Captive Heart

by Anna Windsor

  Andy confirmed this with a nod. “We need to gather that coin to study it, but nobody make direct contact with it. Wooden tongs, elementally locked gloves—all precautions, just like it’s a paranormal bomb. Get it back to the townhouse and have the Russian Mothers come get it. They can do a component analysis faster than anybody else.”

  Jack got out his cell and called in a description of the situation and gear needed to the OCU’s pyrotechnics and explosives squad as the East Ranger group finished dusting themselves off and rejoined the party.

  “My sword fought the trap,” Maggie said as Jack hung up and dropped his phone back in his jeans pocket. “It turned the coin’s power back on itself—that’s one of the things it does, drain energy from people and objects. It’s kind of like a smaller, more stable version of a projective trap.”

  Jack thought about the brutal deaths etched along that strange blade. He wasn’t sure stable was the word he’d choose to describe the weapon under any circumstances, but if it helped save Andy, he’d at least not insult it by putting those thoughts into words.

  Okay, you’re losing it. It’s a sword. It can’t be insulted.

  Except he couldn’t shake the feeling that the sword did have some idea about people’s feelings, positive or negative. That the sword had ideas, period, or some type of consciousness.

  Maybe he had been hanging around Sibyls and demons too long.

  Andy slowly pulled herself away from Jack, leaving him worried about her safety and generally unsettled from the loss of her nearness. Damn it. He wasn’t used to getting knocked off balance by a woman every five seconds. He automatically scanned the pavement, the walls, and everything else near them to be sure nothing posed an immediate threat.

  After a second or two, Andy made eye contact with him, then Bela, then Maggie. “I think if a person with projective abilities had tried to pick up one of those coins, that person would have died instantly.”

  “No question.” Maggie’s voice dropped low, and Sheila and Karin both reached out to squeeze her hands. “I’ve never seen any energy powerful enough to best my sword, but that coin battled it to a draw.”

  Bela’s sigh sounded like one part relief and two parts frustration. “We won’t be able to use projective energy to track the monster from the warehouse.”

  “We probably shouldn’t risk hunting for the Coven with it, either,” Duncan added, “since they’re twisted up in all this.”

  “So now we’ve got nothing, a little more than nothing, and less than nothing,” Andy grumbled.

  “We’ve got the coin and the trace from the warehouse,” Bela said. “That’s the best we can do for now.”

  Andy’s irritated, impatient expression made her look a lot more like a pissed-off detective than a Sibyl, and that worried Jack. Pissed-off detectives tended to take too much into their own hands—and they took way, way too many chances.

  Better head that off, at least for now. “Duncan, let me drive you and Bela and Andy home. The OCU can pick up our van.” To the East Ranger group, he said, “Ladies, do you need a ride?”

  “Walking will help clear our heads, thanks.” Sheila didn’t smile when she answered, but Jack had the feeling she didn’t show emotion as a matter of course. He sensed friendly, peaceful acceptance from her, and that was probably the most he could hope to receive from the majority of Sibyls, especially given his unfortunate initial contacts with them. They made their departure as OCU crime scene techs and the bomb squad came screeching to a stop at angles outside the alley that led to the enclosed patio.

  “We’ll take you up on the offer,” Bela told Jack. “I feel like I’ve been stomped on by some elephant-sized demons, and I bet I’m not alone.”

  Duncan and Andy didn’t dispute the description, and Jack led them all away from the coin and the chaos, through the crowd of descending officers, to Bela’s SUV.

  Andy …

  Andy tried to open her eyes, but she couldn’t.

  Aaandy …

  Fog swirled around her, and not the cheesy B-movie kind. This stuff was thick and frigid and icy—and it stank when she breathed in the watery mist. The ground beneath her feet felt rocky and unforgiving, and even with her eyes closed, the darkness all around her seemed huge and endless and suffocating.

  I’m high in the air, far from groundwater. On a mountain. And then she knew where she was. Káto Ólimbos in Greece, the home of the Keres—the lair of the death spirits.

  If I open my eyes, I’ll see him.

  The Leviathan. The murdering demon who’d killed Sal and so many others would have one eye open, bloodied and awful, and he’d be ready for a fight.

  No problem.

  Andy tried to make fists even though her body seemed to be ignoring her commands. She had spat on the demon the first time she got close enough to kill him. She’d spit on him this time, too.

  Open your eyes, Andy.

  But she didn’t want to. The Keres had a treaty with the Sibyls and didn’t kill them on sight, but it was still damned freaky to watch shadows ooze out of the darkness and fog and solidify into tall, skeletal forms in gore-stained robes. The Keres had black, matted hair and pale faces. Their wings, always torn and ragged, shed black feathers when they moved. Their haunting screams could drive any human insane, Sibyl or no.

  Last warning.

  That voice. Andy knew it. She’d heard it before, and it came from the Leviathan—only this time the bastard wasn’t half dead and waiting for her to kill it. Her breath stuck tight in her throat as her pulse jacked to two thousand miles per hour. She grabbed for her dart pistol, then for her backup weapon, and—

  “Take it easy.” Jack’s voice brought her fully awake. She was sitting in her own bed, on the top floor of the brownstone, down the hall from Dio’s room and archives. “You’re all right. Everything’s safe here.”

  His tone sounded surprisingly gentle.

  Andy glanced around her small but functional space. Her shades had been closed, but a little sunlight crept through and left yellow lines on the olive walls and sandy trim around the door and near the ceiling. A few of her framed photos—her with her fighting group and other Sibyl friends—glowed in the partial lighting. She had other pictures, too, her with some of her friends from her detective days, and her with her parents on the Georgia farm where she’d grown up happy and healthy and having no idea she’d one day live in New York City and fight demons. Her pillow-top mattress felt soft underneath her, and her thick green comforter had been spread across her like somebody had tucked her in and made sure no wrinkles would bother her in her sleep. She still had on her battle leathers, but somebody had wiped off the grit and dirt from the explosion and the enclosed patio.

  Her attention shifted to Jack.

  He still had on the pants from his Flaming Bunch of Idiots suit, but he had no jacket and his shirt collar stood open. That and his relaxed posture in the chair beside her bed made her wonder if he’d been right there since—Christ. What time was it? How had she gotten here?

  How had he gotten here?

  Andy frowned at him. “How long have you been sitting watch?”

  “Since I carried you up the stairs.” Jack’s voice stayed so unusually gentle that Andy didn’t know what to make of it, or of him. “About three hours.”

  She stretched before she had a chance to get too uncomfortable with that thought, feeling tingly because he was so close to her. “I don’t even remember falling asleep.”

  “Took you about three seconds once you strapped in for the ride home.” Jack’s smile didn’t come across as mocking. More concerned and … friendly? Shit. Maybe she’d hit her head when she fell on the patio.

  “Bela’s out, too,” he said. “I’m surprised Duncan got her inside before he fell out snoring. That elemental trap really took it out of all of you.”

  Andy’s heart fluttered at the memory of the crushing pain of having her elemental energy jerked out of her body. Her breath. Her life. A few seconds one way or the other,
and she might not have walked away from that attack. Her eyes jumped to her door, halfway open on the quiet hall outside. “The remaining coin? Where is it now?”

  “Off to Motherhouse Russia like you suggested.” Jack shifted his position in the chair and leaned forward. For a split second, Andy thought he might be getting ready to leave, and she didn’t know if she felt glad about that or a little anxious.

  Heat rose to her face, then flooded her. She had a flash of him leaning forward, lifting those big hands to grip her shoulders, pressing those sexy lips against hers …

  Get a grip.

  A fluttery sensation made her breath come short, and her throat went dry from the force of his nearness. Somehow she managed to say, “You didn’t have to stay.”

  “Duncan and Bela are down for the count, and John’s with Camille and Dio at the townhouse, working on search grids moving out from the warehouse and where we found the coins.” He kept looking straight at her with those brown eyes, and she couldn’t do anything but stare right back at him. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “Thanks.” Andy didn’t want to admit it, but she’d probably slept a hell of a lot better sensing his presence. Asshole or not, he radiated protection and safety, and everybody could use solid, dependable backup.

  “Did you have a bad dream?” he asked.

  A quick shudder moved through her before she could stop it, and she let out a breath to help herself relax. “More like a memory. No big deal, but no fun. It comes and goes in different ways, but in the end, I always wake up and nothing’s as bad—or at least as fresh—as it seems in dreamland.”

  Jack’s expression conveyed understanding mixed with a flash of dark anger she could tell had nothing to do with her. “I have a few dreams like that myself.”

  More strange things happened in Andy’s belly. Was that a twinge of sympathy? Of kinship with Jack Blackmore, of all people? Christ. Physical attraction was one thing, but actual understanding of some of what might make him tick?

  She needed her head examined. Too bad she was the one who was supposed to handle emotions in her quad.

  “Do you have dreams from the war?” she asked, surprised at the softness in her own tone.

  He nodded. “The war and some of the work I’ve done since.”

  Damn it, she did feel like she had stuff in common with him. Maybe more than she’d like to contemplate. “Sometimes we see things we shouldn’t.”

  “Sometimes we see things that shouldn’t exist, period.” He managed a sort-of smile despite the sudden sadness in his eyes. “Your dream—was it anything we should know about? For the case, I mean.”

  “No.” As soon as she said it, Andy wondered if she might be brushing off connections a little too easily. When they’d been on the move down that alley toward the patio, she’d really thought there had been a voice, that the coins—or rather, the elemental trap itself—had spoken to her. And, yes, in a voice she almost recognized.

  It wasn’t like my dream, she told herself. It wasn’t the Leviathan. Bartholomew August was dead forever, and she was sure of that because she’d killed the ancient demon bastard herself.

  She realized Jack was still watching her, quiet and still, just waiting like he’d do her bidding if she sent him off for an aspirin or a glass of water. Which she should want to do, to get rid of him. Right?

  Why don’t I just tell him to go? I should say that I’m fine and I don’t need him anymore. That would do the trick.

  But …

  She pulled the comforter and sheet aside, got her legs on top of the covers, then smoothed them again, beneath her this time. “Am I keeping you from anything important?”

  Jack’s gaze stayed as steady as his deep, engaging voice. “You’re what’s important right now.”

  More than Andy’s face heated up as he spoke. The man could say the damnedest things, suggestive without being too pushy.

  Yet.

  In the end, Jack wouldn’t have it in him to show restraint, so she knew she needed to stop this little interest or flirtation or whatever it was before it even got started. Nothing about it was sane or even possible. Her stomach tightened, but she plunged ahead before he could distract her from what she needed to say. “If I’ve done anything to give you the idea that there’s a chance we could—that we might—I shouldn’t have, okay? I’m sorry.”

  That was easy. Her stomach stayed tight. But harder than it should have been. The fact that the intensity in his expression didn’t lessen one bit made her wonder if he realized what she meant.

  “You don’t have to be sorry, because we could.” That voice. It seemed to fill the room. Definitely her awareness. “And if the moment’s right, we might—but only if that’s what you want. Otherwise, I’m a fellow officer, and maybe in time a friend. You’ve got nothing to lose by letting me stand watch while you’re too tired to defend yourself.”

  Andy knew she had to be turning red all over again. He’d seen her blush more times than most men would live through. She’d expected a lot of things from Jack, even with all his supposed reforms and insights from his time at the Motherhouses. But this side of him, the way he had taken care of her, and how he was handling her now, with no teasing or trying to get the advantage, just that matter-of-fact statement of his own interest and the fact that he realized she did feel some attraction … damn him.

  She didn’t even want to argue, which felt too weird for words. She hadn’t imagined he could be so settling and relaxing. In addition to being arrogant and irritating. And handsome. And interesting.

  Her body started a fresh, hot tingling, low-level, under the surface, like her skin knew secrets about how it might be to let herself get a little closer to Jack after all.

  Shit, I’ve got to stop.

  He sat back, easing up on the almost tangible connection she’d been feeling. “We rearranged the patrol schedule so your group is off tonight, but you’ll be on tomorrow. We’ll need all hands for an old-fashioned search, since it’s not safe to use that projective tracking thing you do.”

  “Yeah. That’s gonna be fun.” Thank God for work. Safe territory. A place she could always go. And hide. Andy pinched the bridge of her nose to ward off a headache. “And boring as hell. With the Coven, we could look until hell’s an ice-skating rink. All we’ll get for our troubles is a big fat nothing, or maybe punched in the eye by some big ugly Asmodai demon. I always manage to end up face-to-face with fire Asmodai. I never get the earth ones or air ones.”

  Jack shrugged. “I hear they smell like graves, anyway.”

  She smiled at him even though she hadn’t meant to.

  His smile came back, too, slower this time, and full, and even sexier than she remembered. Andy realized she might be headed for a little trouble with this man.

  “If you’re okay,” he said, “I’ll go downstairs and check on Bela and Duncan, then let you get your rest.”

  “I’m okay,” Andy said automatically.

  Why did you do that? the confused part of her brain—the part she was trying without a lot of success to control—yelled at her, while the rational side congratulated her.

  She was okay, really. But now he’d leave. And he should go. Only she really didn’t want him to go. That headache was probably on its way no matter how hard she tried to relax.

  Jack got up from his chair and moved it carefully back against her wall, right where he must have found it after he’d put her to bed. When he reached her door, he stopped, turned, and gave her another look that set off more blushing and shallow breathing. “If you need anything, say the word. I’ll be right here.”

  That statement felt like a promise, and Andy sensed a depth she didn’t fully understand. Before she could sort out her thoughts and ask him what he meant, he was gone—and the sound of his footsteps on the stairs actually made her sad.

  She listened for a long time, until she heard the soft opening and closing of the brownstone’s front door. His energy. It had been tangible to her, like a steadyin
g force, and now its absence made her even more sad. She dropped back against her stack of pillows, wondering what the hell to do with herself. Staying totally away from Jack Blackmore—that seemed like the sanest course. Definitely the safest.

  “Who needs safe?” she muttered out loud, hearing the nervous edge in her own voice even as her tingles started all over again at the thought of him. “Safe is for sissies.”

  Three days after the scene in the warehouse and at the patio, Jack still couldn’t forget what it had felt like to touch Andy. Just a few seconds, his hands on her sides to keep her from falling on the floor, and later, helping her sit up, then carrying her up the stairs. All of that had felt like holding everything warm and vital in the world.

  He wanted to hold her closer.

  It was the last thing he needed to do.

  He set down the last of the boxes he had been carrying and rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around the office he was setting up for himself on the main floor of the townhouse. For the moment, it was organized. The single big window was clean, and the curtains were brown and professional-looking instead of lacy. Books sat straight and dust-free on the wall of built-in shelves, his three file cabinets were filled and not piled up with junk, and his nonprivate pictures, mostly shots of his Afghanistan unit, hung straight on the walls. His computer stood on the right-hand side of his desk, and for the moment, a few mementos took up the rest of the space along the desk’s front edge. He’d kept a football from his service team, a drinking mug from a bar near NYU, a small commendation from the senator who’d overseen the formation of OCU units all over the United States, and some rocks he’d brought back from the Afghan desert—little stuff.

  How long before the whole space became an explosion of files and stacks of paper he’d never be able to shrink, no matter how many hours he worked? Staying anywhere long-term, anchoring himself in any way, even with something as benign as designated and personalized office space, had downsides other than making him more vulnerable to old enemies.