Captive Soul (17 page)

“Great. Thanks.” John refused to let his hand twitch over his groin. He had no doubt that if a Sibyl planted her foot in his nuts, he’d know he’d been kicked.

“You, ah, need some sparring rounds to get in shape?” Duncan’s grin was starting to spread across his face.

John shook his head. “Not today, thanks. Some Bengals are helping me out. I’m due there in a little bit.”

Duncan didn’t react to this, and John knew he wouldn’t, and that he’d keep his mouth shut about it since Duncan had gotten some help from the Bengals himself in the early days after his transition to half demon. “When you’re done with them, come by the townhouse on the Upper East Side, and go a round or two with me and my new friends. Creed, Nick, and Jake—the Lowell brothers—they’re demons, too, and they can teach you a lot about self-control if you’re willing to learn.”

John matched Duncan’s grin, feeling more relief as time went by without broken furniture and cracked jaws. “I could probably pick up some tips from you, too.”

It was Duncan’s turn to shrug. “We’ll see.”

After Duncan left, John got ready to head out to his training session with the Bengals and to pick up some clean clothes from his place. He collected Dio’s demon packet, glanced at a few pages, then folded it and tucked it under his arm for later review. Just before he left the room, he took some things out of his pockets, like his zillion-year-old dirty rabbit’s foot, his lucky quarter, and his mother’s battered engagement ring—the few treasures he’d gotten Duncan to rescue from his personal effects before they buried his old body and what little he had on him when the Rakshasa cut him to pieces last year.

For good measure, he pulled off his watch, and he put it all on the nightstand, right where Camille would see the stuff if she checked inside the bedroom after he left.

“Here you go, beautiful,” he said out loud, his voice calmer than he thought it would be. “So you’ll know I’m not running away. Have to come back for this stuff, don’t I? Among a lot of other things.”

(
 16 
)

Camille tugged at the string of her sweatshirt hood as she tried to get comfortable on her end of the big leather sofa, and she wished she had a pillow to hold. Everybody else had pillows, one from each of the three leather chairs her quad was sitting in, positioned around the communications platform. That was fitting, since this felt kind of like an inquisition—and the swirling, smoking, dark projective mirrors on the walls weren’t doing anything to lighten the mood.

“Are you in love with him?”

It was Andy who asked the question, but Camille could tell they all wanted to know. Her quad had given her exactly twenty-four hours before they invaded the lab and made Camille come upstairs. Duncan had split for OCU headquarters, and Bela had politely asked Ona to remain behind in the lab. Ona had said she wouldn’t come “until it was her turn,” whatever that meant. John was still off on whatever errands he was running, but Camille had seen what he left behind on the bedside table. An unwritten message.

Okay, you win. I’m not running—for now
.

It took some effort, but Camille finally settled herself down enough to start talking—and to lead off with the most truthful answer she could give. “I have no idea if I’m in love with John—and don’t tell me I do know, or I’ll have to hit somebody. I’ve really only known him for a day or so.”

Bela’s intake and exhale were the only sounds that followed, and Camille felt unnaturally aware of the mix of light perfumes blending with the tang of air and water and earth energy. Everything seemed to be swirling together, inside her head and outside, too.

“All of that stuff about love or not love can be confusing at first,” Bela said, a little too slowly and very gently, obviously drawing on her own experience of falling in love with her husband under weird, pressured circumstances. She rubbed the right knee of her faded work jeans, and Camille wondered if Bela even knew she was doing that. Her football jersey, just as worn as the jeans, was already frayed along the bottom hem, where Bela picked at it when she was nervous.

Andy never seemed to get nervous. She gave her opinion in a completely not-gentle rush. “Confusing, my ass. It’s fucked up, that’s what it is. Every time I’ve ever fallen in love, it’s been nothing but a nightmare, and this—this
thing
you’ve got going with demon-man, I think it’s dangerous, Camille.”

She didn’t say
too
dangerous, which Camille took as a positive sign even though she knew that was desperate. She was also glad nobody was asking her how long she’d been thinking about him, or how many times she’d had contact with him, because those answers could get her in some serious trouble with her quad.

“I’m okay with it.” Dio was sitting sideways in her leather chair with both legs over the arm closest to Camille, and she bounced her white tennis shoe and slightly mud-stained jeans cuff with each word. “With him, I mean—unless he hurts you. Then I’ll help behead him and we’ll all feel better.” She hesitated, then added, “And just so you all know, when John first showed up, he tried to get me to make the same deal Duncan did—that whole if-I-start-to-hurt-her-you-kill-me thing. And I’m not doing it.”

“What are you, the group executioner?” Bela shook her head at Dio. “Why does everybody ask you to kill them?”

“Because she’s the meanest bitch in the house,” Andy suggested.

Dio hit Andy with her pillow, rumpling the black NYPD sweatshirt Andy always wore with her jeans.

“No?” Andy’s smile would have been contagious if Camille hadn’t been feeling so nervous about all of this. “Okay, then. We’ll settle for this: Dio has a murderous nature that shows through now and again.” Then, before Dio could hit her again or come up with some smartass remark, Andy went back at Camille. “I’m not okay with John. Not yet. I don’t know if I’m speaking from new Sibyl instincts or good old-fashioned cop instincts, but you better be listening. There’s something under the surface with that man. Something dark.”

“Um, yeah.” Dio snickered. “A not-quite-killed Rakshasa demon. Is that dark enough to suit everybody? And since when did you go all old-maid careful on us, Andy?”

Andy wasn’t having any of that crap, and this time she shook her finger at Dio when she talked. “Don’t judge this guy by Duncan or the Lowell brothers or any other part-human demons we know. John Cole is something new and we need to treat him that way.” She glanced at her own pointing finger, frowned seemingly at herself, and bounced her hand on her pillow because she pulled it down so fast. “You people should have seen what the Sibyls who used to live here put my ex-partner Creed through before they accepted him as okay.”

“And one of them married him.” Bela wasn’t snickering because her husband, Duncan, had faced a similar gauntlet of tests and procedures from the Mothers before he was declared safe for human consumption. So to speak.

“Whatever,” Andy grumbled. “Just because we know good half-demons doesn’t mean they’re all good. I think Strada’s essence may turn out to be more powerful than we understand. He could hurt you, Camille.”

“Point taken.” Camille kept the fingers of both hands locked together so she wouldn’t fidget like a first-year adept. “It’s a risk, and it’s one I’m willing to take whether you want me to or not, but I’d rather have—”

She broke off, not sure what word to choose. Judging by the protective, suspicious look on Andy’s face, it wouldn’t really matter anyway. With the biggest brooding projective mirror over her red hair and serious frown, Andy looked almost like a fire Sibyl Mother ready to pass judgment.

“It’s not that I’m not taking you seriously, Andy.” Camille couldn’t help herself. She fidgeted, then stared down at her hands to keep herself from trying too hard or crying or clamming up because she was intimidated by Andy’s disapproval. “It’s just that I’m not sure I can slow down my emotions, even if I know I should. I started off by touching his soul—literally. We’re working backward from there, but how am I supposed to undo what that felt like?”

Nobody said anything, and when Camille made herself raise her chin again, Bela, Dio, and Andy wore almost matching expressions of worry, but also understanding. Above their heads, the chimes tinkled as the energy in the room flowed through them.

“When you put it like that, it’s hard to keep giving you shit,” Andy admitted. “So what do you want, our blessing or something?”

Blessing. That was a good word. Camille looked at Andy and waited.

“Oh, hell.” Andy raised her hand and did a fast, idiotic mash-up of painting a rune in the air with two fingers. “Consider yourself blessed. If you wind up eaten, don’t come bitching to me.”

Camille quit squeezing her own fingers to death. “Will you all give him a chance? Seriously?”

“He’s ex-military with a lot of experience, and yeah, okay, he kicked a god’s ass for us, like you all keep reminding me.” Andy folded her arms like she didn’t really want to be saying all of that, but Camille knew better. Andy gave credit where credit was due. “Maybe he’ll prove he’s worth something in the long run.”

Dio’s overly relaxed posture never changed, but she piped up with, “I still want to know where we’re going to keep him. Not literally, like your bedroom and stuff, Camille, but during patrols and Sibyl business.”

“He’s got skills and he’s the expert on Rakshasa.” Bela always sat straight in her chair during meetings, but that didn’t translate into personality stiffness, thank the Goddess. “I say we take him.”

Andy’s mouth came open. “We have no idea what’ll happen when we come across an actual Rakshasa demon. What if Strada knows his own and comes straight to the front and takes over?”

“Running into Rakshasa won’t be a problem,” Camille reminded them, going back to fidgeting with her fingers. “It’s already happened. The night—well, one of the nights I was out hunting alone. When you came to rescue me in the alley. We were on Tarek’s trail, only I thought it was Strada’s.”

“Let’s give him a try at least,” Bela said to Andy, more a request than she needed to make it, since she was the quad’s mortar. “We need all the help we can get against these things, and with what John knows, we might finally get the upper hand.”

Andy seemed to consider this, and she finally gave in with a shrug. “I’ve fought with demons before, I guess, and newer, weirder ones than him. Okay, yeah. Let’s see what happens. If he freaks, we’ll all be there to deal with it.”

Deal with it …

Camille shivered, but Bela was already moving on to the next topic. “And you and Maggie, Camille. What’s with the two of you?”

Camille leaned back against the leather cushion. “Old battles—and I’m so sorry I brought them into the present. She and I used to slug it out when we were little. All the other adepts at Motherhouse Ireland had issues with the fact I couldn’t make fire. I won’t let it get in the way again.”

“Oh, let it get in the way,” Dio said, probably because she’d gotten her own ration of shit from air Sibyl adepts and Mothers over her sort-of-illegal weather-making abilities. “If she gets too far out of line, we’ll help you kick her ass.”

“Tempting.” Camille sighed. “But no. We don’t need to fight with other Sibyls. I promised myself I’d leave all that crap between the stone walls of the Motherhouse when Alisa claimed me, and I did. I made the same vow to myself when Bela gave me a second chance.”

“I didn’t know you had such a temper,” Andy said. “Kind of makes me feel better, since all the rest of the fire Sibyls I’ve known have been first-class bitches. Loveable, but, well, flammable.”

“Goes with the territory.” Bela gestured to the wall behind them, where the projective mirror that opened on Motherhouse Ireland smoked and swirled with more vigor than all the rest. “Working with such an unstable element. But Camille, if you’re really pissed off inside, why don’t you show it?”

Camille felt her words go cold like all the flames inside her had just fizzled away. She did an in-depth study of her knuckles, tried to find the words, and came up absolutely empty.

Damn, damn, damn
.

This was important, so of course she was whiffing out like she always did when she tried to light her blade in battle. When nothing came out of her open mouth, she finally closed it and shook her head, tears blurring the image of her own clenched fingers.

For a few seconds, the room went as quiet as the endless warrens under Motherhouse Ireland, only Camille felt like she didn’t know all these new stone corridors and blind corners in her life by heart.

Out of place
.

Out of my element—in all possible ways
.

“You consider yourself a liability already,” Bela said. “You hold in your anger to keep from making more trouble for us.”

Camille gulped back a sob. How did she
do
that? Were all earth Sibyls born psychic? She knew she should look at Bela, but right that second, she would have put the effort required to pull that off on par with willing herself to implode.

Bela’s hands closed over hers, warming up the cold parts as Camille stared straight down at the floor. “You probably did the same with Alisa and Bette—kept everything to yourself so you wouldn’t bother them.”

Camille was crying too hard to answer her.

“You’re no more a liability than the rest of us.” Dio’s bouncing foot made a
whoosh-whoosh
noise against the well-conditioned leather. “We’ve all got our shit, but we kick ass anyway, right?”

Right
.

Camille wanted to say it, but the words still weren’t there. It was getting time to go. Downstairs. Out the front door. Anywhere. Not for long, maybe just a few minutes. She had to—

“You being here with us”—Bela gave her fingers a squeeze—“that’s not contingent on how much trouble you do or don’t cause.”

Camille’s lips trembled, and her words left her again, because yes, this was almost as important as the last thing. Maybe … maybe more important.

My staying here—what
is
it contingent on
?

She remembered the awful feeling she’d gotten after her mother died, that time when Maggie’s crowd threatened her with the Mothers putting her out. It was something like this, mixed with a kid’s terror—a fear, it seemed, that had never really left her.

Bela’s voice broke through the fear like the first hint of sunlight after darkness. “I didn’t take you on a trial basis, Camille. I chose you because you were right for me and right for us. Nothing changes that. This commitment is for keeps unless you choose to break it and run away.”

She really is reading my mind. Not that I’m such a big mystery
.

“This is home now,” Camille finally managed to mumble, right about the same time she made herself quit counting the lines and little hairs on her fingers and Bela’s, too.

“Glad to hear it.” Bela’s smile came through as even more sunlight, and she turned Camille’s hands loose.

“Oh, goody.” Andy was smiling now, hinting that she might say something worthy of another pillow hit. “So now you’ll make more trouble? Fire Sibyl trouble’s always so much fun.”

“John Cole might be plenty of trouble,” Camille said, not feeling nearly as defensive and terrified.

Dio rolled her eyes. “So was Duncan.”

“What are you going to do if Motherhouse Ireland pulls that whole if-you-get-with-him-we’ll-kick-you-out shit?” Andy asked. “They’ve done that before when fire Sibyls showed an interest in loving half demons. Remember Cynda and Nick?”

Rage blasted upward from Camille’s toes, heating her so completely she felt something hard cracking down the middle inside her—or was it something hard forming, growing in new ways? She glared above Andy’s head at the projective mirror linked to the valley outside Connemara. “They
so
don’t need to go there with me.”

Bela raised her hands to her cheeks in mock horror, then looked a little stunned.

“You’re, um, smoking.” Dio gestured to the fog gathering around them.

Camille glanced down at her elbows.

Son of a bitch.