Captive Soul (23 page)

The girl pointed both hands at the floor and blasted more energy through her fingertips.

Camille sent a shot of elemental energy back at her, and that’s when the floor dissolved.

She and John fell so fast, Camille didn’t even hear her own scream. Down. Straight down. Into pitch-darkness.

She hit the ground on her feet, letting her knees give to absorb the impact. The tooth necklace was still gripped in her right hand, and she managed to get out Dio’s throwing knife with her left as she got her balance and coughed from the stench.

Of sulfur.

“Basement,” John called. He had landed even better than she did, standing straight up in the middle of the room, but Camille couldn’t answer him. Her words wouldn’t work. Her brain wouldn’t work, or her heart, or her breathing.

This couldn’t be a nightmare, but it was. It was her nightmare, right here and now.

They were hulking behind John in the shadows. Three of them. Huge. Biggest she had ever seen. Giant, shifting clay-like faces gaped at her, maws open. Eyes like hell pits glared through the darkness. Blue and green fire dribbled out of their open mouths, out of their ears, out of their noses.

Asmodai
, she tried to yell before it happened again, before the killing machines stole another precious life from her.

Nothing came out.

Damnit!

“Asmodai,” she croaked, raising Dio’s throwing knife in her shaking hand and trying to aim it. “Fire Asmodai, behind you!”

(
 21 
)

Asmodai
.

John processed the word as he jumped toward Camille.

Legion demons. Made out of elements. Targeted with trash or other personal possessions. The things Camille had nightmares about.

John reached her in two leaps. If he’d had a human body, he probably would have broken both ankles in the initial fall, but thanks to Strada’s abilities and Ben’s training, he had landed like a pro, and now he had no problem putting himself between Camille and the monsters he hadn’t gotten a good look at yet.

When he did, they made his gut churn.

Mountainous. Amorphous. Wearing human clothing, but that shifted and blended, unstable, like somebody kept erasing and redrawing it. Features and gender—those changed, too. Fire came out of every opening, and they stank something godawful. His eyes watered. Rotten eggs. Rotten eggs blown up and left in the sun.

Camille had pulled out one of Dio’s throwing knives. The nearest Asmodai grabbed for her, but she dodged and hurled the wicked blade straight at the demon. The thing belched fire all over her, and the dagger went wide of its target.

The flames didn’t hurt Camille, though her dress burned to nothing in three seconds flat.

“Step back,” he said, and she did, and John put two rounds in the big bastard’s head. He didn’t waste time with the other two, drilling the next one three times in the chest, and catching the last one right between its shifting, ugly eyes.

A bomb went off in the basement then, or something like it.

Camille grabbed John and plastered herself against his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck as triple-strong waves of green, infected fire crackled and growled over both of them. John realized she was shielding him from demon fallout, or whatever he was supposed to call the release of perverted energy when Asmodai bit the dust.

Hair burned—his hair, at the tips. And his jacket and slacks smoked as she patted out what was left of the flames.

A lot of yelling kicked up outside, and John heard the distinct tones and rhythms of a police unit making entry and checking rooms upstairs. Two seconds later, three women in leather came crashing into the basement, weapons drawn. Two had on zipped face masks. The third, Maggie Cregan, landed front and center, with that big executioner’s sword flaming over her head. It lurched in her hands, pointing first at John, then at Camille, then back to John. It wanted to come for him—for them—but Maggie controlled it.

Barely.

John realized Camille was shaking all over, soot-streaked and wide-eyed and naked except for the smoldering threads of her once-beautiful dress. He holstered his weapon and yanked off his jacket, and she let him slip it over her arms and fasten it like some weird-looking giant cloak.

“It’s okay. We got this.” He squeezed her forearm to bring her back to the here and now. “We did it.”

Her eyes cleared a fraction, enough for her to focus on him, and she said, “You did it.” Her expression reflected relief and misery at the same time.

“I’d have been cooked without you. Literally.” He wouldn’t back down on that or let her minimize it. “This was a team operation.”

“Clear!” Maggie called up through the ruined basement ceiling. The stairs behind her had been burned down to the studs, too, and above their heads, a hole gaped in the floor leading to the kitchen at the back of the house, and higher, to the bedroom where the girl had been.

On the ground-level floor, four men in NYPD riot gear peered down at them. Maggie and the two other East Ranger fighters gave them a thumbs-up.

“If you find a blond-headed girl or blond-headed man, surround them and call for Sibyl backup,” Camille shouted. “Do
not
attempt approach.”

“Understood,” said one of the officers, who got on his radio to spread the word.

Camille’s expression was flat and unreadable as she turned away from John to face Maggie. The flame light from Maggie’s sword played off her auburn hair, and the strange lighting made the other two members of the East Ranger group on her left and right seem to flicker in and out of existence.

“Fire Asmodai,” Camille reported. “Three of them.”

“Asmodai,” Maggie said, sounding incredulous. The flames on her sword went out, and she sheathed the monstrous thing. John kept an eye on it anyway, because he sensed it wanting to tear out of its leather prison and get another bite of him.

Sheila Gray pulled off her face mask and kicked a pile of stinking, smoking ash. “I never wanted to see another one of these bastards.”

“Are you sure they were Asmodai?” Karin Maros asked as she pulled off her mask, letting her brown hair free. John didn’t think she was questioning Camille the way Maggie had done. It was more like she was hoping Camille would take it back so she wouldn’t have to add the demons to her crap-to-worry-about list.

A small commotion ensued upstairs. John thought about drawing his Glock, but right about then, he heard Dio tell somebody, “Back off before I blow you to Jersey.”

“Camille?” Bela dropped into the basement between the East Ranger group and where Camille and John were standing. She ran to Camille, catching her up in her arms and holding on tight. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Camille’s voice came out muffled by Bela’s leather-clad shoulder. “But how the hell did you get here so fast?”

Dio dropped down next, and the East Ranger group backed up a step to give her room. “We flew,” she said as Bela turned Camille loose. “Andy’s outside puking. She says she’s never riding a fucking tornado again.”

“That was risky,” Karin said. “Making funnels in town where everyone could see.”

Dio’s glare was clearly visible in the low lighting. “Back off. When it’s one of yours, let’s see what you do.”

Karin held up both hands. “Okay, okay.”

“And, uh, thanks for getting here.” Dio directed that to all three of them, giving them each a nod.

“No problem.” Maggie had her hand on the hilt of her sword, and John could tell she was trying to keep the thing under control. “Hey!” she called to the OCU officers trundling above them. “Can we get some rope down here?”

By the time John had given his report to the OCU officers in charge and helped mark off the scene, Camille was long gone, back to the brownstone.

He was glad.

She was healthy and safe, probably needed a shower and some rest. What she didn’t need, he was now deeply certain, was him.

He stood in the ruins of the house near the kitchen, staring around as OCU crime scene techs catalogued and measured everything worth attention. Three OCU officers in NYPD uniforms formed a line outside, keeping the scene secure, though nobody on the street seemed to have any interest in coming inside. This would probably be passed off as a water heater explosion or some other understandable disaster—and people would let that happen, because way down inside, they understood that not knowing was better than knowing.

John got that. He really did, especially now.

Duncan and two big dark-headed men were still giving some instructions, moving around and pointing at burn marks and broken furniture. Creed and Nick Lowell were the big guys, twins and officers, and Curson demons who had learned to contain their supernatural aspects. They had been giving John a few lessons—not that he’d learned much, judging by tonight’s near disaster.

“You squared away?” Nick, the brother with shorter hair, came over to where John was—what? Investigating? Killing time because he didn’t want to go back to the brownstone and face what he needed to face?

“I’m fine.” John forced a smile. “This wasn’t my first demon fight. Unless Blackjack starts some shit about me not being official yet, it’s all good.”

“Blackmore won’t say anything,” Nick assured him. “Guy’s a lot more mellow since he got back from the Motherhouses.”

Duncan and Creed joined them. Creed was shaking his head as he studied the big-ass hole in the floors. “The girl who did this—what’s your take?”

“Never encountered anything like her.” John looked away from the brothers as he spoke, feeling something like shame over what the little witch had been able to do to him. “The energy she used, it was powerful. Reminded me of the stuff that comes out of those mirrors the Sibyls use to communicate.”

And it nearly stripped me down to nothing but demon in five seconds flat
.

He had thought he was better than that. Stronger. Safer. But maybe he’d never been all that safe and in control. Maybe he’d just been arrogant, refusing to recognize what a huge risk he posed to Camille.

Nick gave a low grumble. “Too powerful for a human pushing the elements around. I have an idea who she was. I think that was Rebecca Kincaid, and the man who showed up had to be Samuel Griffen, her half-brother.”

John recognized the names at a lot of levels—the papers Dio had printed for him, his memories from living in Duncan’s head, and Strada’s own recall. He focused on Nick. “Griffen’s the sorcerer who runs the Coven, which helps the Rakshasa. You had to fight him and his people last year, when you first took on Strada and his boys.”

“When we hunted for them and didn’t find any hint of them, my wife swore they couldn’t be completely human, not if they were evading the Sibyls so completely.” Duncan frowned at the devastated trap-house. “I think all the Sibyls believe that.”

“She wasn’t human,” John said. “Powerful as hell, but I can’t tell you much more. I haven’t learned enough about all this body’s extra talents to get much deeper than surface smells and appearances, basic energy sensing and stuff.”

He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck as the brothers exchanged glances. As if by some preordained agreement, Creed and Duncan headed off to speak to one of the techs while Nick stayed behind and studied John.

“You doing all right with Camille? I know this whole fire Sibyl thing can be a little daunting.” Nick’s grin was friendly. “Nobody knows that better than me. I’m still amazed I survived dating Cynda, but she was more than worth it.”

“Camille’s great. She’s everything any man could want, and more.” John almost groaned saying that out loud, but it also felt good to put it into words to somebody else. “That’s the problem, see? I’m not a man. Not anymore. I got a teeth-kicking reminder of that tonight.”

Nick paused, looking thoughtful. “Whatever that girl did, she almost changed you against your will. You felt like you were going to lose control.”

John wanted to punch something, like a wall, but he held himself back because this was a paranormal crime scene. Big fist holes in the wall wouldn’t help anything. “Yeah. That’s about the size of it.”

“We’ve all been there, my brothers and me, and Duncan, too.” Nick took on a faint golden glow, and John’s instincts sensed the Curson presence lurking inside him. “We know how that feels, and it sucks.”

“So, what, you overcame it, Duncan overcame it, and so can I?” John really wanted to hit something now, maybe Nick instead of a wall. He’d shift, John would shift, and John would probably lose the fight. Suicide by demon. New concept.

“I don’t know if you can get past it or not,” Nick said, at least being honest. “That’ll depend on you and how bad you want to conquer it. When you decide, let me know, but for now, I am going to tell you one thing, even though it’s probably out of line.”

John’s fists ached from clenching, and when he answered, the word came out more like a growl. “What?”

“Go home.” Nick pointed toward the brownstone.

John’s clenched jaw went loose from surprise. “Are you nuts? I can’t. Not after—”

“Go home to Camille.” Nick’s expression was earnest and his gaze didn’t waver. “The two of you, you’ll figure it out, but you need to do it together.”

John didn’t answer. Nothing that he wanted to say would have been friendly. The battered house seemed to creak all around them, stinking like rotten eggs each time a breeze blew. The sounds of officers walking and talking in the background seemed muffled and distant.

Nick leaned in a little closer, crowding John enough to make him pull back. “She’s a fire Sibyl. Powerful, brilliant—and loyal to her last breath. Go home, John, or you’ll regret it the rest of your life, but the worst part is, so will she.”

(
 22 
)

Camille paced the lab, beyond glad Ona hadn’t shown back up and that her quad had the good sense to give her space right now. The tiger tooth necklace she had taken from the scene of the demolished house had been placed in the smallest elemental stasis chamber on Bela’s tables for Bela to tackle later, when she’d had some rest. For now, though, the space belonged to Camille.

The cool, antiseptic darkness of the basement was what she needed, what she had to have, to keep from collapsing in on herself.

Asmodai. Fucking Asmodai, of all things. And that girl, what the hell was she? The smell of sulfur was still stuck in Camille’s nose even after a long, hot shower.

And John wasn’t home yet.

Camille knew it would take time, him giving his statement and walking Creed and Nick through everything that went down, but he should have been home. Camille shivered in her green cotton sweats. Comfort clothes, for all the good they were doing.

Dawn was creeping toward the brownstone. She could feel its brightness even though she couldn’t see it down here underground.

Was John staying away because of what the girl had done, almost forcing him to shift to demon form? Had that rattled his confidence?

Maybe it was me. Maybe he finally understood that I’m as much a liability as an asset in a fight, and he doesn’t know what to do with that
.

Camille hated the reality that she was still damaged. After all these years and the new fighting group and all the work she’d done, she was still so broken inside that she’d frozen when she saw Asmodai. She hadn’t even gotten off a good shot with the throwing knife. And—almost as bad—she hadn’t been able to tell Maggie Cregan to stuff it up her ass when Maggie doubted her report on the demons.

“Of course he’s not coming back,” she said out loud, just to make herself acknowledge reality. Complications on top of complications on top of—oh, hell.

He wasn’t coming back.

She leaned against a corner of a lab table, folded her arms, and let her head droop. Good thing she wasn’t a typical fire Sibyl, or this whole place would be burned to bits right now, probably exploded, with Mrs. Knight’s place and everything within a mile going up in one giant fireball.

A soft sound traveled down the hallway outside the lab. The opening and shutting of a door.

Camille’s heart rate jumped.

No. She had imagined that. Heard what she wanted to hear.

But a minute or two later came the whispering rush of a shower running.

She tried to swallow, but all she could do was stand there and hug herself. It seemed like a million years ago, that night in the alley when she’d first seen John Cole in the flesh, and a hundred years ago since she’d met him again in person. The date, so perfect until it just wasn’t. That was years ago, too, wasn’t it?

Tears clouded her vision, blurring the dark, shadowy lab. She listened to the water splashing softly in the distance.

Was it John?

It had to be John.

Who else would go into her room and use her shower?

She listened for longer, and longer still, not knowing whether to feel elated or completely freaked. Why weren’t Bela and Dio and Andy coming down to tell her he was home?

Because they were probably sleeping off the shock of the distress call and of Asmodai coming back on their radar. Or they were staying the hell out of her private business. Her quad could be so nosy and sticky in some ways, but they were all very good at giving space when space was needed. That was probably why their brownstone was still standing.

How long had he been in the shower now? Minutes. Felt like hours. She should wait and let him finish, see if he wanted to come down the hall and talk to her. She should give him space and time to decide what he wanted, without any pressure. That would be the thoughtful approach, wouldn’t it?

More running away, just without all the arm pumping and sweating
.

What would it be like to run
toward
something, just once in her life?

Camille chewed at her bottom lip, pulled between her life so far, her opinion of herself, her thousand doubts—and all that could be if she stopped letting all of that hold her back.

But he hadn’t come straight to her. He’d gone to another room, closed the door, gotten in the shower. Maybe he needed—

Ah, screw it.

She was out of the lab and down the hall in seconds, her own footfalls echoing in her ears. She hesitated at the door, breathing in the swirling scents of soap and water. She thought about knocking, then just turned the knob and went inside.

One lamp was on, bathing the room in a soft, warm yellow light. John was standing just outside the bathroom door with one of her big green towels wrapped around his waist. He was using a smaller towel to dry his hair.

He lowered the towel and stared at her.

She stared right back at him.

It was no secret how handsome he was. She’d seen him shirtless during their morning chats, covered in nothing but a sheet, but somehow, standing there with so little on, he was even more gorgeous. Her fingers tingled from wanting to touch the damp, glistening muscles of his chest and his big arms, from wanting to stroke the ridge of the scar where Maggie’s sword had taken its taste. The way his wet hair tumbled into his eyes—no words. She felt like she could eat that towel straight off his waist.

His eyes, so green and deep, burned with the passion she felt, and she knew in an instant how much he wanted her. He’d never tried to hold that back. Why had she doubted him? Why had she doubted herself?

“I had a big speech about what happened at the house,” he said, his voice thick, like he was barely holding himself back. “I’m not safe, beautiful. You understand that now, right?”

Camille went toward him and he threw down the small towel and raised his hands—whether to embrace her or push her away, she couldn’t tell, but she kept coming.

“I’m dangerous,” he whispered, putting his hands on her shoulders.

Camille put her hands on his fingers and squeezed. “Don’t run away from me, John.”

She saw him go to war with himself, felt the heat rising through her as he fought his battle and lost—or won. Flames ignited deep in her belly, hotter than hot. Was she smoking like a normal fire Sibyl now?

He pulled her to him rough and hard, crushing his lips against hers, taking her completely and filling her mouth with his minty, male taste. She met his tongue, thrust for thrust, winding her arms around his neck and pressing herself into the firm, warm ridges of his muscles. Camille couldn’t breathe anymore, didn’t even care about breathing. She just wanted him, more of him, all of him.

He kissed her deeper, working his fingers through her hair, holding her head closer, possessing her until she had to take what she wanted, too. She slid her hands from his neck, down across his pecs, raking with her nails, lower, lower, until she grabbed the towel and tore it off him.

He was unzipping her sweatshirt, pushing it aside. The room’s cool air swept across her bare breasts just before he cupped them, just before she wrapped both hands around his stiff, pulsing length. He felt perfect. Hard and thick and ready.

He pinched both of her nipples and she tore away from their kiss, moaning, trying to get air. She bit his chin reflexively, then his neck.

“So beautiful.” He rubbed her nipples in his fingers, around and around, then groaned as she squeezed him.

Camille’s insides caught fire. She really was losing it for John, in all the right ways. Her sweatpants sparked, then burned away in a quick rush of smoke and flame, almost as fast as her shirt hanging off her arms. Naked now, except for the dinar hanging around her neck. It took every bit of her will to pull the energy back and put out the fires before she burned down the bedroom.

“Who’s dangerous?” she murmured in John’s ear, stroking him, fingering each glorious inch of him from the damp tip to the soft sack that made him groan when she touched it. “Who’s the killer in this room?”

Fire. She’d never known it like this before, so close, all over. It flickered off her skin in bursts, in fast little waves. Was she burning them? Did he care?

He had her by the waist, then by the ass, lifting her, pressing her bare center against his erection.

The contact made her want to scream. It made her want to open wide and take him in and never, ever let him go. Camille held on to his neck, locked her legs around his waist and gripped him, moving herself along his hard length.

“More,” she heard herself saying. “More now.” A husky sound, barely controlled. When she looked into his eyes, she saw feral desire. Tenderness. She saw everything.

He carried her toward the bed, walking like she weighed nothing, moving like he didn’t care about the fire, the smoke, the burning. She kept trying to pull the energy back, but fire spilled out of her like he was calling it straight from her depths. He was touching the dinar as he touched her, and Camille saw the flames dance over him like the coin was shielding him from her power, and maybe it was. She hoped something was, because she couldn’t help herself.

“I love how you feel.” He sat her on the edge of the bed and knelt between her legs, brushing his rough hands across her belly. “Is there anything we should do, protection-wise?”

“I’m immune to diseases,” she whispered, hoarse from excitement. “Pregnant by choice only. We’re good to go, so
go
.”

John bent down and kissed between her legs, and thrills shot through her, heating her skin more, making her tilt her head back and lean to meet him as he rose and caught one of her nipples in his teeth.

Camille cried out, need and want blended together. She was helpless to stop the sound. Crazy feelings sizzled in her body, and she grabbed the sides of his head and held on tight.

He pushed the chain and dinar out of the way and nibbled one nipple, then the other. Then he took them again, longer, slower, biting harder until she arched her back higher and moaned, pulling his hair tight with both hands. He nuzzled the sensitized skin with his lips, nuzzling her whole breast, sending fresh shocks of pleasure rippling through her center and making her throb, throb. Goddess, she needed him
now
.

When he moved lower, pushing her up on the bed and widening her legs, she could smell her own arousal.

“That’s it.” He kissed the insides of her thighs. “I told you a long time ago, I like it hot.”

“Quit teasing me or I’ll burn down the house.” The words came out in a rush, barely audible, but the wicked roar of fire crept into each syllable.

His laughter rumbled across her sex, and that drove her twice as crazy. Then he moved his tongue inside and tasted, really tasted, and she screamed again, shaking from the perfect torture. She needed more relief than he was giving her. Part of her mind realized she was pulling his hair, then pushing his head down, down, harder. She moved against his mouth, and he let her do the work, teasing, flicking his tongue up and down over her swollen center.

He slipped two fingers into her wet channel, and Camille rocked, moaning from the connection, from the joining.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Show me, beautiful. Let me know what you want.”

Camille clenched tight around him, but he slid his fingers out, and she thought about fire and burning him up—then his tongue found her center and she couldn’t make a sound or even a spark.

He teased with his mouth, with his thumb, moving his fingers into her and out of her, into her and out of her. Sweat coated her entire body and nothing was left in the world except John and what he was doing between her legs. Pleasure spun through the heat inside Camille, building, burning, closing in, but he backed off
again
, leaving her hanging, kissing her thighs, letting his fingers go still in her depths.

“Not yet.” His voice was as much a tease as anything else, a vibrating rumble that seemed to touch her everywhere at once.

Camille pulled his hair again, and he swept his tongue along her folds. Just right. Just enough to make her yelp. She wanted to kill him. Camille wasn’t a squirmer, she wasn’t a screamer, but she was doing both with him already, and he hadn’t come close to giving her the satisfaction she wanted.

“Please,” she heard herself saying, not really believing she was starting to beg, but what the hell.

He slipped his fingers out of her again, grabbed her hips, and pulled her to his face. His growl of male pleasure gave her fresh, hot shivers. He wasn’t just tasting anymore, he was moving his tongue hard and fast, just where she wanted, just where she needed. Camille shot toward the brink, bucking against his mouth, moaning—and he stopped.

Waited.

She clamped her eyes closed and called him names.

He laughed at her. “I’m enjoying this, beautiful. I want it to last forever.”

The sheets were on fire. Camille let go of John’s hair long enough to absorb the flames and pat out the embers.

Then he was kissing her again, her thighs, and inside. He had her so worked up she couldn’t stand it, but he made her stand it, pulling her sensitive flesh into his mouth, then letting it go, again, again, and she was building again, building, building—

Everything inside Camille flared, yellow-hot, white-hot. The climax took her over, claimed her, flattened her, and she cried out low and loud. Fire burned through her mind, her senses. Everything pounded. Everything throbbed. Even the dinar seemed to get hot, melding into her skin.

And his fingers were inside her, pumping, pumping, pushing her higher, so hard and fast she didn’t even have a chance to grab the sheets and hold on. Her second orgasm blew through her, wild and hard, and she shrieked and almost crushed his head with her knees.

Aftershocks like big fiery earthquakes shook her inside and out, but he wasn’t stopping. John was moving his body up, pushing her onto the bed. He pressed his hard cock into her belly, his gaze more fire, green fire, flaming into her awareness as she gripped his shoulders.

“Too much, beautiful? Are
you
ready to run?”