by Anna Windsor
Her mind automatically took in every detail, from the glimpses of warehouse backdrop to the way no blood had pooled around the pile. So somebody had slaughtered these guys, then stacked them up like trash bags to be shoved to the curb. She couldn’t see any of the faces, but she thought they were all male.
She looked up at Jack. “Who are they?”
His face was emotionless, but his dark eyes gleamed with an intensity that gave her a new round of shivers. “Desemov’s men.”
“Desemov? The Russian crime boss? You’re shitting me.” Andy looked back at the photo. Her nostrils flared and she took a deep breath, like she could smell the whole mess all the way across the ocean. “Who would have the balls to go after his operation like this?”
Jack took back the crime scene photos and slid them into his pocket. “Wish I knew. We’ve seen some bizarre crap happening in the Balkan crime families, too.” He handed her another crime scene photo. This one showed a dead man with his head, both arms, and both legs detached. Andy stared hard at the picture. The bloody clothing plastered to the man’s torso was intact. No cut marks—and the limb and head amputations had ragged, chaotic edges. It was like they had been—
“Pulled off his body?” A new kind of tension formed in Andy’s belly. This one had nothing to do with her Motherhouse worries or her long list of issues with Jack Blackmore, and it made her shut out almost everything but the rocks surrounding her on the beach and the man trying to talk to her. “Something just … popped him apart like a doll?”
“We found most of Ioannis Foucci’s crew in similar shape,” Blackmore said. “Ripped to pieces, no tool or chain-saw marks, no hint of a machine involved, no bite or chew marks. Elemental energy traces suggest Samuel Griffen and his Coven were involved, but they can hide themselves from detection. So far, we’ve got nothing.”
Andy knew whatever had been strong enough and evil enough to kill a person by yanking him to pieces, it wasn’t human. The Coven had a history of making allies out of creatures most people would kill on sight—like the Rakshasa they invited to New York City. They also had a history of creating minor, simple elementally based demons like Asmodai—but this? Andy couldn’t think of a man-made demon who could tear people apart at the joints. “What do you think it was?”
“I don’t know.” The intensity in Jack’s eyes got downright uncomfortable as he took the photo back from her. “What I do know is that your quad took down the Rakshasa, and I think you’re the best fighters and best investigators we’ve got on the Sibyl side. You—you’re the best of both worlds, and you’ve logged more time on the streets than any OCU officer I’ve got.”
Andy looked away, flustered and hot all over again. For a lot of reasons, it dug at her to hear him give her compliments like a commander. To notice him using we and I’ve got. Possessive. In control, not of her, but of the police unit she helped start and had intended to lead. Blackmore was a fixture at OCU now, no matter how temporary she had hoped he would be. Was he planning to stay in New York City instead of moving on to whichever crisis in the world needed an extra asshole on the case?
Was that why he’d showed up here offering to make peace?
OCU officers often accused Sibyls of reading minds, but Jack Blackmore was the one to dig straight into Andy’s thoughts. “I’m sorry about how I rode into New York City unannounced and heavy-handed. And I’m sorry for the loss you suffered before I came. It must have felt like shit to see me take Sal Freeman’s job. If you hadn’t become a Sibyl, that position would have been yours.”
Andy was past hot now and getting more pissed by the second. “Don’t go there, okay? Just—don’t.”
Don’t say Sal’s name. Don’t go where you’re not welcome. She turned her face to the waves and made herself breathe. From the corner of her eye, she saw Elana in the distance, stiff on her rock like she was watching the whole conflict even though she couldn’t see. She was probably picking up Andy’s emotion and sensing the rise in the water level all around them.
Andy didn’t like making Elana nervous, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t want this bastard talking about her old life, her cop’s life, back when she’d thought she was a normal human and would live a normal life, rising through the police ranks and kicking some ass along the way. She’d had a future that made sense to her. She’d had Sal Freeman, too, the previous captain of the OCU—and, Andy thought, her match in every sense of the word. But Sal had gotten himself killed, which created the departmental opening Jack Blackmore had … what? Muscled into? Stolen?
Jack went there like she’d asked him not to, but only a little further. “From what I’ve heard, my predecessor was a hell of a guy. I should have paid more attention to how it would affect all of you for me to assume his duties.”
Andy was about ready to agree to his damned favor just to shut him up and get him off the island before she killed him outright.
“I need you on this case, Andy.” Jack sounded so earnest she wanted to double her fist and knock out five of his teeth. “I’ve got a bad feeling about it, and I’m not the only one.”
A bad feeling …
The phrase made Andy’s gut churn because it was law enforcement code for Beware, one giant clusterfuck upcoming. It was the closest most cops ever came to screaming for help, and it was probably the only thing in the world that could have made her look at him again.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, feeling the relief of doing the right thing mingle with the rage of losing a battle she hadn’t realized she had been fighting. “You go back. I’ll talk to my people here and check in with my quad, and I’ll let you know.”
Jack nodded. Then his voice dropped, quiet and low. “I’m sorry. I meant to do this better.”
Andy stared at him.
The man actually seemed disappointed in himself and concerned about her. Did he really care what she thought about him?
He’s probably worried I’ll wash him into the Hudson the first time I get pissed.
But the longer she gazed into those brown eyes, the more she was sure something else was driving him. What, she couldn’t say, and she didn’t really want to give a shit.
She glanced down the beach in the direction he’d come, toward the distant figure of Saul and the boat they had taken from the mainland, then back at Jack. Her meaning was clear.
Jack didn’t look happy, but he took the hint.
With a polite nod he walked away from her, and soon enough he was out of sight and back on his boat, leaving Kérkira before sunset like he hadn’t just come here and tossed a grenade on her emotions and perceptions.
“Was that unusual?” Elana asked as she approached, picking her way more carefully than usual over the uneven layers of beach.
Andy reached out and caught her arm to steady her. “That was wrong on so many levels I can’t even begin to explain it.”
Yet it was right, too, in ways she had no words to describe.
Elana’s disapproval showed in her frown and the way she hesitated before she spoke. “He made you even more tense.”
“Jack Blackmore is a tension-creating machine. Come on. Let’s get back to the Motherhouse. I have to check out some things.”
“His boat is still idling if you’d like to speak with him again, Andy.”
“Not happening.” Andy shifted her grip to Elana’s hand and led her up the beach toward the bizarre collection of building materials they called home. “Believe me, the last thing I ever want to do is spend an evening getting friendly with Jack Blackmore.”
The words had no sooner left Andy’s mouth than she had another thought, one that made her stumble on the rocks and almost bust her nearly naked, purple-streaked ass.
Now, why didn’t that feel like the truth?
“So what happened?” Saul’s voice rose over the steady thrum of the boat’s motor as he piloted Jack to the Greek mainland.
Jack tried to ram his thoughts into work gear, but his brain groaned like a stripped clutch. “She—”
he started, intending to give his opinion on whether or not Andy would come back to New York. Something turned loose in his mind and he blurted, “She was wearing lace underwear.”
Saul gave him a look like he was waiting for the punch line, but Jack’s body vibrated from more than the boat’s engine. He’d never had the cutting wit that made his soldiers so popular. He was a commander. A natural straight man in any comedy routine.
And now—now he’d been knocked stupid by the sight of an old-school classy redhead in lacy underthings.
Wet lacy underthings.
With some kind of … ink or dye all over the cream-colored fabric. And her hair, too. And she’d just stood there in front of him, refusing to cover up like she wanted him to know he didn’t intimidate her one damned bit.
God, she was beautiful.
And that Southern accent—damn.
Saul slowed the motor so he could face Jack more completely. “Did she bash you upside the head or something? ’Cause just then, you didn’t make any sense.”
Jack tried again to say something professional, but what came out was, “Underwear. Nothing else except her crescent moon necklace—the iron one she wears to enhance her abilities. Just that necklace and silk and lace, all stained like somebody splattered her with a purple paintball.”
Saul laughed so loud it sounded like a hound barking. “She hit you with her underwear? Damn. I’d say you did a little better with her this time.”
Jack rubbed his knuckles across both eyes. “Fuck you, Brent.”
“I’m just sayin’.” Saul shrugged and went back to steering their craft. “If there was underwear involved, Andy wasn’t trying to kill you—so it’s progress.”
When Jack thought he could speak without being ignorant, he started over with, “The important thing is, she’ll come back to New York.”
Saul kept his shoulders forward, his attention on the water, but Jack heard more humor in his tone when he asked, “You psychic or just arrogant?”
“Arrogance is all I’ve got.” Jack left it at that, because he, Saul, and Saul’s brother Cal were unique among the hierarchy of the OCU. They had no magic powers, no demon blood, no secret weapons to deploy to clear the battlefields of New York City. For the three of them, their work to keep the streets safe from supernatural bastards who misused their abilities came down to the time-honored cliché of blood, sweat, and tears.
Heavy on the blood part.
Jack studied the brackish water churning away from the boat. Hot, salty air tightened his skin, and sunlight almost as strong as desert rays drilled at his cheeks and forehead. This beautiful, exotic place was about as far away from wartime deserts as Jack could get—but the battles had never really ended. Not until six months ago, when Andy and her Sibyl fighting group had finally put down the Rakshasa cats once and for all.
I might have lost track of most of the basics, but I guess I still know what I want.
That surprised him.
He didn’t know what to do with surprises he couldn’t shoot, cuff, or interrogate.
He let himself turn enough to study the island fading behind him, especially the area that seemed to shimmer and vanish from awareness.
Andy Myles might have a lot more surprises in store for him.
It wasn’t just lace underwear or the cute freckles, the red curls or the Southern accent. Her eyes, dark brown and green depths, the color so blended he couldn’t say which dominated—those eyes were gorgeous, but they weren’t what intrigued him, either. She could handle a SIG like a third limb, fire an underwater dart pistol with a SEAL’s accuracy, and cut a grown man to bloody shreds with a few sharp words and a look more brutal than a barbed-wire noose. He admired all of that, but still, there was something else about Andy. Something … more. He couldn’t put it into words yet, even for himself, but he was determined to get a grip on how she affected him.
Jack forced his attention away from Kérkira and stared at the Greek mainland instead. Under normal circumstances, the Sibyls in New York City would have transported him and Saul directly to their destination at Motherhouse Kérkira—but Jack had figured his odds of getting close enough to Andy to actually speak to her were better if he used the element of surprise. She had never really liked him.
Okay, that was an understatement.
In their few previous interactions, Andy had made one thing very clear: she hated his guts and she’d love to find an excuse to drown him. She’d tried a few times and damn near succeeded—not that he hadn’t deserved it—but all in all, he and Saul had opted for the safer option of moving through the earth’s ancient energy channels to nearby Motherhouse Greece.
Underwear. Sweet God. How was I supposed to anticipate lace and ink stains?
Was it even possible to plan for scenarios involving that woman?
Jack massaged the back of his neck and tried to erase the image of Andy on the beach, but he already knew that hot little picture had been seared into his memory forever. It would be a long trek back up the slopes of Mount Olympus to the crystalline palace the air Sibyls called home, but at least he would be making it with no broken bones or punctured lungs.
Maybe Saul was right.
With Andy’s temper in the equation, that was definitely progress.
From the communications platform in Motherhouse Greece, Jack and Saul moved through the earth’s ancient energy channels directly back to OCU headquarters in a townhouse on the Upper East Side, above the Reservoir. Just like that, the late Greek afternoon became a fresh New York City morning, thanks to the time difference.
Built in the 1800s, the cavernous five-story brick townhouse had been donated by a couple of officers, who were also half demon, to give Sibyls, the NYPD, and all of their demon allies a safe place to stay, meet, and organize away from public scrutiny. Jack had a room in the townhouse, though he was considering getting his own place.
He took a sharp breath full of smoke and pine-scented cleanser as he thanked the fire Sibyl who managed their transport, then climbed down from the townhouse communications platform on the third floor. Saul coughed when he stepped through the big piece of projective glass that linked the townhouse with Motherhouse Greece. Several other projective mirrors hung around the round wooden table, misty and inactive but waiting to be opened if needed. Jack had almost gotten used to the weird portals, but he always gave them a quick check to make sure nothing was about to burst from far away to up close and eat off his head at the neck.
Saul stepped off the platform and made flirty eyes at the fire Sibyl as she danced around them to close the channel. The second she finished her whirling step, the young adept with strawberry curls and a lot of freckles hit Saul with a quick burst of fire, scorching the tip of his ponytail.
That only got Saul going.
Jack ignored their banter as he headed into the hallway. He barely glanced at the polished hardwood or heavy antiques as he blew down the stairs, gripping the carved banister despite the splinters left over from his boat trip.
“We headed to the brownstone?” Saul asked as he caught up, referring to one of the Sibyl houses near Sixty-fourth and Central Park.
“Yeah. I want to let Andy’s quad know how the visit went and go over this morning’s patrol reports.” Jack hit the main floor and gave a quick nod to the plainclothes OCU officers, leather-clad Sibyl fighters, and demons and half-demons of several varieties who often paired with the patrols. They were grouped near the conference room where they received shift briefings, and nobody looked happy.
Cal Brent, Saul’s older brother, strode out of the conference room and flagged them down with what looked like a new case file.
“Shit.” Jack stopped at the front door as Cal jogged toward them, his sleeves shoved up, his brown shirt wrinkled, and his serious face tight with frustration. “We’ve got more dead people.”
Saul watched Cal approach. The two resembled each other, but with his slacks, close-cut thick brown hair, and recent shave, Cal looked like the Ivy League brot
her.
“At least until now, it’s been dead criminals,” Saul said, wiping his hands on his faded jeans.
Jack’s eyes fixed on Cal’s folder. “That luck won’t hold.”
Cal reached them and thrust the jacket toward Jack. “This time it’s Kristo, Ioannis Foucci’s last surviving son. We found him an hour ago at one of Foucci’s warehouses in the Garment District, along with a few of his friends.”
Saul’s whistle cut through the unusual silence in the townhouse. “If he’s dead, the Foucci clan is finished. That leaves one hell of a power vacuum.”
Jack looked at the photo. Body parts. Just a pile of bones and flesh. “I wish I knew why the hell this was happening. There’s a bigger picture I’m not seeing yet.”
Cal’s frown made him look furious and close to exploding. “I’d settle for knowing what can yank arms and legs off human bodies like it’s nothing.”
“And who made it, or summoned it, or turned it loose.” Jack closed the folder. “We better find out before our patrols run into it in some alley.”
“The scene’s secured.” Cal kept his hands on his hips, a gesture Jack recognized from his service days, before Jack had talked him into starting an occult crimes unit in New Orleans, then transferring up to New York City when Jack needed extra manpower and a friendly face or two. It meant Cal had no answers and felt like he was running out of options. “I’ve got our patrols on max alert all over the city. Everybody’s going slow and careful, checking even faint traces of paranormal energy and keeping backup close.”
“We’ll pick up Bela, Camille, and Dio,” Jack said as Saul opened the townhouse’s front door. “Duncan Sharp and John Cole should be at the brownstone. We’ll meet you.”
They were coming.
Samuel Griffen’s impressive bloodline gave him some prescience, and he knew without dispatching a single watcher that the unusual Sibyl fighting group that had destroyed the Rakshasa Eldest had reunited. They’d be on his trail soon.
