Captive Heart

by Anna Windsor

  “No idea.” Andy thought about Neala again. Was she upstairs with Nick and his wife, Cynda? Cynda and her triad sisters Riana and Merilee had introduced Andy to the world of the Sibyls. She still considered them her friends, though her bonds of the heart had formed more closely with Bela and Camille and Dio.

  “Listen, I just need a minute, okay?” Andy pushed back from the table and got to her feet. Before Saul or the sketch artist could say anything to her, she left the room. With each step she took toward the townhouse stairs, her heart beat faster. She strained her senses, listening for Neala’s giggle, searching for that hint of fire and smoke with Neala’s subtle flavor.

  By the time she got to the floor where Neala lived with Cynda and Nick, Andy was running. Her sneakered feet brushed along expensive oriental rugs covering even more expensive hardwood floors. The house was so well built that the bookcases, chairs, tables, and reading lamps in the long hallway didn’t even jiggle as she shot past. Her breath caught in her throat, and her chest hurt and burned and ached until she turned the last corner and—

  There she was.

  Andy stopped running and forced herself to walk, slower, slower, until her pace seemed more normal.

  Cynda Flynn Lowell stood outside her bedroom talking to her fighting group, Neala gripped firmly in her arms. The two looked like younger and older versions of the same person, with their green eyes, redder-than-red hair, and almost aristocratic features, and both of them seemed to be unharmed and in no immediate danger. Andy’s detail-oriented brain registered that the fighting group had on jeans and casual shirts—street clothes instead of battle leathers. Another hint that all was well, no matter what Dio had dreamed.

  Riana Dumain Lowell had Ethan with her, but the boy seemed to be asleep against her shoulders. Riana’s black hair shielded his face like a curtain. Merilee Alexander Lowell smiled when she saw Andy coming, her pixie face brightening.

  “Andy!” Neala squealed, wriggling to get away from Cynda and letting off a big puff of white smoke. “Let’s play battle. Please? Please, Andy!”

  “Can I just take her for a few?” Andy made eye contact with Cynda, hoping she didn’t freak anybody out with her massive case of nerves. “I’ll bring her right back.” As soon as I check every hair and freckle. As soon as I count her fingers and toes.

  Andy took a deep breath, taking in the familiar scents of pine cleanser, musty books, and old house, with the very welcome tang of fire Sibyl energy. It burned her nose and made her eyes tear, and she’d never been so glad.

  “Sure.” Cynda didn’t even seem concerned. She grinned at Andy as she handed off Neala, who whooped with delight and grabbed Andy around the neck. “She only gives you second-degree burns. I think she likes you better.”

  “Blisters heal,” Andy murmured as she carried the little girl past Cynda and her group, straight to Neala’s room. The space reminded Andy of a cotton candy explosion, with its pastel pinks and blues and purples. The furniture had to be made out of metal, and of course, all the stuffed animals were fire-retardant.

  “Have you been good today?” Andy set Neala on the purple rug beside her bed and knelt to be at eye level with the little girl.

  “I’m a good girl. Watch me!” Neala raised both hands over her head, clapped, and sent a fountain of sparks raining down on Andy.

  Andy caught a whiff of burning hair. Her own. She countered the small bits of fire with her water energy and shook a finger in Neala’s cute little face. “I bet you’re not supposed to do that anywhere but the gym and when you visit Motherhouse Ireland.”

  “Ireland’s got bunches of rocks.” Neala’s frown charmed Andy as much as her smiles. “Motherhouse Ireland won’t burn. Boring.”

  Andy ruffled Neala’s curls. “But cheaper and safer.”

  A spectacular pout. “Boring.”

  “Okay, I’ll take your word for it.”

  Andy had to admit she was beginning to feel a little stupid. Why was she worrying so much about Neala? Any monster who tried to snatch her would have to get through a house full of cops and Sibyls, not to mention come through her Curson demon father and uncle, plus Cynda, one of the most powerful fire Sibyls alive. If somehow the monster succeeded on that little suicide mission, the thing would have to contend with the full wrath and resources of Motherhouse Ireland. And Merilee and Riana—also way powerful in their own elements—wouldn’t be far behind. They’d bury, burn, blow, and shred anything that tried to hurt Neala or little Ethan, Riana and Creed’s son.

  “Watch me, watch me!” Neala shouted, and Andy covered her face.

  “No sparks!”

  “No, silly. Hands.”

  Neala hopped on her bed, bounced twice, then got off and executed a decent handstand for about three seconds. Andy jumped up to grab her before she fell, but Neala’s elbows gave way. She thumped her head on the floor and toppled to the hardwood.

  In two seconds flat, she tuned up to whine, but Andy scooped her into her arms before she could make a sound. “Ouch, huh?”

  “I whopped my head.” Neala moaned like she’d snapped her leg in half. “It huuuurts.”

  Andy kissed the spot, right between her eyes. “I’ve done that lots of times. It sucks.”

  Neala’s new moan broke off before it reached its peak. She blinked at Andy. “Not supposed to say sucks.”

  “Probably not. Except when you whop your head.”

  Neala glanced at her bedroom door, then back at Andy. “Sucks,” she whispered.

  Andy hugged her tight and kissed the top of her head this time.

  “Battle now?” Neala smiled at her. “Demons are bad guys. I’ll help you fight.”

  “Later.” Andy hugged Neala again. Sometimes when she held the little girl close, she felt an emptiness inside, an emptiness that might have been filled with her own babies if Sal hadn’t died. Before Sal, she’d never thought about having kids, and since his murder, she hadn’t felt much interest in men or marriage or the idea of her own children. It was like she’d gone numb in a few places when she lost Sal. Maybe a lot of places. Just nothing. A dead zone. Until she met Jack Blackmore.

  She straightened herself. Gotta stay away from that kind of sob-and-Kleenex thinking. She kissed Neala one more time for good measure, then let herself admit that Jack made all her dead spots buzz and tingle. So far, since he’d reintroduced himself to her, he’d made her feel like healing might be possible, like life might be possible, and—

  And he was standing in Neala’s door watching her.

  Andy’s heart did a big tumble in her chest.

  Jack was watching both of them, actually, with the strangest look on his handsome face. She picked up his interest, his amusement. And deeper, way deeper, something like … longing.

  She felt like she’d swallowed a warm wave.

  When he realized she was staring at him, he didn’t look away. “I—ah—came to see about you.”

  His expression didn’t change, except to get more intense. Andy’s heart kept beating, and she kept breathing, and she didn’t look away, either. She could get used to him staring at her like that, never mind his low, sexy voice.

  “Saul said you seemed wiped out.” Jack made an effort to smile at her, but she saw the worry rise into his brown eyes.

  Damn, but he was a sight in those jeans, wasn’t he?

  “Saul’s a nag and a mother hen.” Andy tried to sound serious despite the fact she was on her knees in a cotton-candy room in close proximity to a dozen stuffed animals—and some of her hair was probably still on fire.

  “No argument, but he’s usually right.” This time Jack succeeded with his smile, which did nothing for Andy’s composure.

  Neala pointed her finger at Jack and sent a shower of sparks and smoke all across his shoulders and hair, then laughed as Andy quickly followed her blast with some cool water to put out the flames. Once more, the smell of singed hair drifted through the air. Jack never changed positions or expressions, but droplets ran off his hair and all over
his face.

  “Sorry.” Andy balanced Neala on one hip, pulled back her water energy and dried his face as best she could, then turned and let the excess flow off her fingers into one of Neala’s water glasses. “Life with Sibyls can be hazardous to your health.”

  “To my hair, for sure. She’s gotten me a few times in the past.” Jack didn’t even sound annoyed. “Ever played battle with her down in the gym? She can explode exercise balls like nobody’s business.”

  Andy wouldn’t have figured Jack as a guy to play battle with the kids. The image amused her. Actually made her smile.

  From the hallway, Cynda called, “Neala, that was a no-no. Come here right now.”

  Neala let off smoke as Andy put her down. For a split second, she looked like she might try to argue or cook some other part of Jack’s body. Instead, she hurried out the door to her mother, stopping only to wave at Andy before she disappeared from view.

  Jack’s gaze followed the little girl, surprise obvious in the lines of his face. “That went a little too easily, don’t you think? I mean, she’s pint-sized, but she’s a fire Sibyl, right?”

  “Baby fire Sibyls don’t argue with bigger fire Sibyls.” Andy got to her feet, helpless to slow her own pulse in Jack’s presence. “Just everybody else.”

  Jack turned his attention back to her, fixing her with a stare that made her insides tremble. “And what about baby water Sibyls?”

  “So far, I’ve found that baby water Sibyls are even-tempered and peaceful as long as bigger water Sibyls are around.” Amazing how dry her throat could get when the rest of her was slowly soaking from the water she couldn’t help pulling toward herself. “If the bigger water Sibyls take a powder—well. Things can get messy.”

  Another smile from Jack, this one more devastating than the last. “People get hit with rogue waves?”

  His tone sounded teasing, and Andy figured he could see the heat coloring her cheeks. “Yeah. That. Listen, about all the times I tried to kill you—I’d say I was sorry, but I’m not sure I am. Not yet.”

  “Don’t be sorry. If I get that far out of line again, you have my permission to wash me out of the building.”

  Andy stared at Jack. She wanted to look away from him but found she couldn’t. His eyes held her like an elemental lock.

  The surprises just keep coming.

  “So, are you really okay, Andy?” He sounded serious now, and earnest. More than that, his concern for her felt genuine, way down deep in her Sibyl instincts—and her basic female instincts, too.

  “I’m fine. A little tired, sure.” Andy brushed her hair out of her face and felt the burned tips of a few of her curls crumble to her shoulders. “Right before I came over, Dio had a bad dream, so I guess I’m obsessing about that.”

  Jack leaned against the door frame and folded his arms. His expression went a little flat. “A bad dream or a vision?”

  “I keep forgetting how much you’ve studied about us—about Sibyls.” Andy relaxed a bit, which surprised her. “Bela thinks it was a vision, but Dio doesn’t usually have prescient dreams.”

  Jack’s features darkened and his whole body seemed to tense. “Then the threat must be powerful. Mother Anemone in Greece told me that even the least prone air Sibyl can have prescient dreams if they’re really in danger.” His intense gaze gripped her even tighter. “Them, or somebody they care about.”

  Andy glanced past Jack, in the direction Neala had taken. “But what she saw didn’t make any sense.”

  “It upset you.” A statement. Absolute certainty.

  Tears welled in Andy’s eyes, sudden and unwanted. “Yeah.”

  Jack let his arms drop to his sides, and he looked like he might be struggling with himself—over what to say? Or what to do?

  Panic clawed Andy at the thought of him coming close to her when she wanted to cry, at the thought of him pulling her against all that muscle and holding her when she felt so jumpy and vulnerable.

  He stayed where he was, holding her in his own way, with those deep, forceful eyes. “How about I take you guys off patrol tonight, get another group to sub for you? You get some rest … then let me take you to breakfast in the morning? Around ten? We can talk about the dream then, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

  The thought of not having to go out on patrol all night nearly made Andy sag with relief. She didn’t mind tamping down squabbles between paranormal groups or stopping rituals that had gotten out of control—but the mind-numbing grid search for the Coven drove her half insane. She felt a touch of guilt about whoever would pick up their slack, but not that much guilt. They had done their share of cover patrols in the last year.

  “Thanks. About patrol, I mean.” She rubbed one hand against her cheek to wipe away a stray tear. The rest of what he said sank in more slowly, but she caught up after a few seconds. “Wait—breakfast? Are you asking me out?”

  This time his grin nearly turned her into a puddle where she stood. “I’m taking you to breakfast to share information.” He paused. “I’m hoping breakfast is tame enough that I’ll get a yes.”

  Andy couldn’t help remembering washing Jack out of this very townhouse with a blasting tidal wave she’d thrown at him, furious and out of control. Um, twice. Maybe even three times.

  Hadn’t she broken his leg or arm once?

  She couldn’t even remember.

  The way he was smiling at her, she wondered if he remembered. “You like to live dangerously, don’t you, Jack?”

  “I like to live.” The grin faded into something more intense. “I’ve remembered that since I started getting to know you.”

  The heat that crept through Andy moved slowly this time, warming her like water in a pot, ready to boil. This didn’t feel jittery or silly or even experimental. It felt serious enough to scare the hell out of her.

  “Breakfast,” she heard herself whisper, her heart beating so hard she had trouble forming the word. Her legs started moving, carrying her toward him, straight at him, but he stepped to the side when she got to the door. Being polite. Maybe being smart.

  She walked a lot closer to him than she had to, moving past, letting herself touch him ever so slightly, just brush against his clothes, her fingertips coursing across his knuckles.

  Warm ocean waves.

  A rising tide, breathtaking and frightening.

  Rain on a hot summer afternoon.

  The sensations surged through her all at once, making her go slow, making her savor the few seconds they were separated by nothing more than fabric and breath and the whisper in the back of her mind that she’d better be careful, that she’d better watch out or this man just might flood her landscape and change everything.

  He watched her, saying nothing, making no move to force her or rush her or demand anything at all from her. His brown eyes asked her out all over again, hope burning in those warm depths, and she surprised herself by finding voice enough to say again, “Breakfast.” Then, “Okay. I’ll see you at ten tomorrow.”

  Jack was nervous.

  He didn’t like nervous.

  Something about Andy made him worry about everything. He wanted it to be good, wanted it to be right, wanted everything to please her, even something that should have been inconsequential, like where he took her for breakfast. New York wasn’t his town, and she knew it a lot better than he did. Good thing he didn’t have Sibyl energy, so computers didn’t crash and burn every time he sat down near a keyboard. An Internet search and some advice from the Lowell brothers had done the trick.

  His truck was in OCU’s storage garage downtown, so he had borrowed Riana Dumain Lowell’s black Jeep and made it to the brownstone at half past nine. Being late—out of the question. He sat outside for fifteen minutes, barely moving, keeping his eyes on the front door like he was staking out the place. Wasting time. He could be reading case files or making notes. He could have waited another few and gotten some reports finished, but when he got up this morning, he had only one purpose, and that was getting
this Jeep to this curb on time.

  Damn, it had been a long time since he felt this kind of focus, this kind of purpose, without … without everything that usually held him back. He felt new. He felt like before. Before Afghanistan. Before the nightmare with his bastard of a father in Atlantic City. Had to be some kind of magic, though he knew Sibyls and most paranormals would laugh their asses off at that assertion. There is no such thing as magic, the Mothers had taught him. There is only elemental energy—and those who control it.

  The brownstone’s front door opened and out came Andy, wearing faded jeans with some sort of beaded pattern on the legs, a turquoise top with lots of ruffles and spaghetti straps, and a pair of yellow-framed sunglasses so big they looked like something she’d won at a carnival. Her curls spilled to her shoulders, red and riotous, refusing to stay in place as she jogged down the steps.

  Jack laughed out loud.

  Maybe the Mothers didn’t know everything about magic.

  This woman made the whole world look black-and-white, like she was the only thing in color, the only thing real and worth watching, and he did like watching. The creamy curves of her bare arms heated him all over as she spotted the Jeep and headed to the curb. Jack leaned across the front seat and opened the door for her, and she got in so fast he glanced up to be sure nothing was chasing her.

  She slammed her door, then laughed at his raised eyebrows and waved a hand at the brownstone. “I snuck out. Move your ass before you get me caught.”

  Jack cranked the engine and pulled into traffic, glancing over his shoulder to be sure the brownstone’s front door was still closed. “They wouldn’t approve? If they think I’m kidnapping you and send some kind of earthquaking fire tornado thing to crush Riana’s Jeep—”

  “No, no, it’s not like that.” Andy shoved her pretty curls behind her delicate ears. “They’d give me shit. Especially Dio. I just didn’t want to hear it.”

  Jack tried to pay attention to his driving, relieved he didn’t have any major car repairs to worry about—for the moment. “You know, sharing a floor with Dio Allard and coming out alive every morning, that’s pretty impressive.”