, or Camille had scared the bejesus out of her with their conversation in the lab.
After a minute or so, Andy gave up on her probes. “Nada. All these nights in a row with no pig blood thrown in my face—I shouldn’t be bitching, but this whole dock-search thing has been a giant bust so far.”
“Are we calling it?” Camille asked Bela.
“Yeah, we’re done.” Bela gave a hand signal to a nearby rooftop to bring Dio down. “We’ll check off another bunch of grid sections and move on tomorrow night. Right now we need to make a pass through the southern part of Central Park before we head in for the night.”
Andy’s groan probably carried into New Jersey. “If there’s any voodoo shit going on, John can handle it. I’m keeping my blood-free streak going, damnit.”
“Agreed.” Bela watched as Andy stowed the binoculars in a pack around her waist, then winked at Camille before she gave John a quick glance and smile. “You kicked ass with a god before, John. Think you could do it again if we run into another pissed-off victim of a summoning gone wrong?”
John gave Camille his best sly look. “I’ll try, if she’ll loan me her scimitar.”
“Not happening.” Camille reached out and rattled the hilt of the broadsword he was carrying. “You’ve got your own blade, and you’re decent with it now. Use it in good health. Besides, nobody summons loas in Central Park.”
“Stick to the gun,” Andy told John. “Your Glock has a sweet grip and nothing works better than elementally treated bullets in most circumstances.”
“I like Camille’s sword better,” John tried again, and Camille realized he was hoping he was needling her at least a little bit.
“Fuck off,” she said, just to make his night.
His grin definitely made hers.
Bela ignored them both, pointed in the general direction of Central Park, and said, “Move out.”
Camille started walking, and John fell in beside her. She was surprised he could follow Bela’s lead so easily, especially after all his years of working alone and rogue, off any grid or chart or accountability ledger. It seemed so … normal, having him there with them.
“I’m glad I’m with Sibyls and not a bunch of swaggering dicks trying to one-up the next guy,” he said, like he was following her line of thinking. “That kind of banter’s comfortable, but it can get old.”
Camille didn’t think working with John would get old anytime soon, and she was glad he was loosening up on the whole swearing-around-women thing.
“As an added bonus, in quieter moments, I get to look at you,” he went on, keeping eyes forward, a grin still playing at the lips she wanted to kiss even right now, when she absolutely couldn’t. “Any idea how gorgeous you are with that little athletic body in those battle leathers?”
“Behave, John,” Camille said as she led the way toward Twelfth Avenue, hoping he wouldn’t behave, but knowing he would because they were on point. Bela was close behind them, with Andy next in line and Dio far to the rear, holding perspective on the whole area, ready to strike from a distance if something attacked. So far, Camille wasn’t sensing any paranormal energy out of the ordinary, but she stayed ready. John walked a little faster beside her.
“When I fought with my first group, there were a lot more Sibyls in New York City,” Camille said as they crossed through traffic. “We covered set territories, with rotating patrols so nobody got dog-ass tired like this.”
“You lost a lot of fighters.” John touched her elbow as she cleared the far curb. “Must have hurt like hell.”
“Everybody took hits during the Legion war,” Camille agreed, leaving off the reality that she and the other members of her quad had suffered some of the most brutal losses of all.
“The bad guys never seem to lose as much as the good guys.” The pain that crossed John’s face made Camille hurt, but she wasn’t arrogant enough to think she could fix it. She knew better. Her own wars had taught her that much. “Maybe we can help each other avoid more losses.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“No, thank you, Camille.”
“For what?” She glanced at him again, surprised to see the expression
on his face.
She turned her attention back to the sidewalk, moving fast along the route, making sure nobody looked at them too long. Just a bunch of actors in leather, playing a scene, right?
“Thanks for not trying to give me a load of stuff about how everything gets better with time,” he said.
“It never gets better,” she admitted. “My mother, my first triad, everybody I’ve lost—they’re still living with me, haunting me in their own way. So, no. It never gets better. It just gets further away.”
“Yeah.” John’s gaze stayed on the sidewalk. “That’s my take on it so far.”
It took a while, but they got to Central Park with no incidents. Camille knew by heart the route they’d walk, leaving the upper sections to other fighting groups who had been scheduled for those areas with their OCU partners. Nick Lowell was this group’s official officer liaison, but in his absence, Saul Brent or one of the Lowell brothers usually worked with them. For now, Blackjack was letting John do the honors, even though there was no way he’d be allowed to join the OCU officially, at least not yet, Johann Kohl identity or not.
The park was a startling change from the streets, even this time of night when the roads weren’t that crowded. Silence descended quickly as they moved across the grass. She didn’t hear any chorus of crickets or frogs because it was too cold for them now, but the trees still had a few leaves to whisper against one another, and branches creaked in the easy breeze. Scents shifted from concrete, asphalt, exhaust, and late-night restaurant cooking to damp earth and the fertile smell of the fallen leaves trying to return themselves to nature.
John followed Camille toward the nearest group of trees in the park, and he seemed strong and fast-moving under the bright fall stars. Her breath rose in soft plumes in the semi-darkness, and she was glad for her enhanced Sibyl vision.
“These cat eyes, they’re not bad,” John said, referring to the enhanced vision Strada’s remnant powers allowed him to enjoy, however inconsistent it might be. “I could be an improved asset to Blackjack with these new abilities—so thank God my ‘untimely demise’ ended my official commission with Blackjack’s shadow ops group. I’m dead to the military now.”
