by Anna Windsor
She checked on her quad. All still standing. All still looking strong.
John blasted away with his Glock, and Camille was pretty sure that if she hadn’t been wrapped in an energy shield, she’d be deaf by now. She couldn’t hear the Sibyls anymore over the shouts and radios of the OCU as they got closer.
“Here we go,” Camille said, and she pulled the shield around the Rakshasa tighter. Her arms stretched even wider but her fingers curled in, matching her thoughts. Tighter. A little tighter. Yes.
The cats scrambled on top of one another. Aarif thrashed and howled where he stood, but he didn’t seem to be able to move. He was shifting, though. Black fur. Fangs. Claws. All the human was falling away from him, and that was good, because killing a giant psychotic tiger was easier than taking down a wide-eyed teenage boy, illusion or not.
Camille really felt the drain now. Her right arm throbbed and shook in the air like it didn’t want to stay stretched out, and her leg had stopped stinging and started aching. Her jaw clenched from the pain and effort, and her vision got a little wavy.
The next time she tightened her shield, the energy would make contact with the Rakshasa. She had no idea what would happen then, but she hoped it would be bad for them.
“John,” she said in as even a voice as she could muster. “Are the Asmodai handled?”
“Down and out.”
“And the shooters?”
“OCU’s got them.”
“Walk away from me. No, run.”
“Camille—”
“I have no idea how far this is going to reach,” she said, doing all she could to hold her focus. “Don’t be anywhere near it unless you want to answer to ‘Here, kitty kitty’ and eat Tender Vittles for the rest of your life.”
Her only answer was John’s footsteps as he hauled ass away from the trees, across the ball fields.
Good.
She felt better knowing he was out of range, or getting there fast.
Bela and Dio and Andy must have sensed that she was about to do something big, because they increased the flow of their energies into the shield around the Rakshasa.
Camille took a breath, imagining that shield as a big dome or partial bubble. No, wait. More like a cylinder. A metal can, wrapping around the demons and extending up over their heads.
She centered herself and balanced her own weight as best she could, then brought her arms together, slowly, slowly, to guide her thoughts. The shield got smaller.
The roars from the Rakshasa turned into screaming bellows. Camille squinted at them, because it looked like their fur was starting to … fall off. Metal armor was melting. Weapons clattered as the tiger-demons banged into one another.
Were the demons melting, too?
Camille felt her strength waver for the first time, and knew she had to act. This was it. Now or never. Goddess help them all.
She squeezed her eyes shut, wrapped her mind all around the energy shield, and crushed the can.
Smashed it. Into demon. Into the ground. Tigers burst into flames or melted or evaporated or just disappeared.
Bela, Dio, and Andy stumbled forward from the sudden downward suck of energy.
Camille felt an odd pressure all over her. She heard a sound actually a lot like stomping an aluminum can into concrete.
A second went by.
Earth, fire, air, and water exploded like a bomb, blowing Camille off her feet and slamming her hard into the casing-littered dirt. Hot demon ash rained on her face as pain jammed through her wounded shoulder and leg. She hit her head so hard her tongue went numb and her eyes seemed to shake in her skull. She couldn’t smell anything, taste anything, see anything, or hear anything. Then she couldn’t feel anything. Not even pain.
Numb.
Flat and numb.
I’m dead, she thought. I died.
But … dead people didn’t have thoughts.
She went out. Came back in.
Night in Central Park. She was lying in a cold field of bullet casings and Asmodai leftovers. She couldn’t even get her face out of the stinking dirt.
Out again.
Bela. Dio. Andy …
And back.
Her senses were slowly, slowly coming back to her. She remembered Bela describing something like this last year, when the Rakshasa had caught them in a similar energy trap. Bela had, for a time, lost all five senses and thought she was the only one of their assault group left alive.
Camille knew how Bela must have felt. This deadening from projective energy blowback was brutal and disorienting.
She forced herself up on her elbows, then into a sitting position.
Hands grabbed her.
She turned in slow motion to see—
EMTs and OCU officers.
“That hurts.” Camille tried to take her aching arm back from the guy, but he was dressing a wound right above her elbow.
“Be still,” the medic said. “This one’s through and through. Not sure about the leg.”
And then she heard Andy. “Touch me again, fuckhead, and we’ll see who needs transportation to a hospital.”
Dio was bitching from somewhere, and Bela was telling them both to shut up, that she had one mother of a headache.
Thank the Goddess.
“John?” Camille called, uncertain, still too confused to get things straight. “John!”
All the hands pulling at her suddenly let go, and he was there. He was with her, kneeling down, pulling her to him. He smelled like gunpowder and sweat and blood, but he was real, and he was here.
She grabbed his neck and held on despite the screaming protests from her right elbow.
“You got a bullet in that leg, I think.” He kissed the top of her head. “Need to get you to a hospital—”
Camille cut him off by reaching down and locating the metal in her calf. She pulled on enough fire energy to heat it and draw it out, letting it sear the wound shut as it went. Glowing red and steaming with her blood, the bullet plopped onto the ground beside them.
“Handled,” she grumbled, looking into his night-shadowed green eyes. “Now what the hell happened behind me while I couldn’t watch?”
“I think I’ve told you this before,” he said, pausing to kiss her cheek. “You’re a little scary.”
Then he told her about the battle—Asmodai from old Croton Aqueduct tunnels, handlers underground taken out by earth Sibyls crashing the tunnels down on their heads, Rakshasa Eldest and Created eliminated by Camille and her quad. The automatic gunfire had been from humans, Seneca’s foot soldiers, most of them cut to ribbons by OCU half demons and Astaroths who could eat bullets for breakfast if they had a second to prepare for them. A few humans had been arrested, and they were being taken by the OCU for questioning at the front station on West Thirtieth, in the old Fourteenth Precinct station—the one that looked like a castle.
Camille wanted to be relieved that the fighting was done, that the threat had passed for the moment, but her mind was already working over details. Like, where was Tarek? Why wasn’t he here—and Samuel Griffen and his sorcerers?
She knew they had surprised the Rakshasa before they were totally ready to launch the attack. Maybe Tarek and the sorcerers just hadn’t made it into position.
But they should have shown up at some point.
Seneca probably had more men, and that couldn’t have been all the Created fighting for the Rakshasa, just a select few. Where were the rest?
And then there was the question she didn’t want to ask. The question that made her want to pull away from John, lie back on the chilly dirt, and stare at the cold night sky.
“How many did we lose?”
John frowned. “I don’t know yet. At least four OCU officers and an Astaroth—one of Jake’s friends. And I’m sorry, but three Sibyls that I know of. They weren’t expecting all the gunfire.”
Camille closed her eyes at this, wanting to shut it out. Not again. Please, don’t let all the dying start again. “Names?”
“I don’t know.” John brushed his fingers across her cheek and ear, pushing her hair out of her face and making her look at him. “I didn’t recognize them, and two of them were really young.”
“Probably newly chosen adepts,” she said, feeling a crackle of grief down in her chest. “Probably fire Sibyls.”
“The Bengals came.” John sounded both understanding and concerned. “I want to find Ben and thank him—and ask him why.”
A few moments later, the captain of Elana’s personal guard found them, and his aristocratic features reflected no joy at the victory.
Camille struggled to sit upright, letting John help her as Ben approached. Bela, Dio, and Andy limped and hopped over to her, then sat on the ground beside her, watching the big Bengal stride across the open space while his Bengal fighters, at least thirty of them, milled in the distance behind him. They weren’t quite forming ranks, but it looked like they wanted to. Nick, Creed, and Jake Lowell were with the Bengals, talking to them, no doubt to get information, but also to keep Sibyls or OCU officers from becoming confused and going after the warriors who couldn’t quite get rid of all their tiger traits even in human form.
“Ben,” John said, standing to shake hands as he reached them. “I don’t know why Elana changed her mind about fighting with us, but I’m glad she did.”
“She’s been taken,” Ben said. “She is hostage to the Rakshasa.”
Camille felt her sore ribs throb as all the breath left her. John jerked like he’d been kicked in the gut, but it was Andy—Goddess. Andy’s cry of dismay cut into Camille like a dozen fiery daggers.
“What?” Andy’s horror was a tangible thing, and Camille wanted to cry for Elana, for herself—but so much more for Andy. “No. She can’t—they’re not—they can’t have her!”
Camille couldn’t even look in Andy’s direction. She kept her gaze firmly fixed on Ben.
Ben’s face remained placid, but Camille sensed his rage and shame like a steady stream of energy rushing out of him. “Tarek and his demons laid siege to our stronghold in the aqueduct. They had old magick makers with them—we weren’t prepared for that aspect of the battle, so they drove us out.”
“The Coven,” Camille said, all the missing pieces of tonight’s battle clicking into place.
“The rest of your army?” John asked.
Ben’s shame increasing tenfold, he bowed his shoulders as he gripped the hilt of his sword. “Possibly alive and hostage, but more likely slaughtered.”
“And you’re sure they didn’t kill Elana?” Camille asked, as much for Andy as herself.
“I’m positive,” Ben said. “The strike was designed specifically to capture her.”
John was already checking his Glock and ammunition. “Any idea where they’ve taken her?”
Ben shook his head. “They didn’t take her anywhere. The Rakshasa are holding her in the aqueduct, in our own stronghold.”
“So … this battle was a diversion.” John holstered his weapon, and Camille could tell he was trying to get a fix on what he should do next. “They sucked all our attention here and hit you while we weren’t looking. They let you go to be sure we got the message.”
“Yes,” Ben said.
“Do you think they’re wanting to bargain?” John asked Ben, checking the hilt of his broadsword. “Some sort of horse trade?”
Ben frowned. “Rakshasa do not bargain.”
“What do you think they want?” Camille asked, not able to come up with any logical answers herself.
Ben didn’t hesitate. “You and your fighting group. If they couldn’t kill you here, I think they hoped to capture one of you and hold you with Elana.”
“They know we’ll go after her.” Camille suddenly felt like the devastation in the park all around her had been just a warm-up.
“They’re counting on it,” Ben said. “And they believe they can win.”
( 34 )
John had never wanted to see the Sibyl Mothers again, much less share space with them, after he understood what they’d done to Camille and her quad. He especially didn’t want to be around them now, when the demon in his head was giving him more trouble. From the moment he saw Aarif in the park, Strada had been more active—and when the kid went down, Jesus. John had thought the demon essence was going to blow right out of the side of his head.
He’d gotten it under control, but it was a close battle. Now he had to stare at people who pissed him off beyond reason, and that wasn’t good. Three of the Mothers had been present at the OCU debriefing in the townhouse conference room, and now the same three were attending a private meeting between Jack Blackmore, Cal and Saul Brent, Ben, Camille’s group, and John and Duncan. The meeting was also in the conference room, but the other OCU officers and Sibyls had been dismissed to rest and see to their wounds while the next strike was mapped out and discussed. The entire space smelled like strong coffee, which was brewing on a small counter at the very back of the room.
The Brent brothers and Jack had drawn the blinds to the hallway, locked the door, and taken command of the long table at the front of the room. The Mothers had seated themselves on the right side of the conference room, and John and Duncan stood with Camille, Bela, Dio, and Andy on the left side. Ben stayed close to John. He had left his men outside on the ground floor, with OCU officers and Sibyls alike staring at them.
While Jack got ready to start talking and drawing up plans, John took his time glaring at Mother Keara, from Ireland. The blinds on the street side of the conference room were open, and morning sunlight sliced through the panes, lighting up every wrinkle and line on her ancient face. Even though she was, by sight, just a little old woman, John wanted to grab the ancient fire Sibyl and use all those ropes of gray hair to wrap her up in her green robes and pitch her straight out that window.
Mother Yana, from Russia, bothered him on Bela’s behalf, but she didn’t seem as hard to deal with as Mother Keara. Mother Yana was smaller than the other two and seemingly older, shriveled inside her brown robes. Her hair looked like an explosion of white threads nobody had bothered to comb in a century or so, and her face bore a spooky resemblance to the lined wolf’s head on her hand-carved walking stick.
Mother Anemone, from Greece, wore her blue robes in a tailored fit, and her ash-blond hair had been swept back and piled on her head. She had probably been a looker when she was younger, and she seemed nicer than the other Mothers, but John had issues with her, too. He wanted to ask her what the hell she’d been thinking, leaving Dio all alone to figure out her powerful ventsentience, which he had learned often came with the weather-making she wasn’t supposed to do.
Camille, who was standing right in front of him, seemed to sense his tension and leaned into him, capturing his attention. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the back of her head. “How the hell are you still on your feet, beautiful?”
Her voice came back to him sounding beyond tired. “You’re holding me up.”
Duncan was doing pretty much the same thing with Bela, while Dio sat with her arms folded, her head ramrod straight, and her eyes closed. Andy was hovering close to Ben, and she was so stressed and agitated John could almost feel the frigid cold water from the sprinkler over his head. No doubt it would break soon.
Jack looked up. “We think the best way to go is a full assault, all possible entries, but Bela, I don’t want your quad to be present.”
Ben came to attention, and John’s muscles tightened. He gripped Camille by both forearms and faced off with Jack and Cal Brent, who seemed to be the proponents on this one. “Hostages don’t survive assaults.”
“No way,” Andy said, talking right over him and glaring at Jack. “They’ll shoot Elana dead before we get two steps in the door. We negotiate. We buy time. We find a better plan.”
Camille pulled out of John’s grip. “There have to be other options. My quad and I, we could—”
“No,” Mother Keara said firmly. “Like he said, you four won’t be goin’ on this raid.
We won’t be riskin’ what you four can do. Not again.”
Bela barked out a laugh, standing away from Duncan so she could get a good look at the fire Sibyl Mother. “Excuse me, old woman, but the four of us just wiped out a Rakshasa Eldest and a boatload of Created in Central Park while you were what—at home, picking your teeth?”
“Damn straight,” Dio muttered. “And we lived through it, no thanks to any of you.”
“Luck, perhaps,” Mother Anemone said, her voice gentle, her eyes anywhere but on Dio. “Or perhaps the demons wanted you to survive.”
“We could get Elana out,” Camille said, but she stopped short of offering up how they’d do it. “We could go in and take her before your raid.”
Camille’s words seemed to give Ben some comfort, but Cal Brent didn’t have any mercy. “I think there’s zero chance Elana survives this no matter which way we go. She’s just bait, and when bait’s been taken, it’s discarded. The second any of the four of you sets foot in the aqueduct, she’s toast.” More directly to Andy and Ben, he said, “I’m sorry.”
Ben lowered his head, but the sprinkler over John’s head finally tore off and doused him as Andy glared at Cal. “Screw you with the ‘I’m sorry.’ Do you know what she is? The only water Sibyl in the world who’s fully trained in all the old ways—not the half-ass hodgepodge training I got. She’s not going to die like that. She’s not going to die at all.”
Camille swept her hand up and deflected the water from John’s head. A second later, he felt a gust from Dio, drying him off and keeping the shower at bay until Andy got the leak under control.
“Elana isn’t what you think she is,” Mother Keara snapped back. “Don’t be tellin’ yerself you know everything about her. She’s a danger to herself and everyone around her. And she can be cruel.” The bitterness in the old woman’s voice was startling.
Ben looked like he wanted to march over and challenge Mother Keara to a duel, but the little maniac’s outward appearance of being a helpless old woman probably confused him. As it was, he stood his ground, as stiff as if somebody had starched him, and John could feel him seething.
