“Spread your fingers,” she ordered.
The
other
grunted and spread five golden shafts of light.
“Riana…” Cynda sounded genuinely uncertain.
Riana kept her gaze squarely on the creature. “Be still,” she told it. “Don’t move until I give you permission.”
The
other
gave off a wave of disgust and frustration, but it didn’t so much as twitch.
Riana lunged forward and jammed the signet back on the thing’s right ring finger, where Creed had worn it.
As Riana jumped back, Merilee sucked in a breath and muttered, “Oh, Goddess.”
Cynda came around the table slowly, sword raised, until she stood beside Riana. Merilee moved around the other side of the table. She had lowered the bow, but her arrow was still at the ready.
Riana knew what they were thinking.
If we’re about to die, let us die together.
She put one hand on Cynda’s shoulder and the other on Merilee’s arm and watched as the
other
began to shift.
Tall. Short. Wide. Thin. Manlike. Godlike. Huge, then tiny, huddled on the surface of the table like a child. A buzzing sound rasped against Riana’s ears. She felt the vibration in her teeth, like the hum of powerful electric wires.
“Please,” she whispered, even though she knew she had given up her command power with the ring. “Come on, Creed. Please.”
The
other
stood and took on its more definite man-shape. Apollo again, only more normal in height, translucent and not quite real.
As Riana watched, the golden light began to fade. Bones showed through the light, like a radiographic image. Muscles attached to the bones. Skin formed and joined. More human. Then totally human. Well defined and handsome, with normal man-parts. The scar on Creed’s left arm and his silky black hair came last.
The second he seemed completely solid, Creed fell to his knees on the table and bent forward, arms folded, left hand clasped around his right, covering the signet ring.
He seemed too weak to stay alive.
Riana ran forward and climbed onto the table, heedless of the dwindling fire and scattered earth that once formed the grounding circle. As if from a great distance, she heard Cynda and Merilee warning her to be careful, urging her to stay back.
Were they insane? Couldn’t they see Creed couldn’t even lift his own head, much less hurt her?
She knelt beside him on the table and touched his shoulder. Her palm rested against that thick, straight scar. He smelled like himself again, his human self. The cedar-mandarin scent comforted her even though his skin was clammy. He started to shake as if he was freezing to death.
“Get him a blanket,” she called to Merilee, who was still standing with her bow and arrow in hand. Cynda gazed at Riana but didn’t lower her sword.
“Put down your weapons and get him a blanket!” Riana turned back to Creed. “I think he’s going into shock.”
What have we done?
She stroked his arm, like that might keep him from changing or vanishing or dying right there in front of her. She wanted—needed—to apologize, but when she opened her mouth, she asked the same question they had started with, what seemed like a dozen years ago.
“What
are
you?”
Creed looked up at her, and the dark, haunted depths of his eyes tore at her heart. His quiet, agonized answer tore at her even more.
“I don’t know, Riana. God. I don’t even know.”
6
Did you call her, Riana?
Yes. I woke her up. It’s early, but she’s coming.
Are you sure it’s a good idea?
She has a right to know.
Creed’s perceptions swam. He had never had the mercy of forgetting what he did when the
other
was forward, but it was damned hard to come back to his human self. He sat huddled and his skin burned as if he’d been dipped in oil. Blood hammered hard against his temples, and he was covered with sweat. He couldn’t stop clenching his jaw, because he wanted to shout. He wanted to smash the dirty, wet wooden table beneath him with his bare fists. How could he let himself lose control like that? How could he put a room full of women in jeopardy, even if they
were
psychics?
Or witches.
Or something.
His mind frothed.
Stupid. Weak. Dangerous
.
Why did he even try to live among
real
humans? When would he give up the fantasy he could be “normal” and do what Dominic did? Run away from New York and the NYPD and join a cult of the “enlightened mind.” Those freaks probably thought he was some sort of god. At least in a cult full of drugged-out junkies, he might not hurt anybody.
Dominic seemed happy enough in the few untraceable e-mails he had sent Creed. They were rambling letters that talked a lot about purpose, power, and destiny. Dominic had asked Creed to agree to join him two or three times, but Creed had always refused.
Yours in enlightenment,
Nick.
Yeah, right.
Maybe the next time Dominic sent him a missive and an invitation, Creed should go for it.
Morning sunlight streamed into the brownstone.
All night.
Whatever they did to him, it had taken all night. Creed crushed his fists into his eyes and wished the pressure would stop the pounding in his head. The only sensation connecting him to sanity was a surprisingly comforting touch on the arm that bore his birth-scar, the line of knotted tissue created when his grandmother used a kitchen knife to cut him free from Dominic as their mother lay sobbing, damaged and dying.
I’ve been a killer since the day I was born. I almost killed people today. Riana, for God’s sake. As if God has any use for me.
Normal babies had no real memories of birth, but Creed remembered his, and everything that happened afterward. Creed remembered almost everything he had ever seen or heard, especially when his senses were heightened by the
other
. Even the devastating, horrible things the
other
had done.
For now, the beast lay dormant inside, as it always did after coming forward. It was just a hot, sleeping weight in his chest and belly, present, yet as distant as a star in some faraway sky. Creed wondered if it was exhausted. He was always exhausted after a transformation, so much so that he suspected if the
other
ever managed to stay forward for longer than a few minutes, it might utterly consume his human aspects.
“Are you all right?” asked a low, sexy voice.
The firm but definitely feminine grip on Creed’s scarred arm made him take his fists out of his eyes. He blinked against the stabbing pain of light and motion. Riana Dumain was kneeling on the massive table beside him, dressed in a form-fitting black leather jumpsuit that had big holes burned through it. In several places. She had hold of him, her long fingers clasping his biceps as if to steady him, while with the other hand she adjusted a green blanket covering his bare shoulders. A blanket that, if he wasn’t much mistaken, was smoldering, as if someone had almost set it on fire.
Creed’s thoughts settled slowly as he stared at the vision of a woman who tended him so gently. How could she be kind to him after what she saw? After what he—well, the
other
that was part of him—almost did to her and her friends?
An uneven breeze stirred the air in bursts, and wind chimes clanked, off-key, as if they had all been broken. The tangy odor of smoke mingled with wet dirt and burned wood. Creed caught a whiff of lavender and spring dew that made his body want to respond, but behind Riana, he could see piles and pieces of shattered glass, smashed mirror frames, and wind chime pipes scattered on the floor. The sight of the destruction he had caused quelled his interest, at least temporarily.
Damn, but he had done this mess up right. Even the walls had been ruined by sprays of dirt and blackened streaks of soot. One piece of a mirror dangled from its hook, showing him flickering images of the rest of the room, which didn’t look much better.
At least there weren’t any bodies. But…he was naked. He looked back at Riana, tore his eyes away from the tempting bits of soft, tanned skin he could see through the holes in her jumpsuit, then had to fight not to stare into her worried green eyes. Despite the acid churning in his gut, despite his humiliation and frustration, naked was going to be a problem next to this woman—and fast.
He tried to swallow, but his throat was so dry he coughed instead. His voice came out in a thirsty rasp. “At least nobody’s dead, right?”
The big wooden table, the one he remembered from his first visit to the brownstone, shook slightly beneath him. The hair on the back of Creed’s neck stood up, but he was too weak to turn and face the threat he sensed.
Cold steel pressed against the side of his neck and smashed the blanket against his shoulder.
Creed went so still he didn’t even breathe.
Riana glared upward as his attacker said, “Nobody’s dead, you bastard. No thanks to you. What the
hell
was that—that thing you turned into?”
Creed recognized the redhead’s voice. Cynda. And she wasn’t holding a knife to his throat. She was holding a friggin’ sword. Merilee came into view and stopped beside Riana. With a pointed frown in Creed’s direction, she tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear and handed Riana a glass of water. The water’s surface rippled from the strange wind inside the brownstone.
With my luck, that water’s poisoned, or the glass will explode when I touch it.
“Back off.” Riana kept her intense stare leveled on Cynda. She added, “Please,” like she didn’t really want to say it.
Cynda moved the sword a fraction of an inch away from Creed’s neck, enough that he felt comfortable reaching for the water and taking his chances about whether or not it would kill him on the first swallow.
It didn’t.
Creed gulped the cool liquid, letting it loosen his throat enough to say, “I’m sorry.” He chanced Cynda’s reaction time and turned more fully toward Riana, who let go of his arm. He missed the touch instantly and wanted it back, but he settled for wrapping the blanket around himself, at least enough to shield the important parts. “I would never hurt you on purpose.”
She studied him for a moment, long enough for the heat of her gaze to make him glad he had a blanket over his cock. Then she shrugged. “You did try to warn us, at least.”
Cynda swore. The sword retreated another inch, resting on his shoulder now, but still perilously close to his neck.
Merilee stood on the periphery of his vision, arms folded—and he thought she might have a bow slung over her shoulder. She asked Cynda’s question again, and when she did, the breezes in the brownstone gusted. “What did you turn into when we took off your ring? Tell us now, if you want to walk out of here alive.”
Creed addressed his response to Riana. “I really don’t know. I’ve always called it the
other
.” Out of habit, he almost let go of the blanket to touch his ring. “I try to keep it inside.”
Silence answered him.
Riana’s green eyes narrowed with an emotion Creed couldn’t read. Anger? Suspicion?
Fear?
“My twin has one, too,” he said, hoping she believed him. “An
other
. Only I think his is worse. Maybe that’s why he went missing.”
More silence. More scrutiny from Riana. A twitch from the sword resting on his shoulder. A hiss from Merilee, followed by a hiss of wind that chilled his damp face.
Shit. These women didn’t need any psychic abilities or rituals to make people talk. They should have just left him handcuffed and naked, and let Riana sit a few feet from him, staring at him the way she was staring at him now. He would have spilled his guts in a heartbeat.
“We’ve had the
others
inside since we were born,” Creed said lamely, hoping it would be enough. It had to be enough, because he didn’t know anything else to tell her besides a list of the things he blamed himself for doing. And he’d rather not share that, now or ever.
“Did your mother have a creature inside her, too?”
Riana’s question was logical and innocent enough, but Creed felt his expression darken. “I don’t know. She…died. When I was a baby. And I never knew my father.”
The redhead snorted and finally took the sword away from his neck. “You don’t know what you are. You never knew your father. Your brother is missing, so he can’t tell us anything. And your mother is dead. How convenient.”
Creed clenched his fists, then made himself relax his fingers. “If you want to call it that.”
Merilee gestured to the destroyed room. “Excuse us for having no compassion.”
“We should have killed him when he was a god-thing.” Cynda brushed past him and got off the table, the melted shreds of her bodysuit flapping against her belt and scabbard as she jumped. She kicked a piece of broken glass against the wall as she took her spot beside Merilee. The two women flanked Riana like a pair of trained Dobermans showing their teeth.
Not without effort, Creed made himself look away from the attack dogs. Riana settled back on her knees, staying on the table an arm’s length from him. He wanted to reach out and take her hand in his, talk quietly and gain an understanding of her and why she had trapped him and questioned him, but he didn’t want her bodyguards to bite off his fingers.
Instead, he leaned forward to hide the cock-bulge in his blanket and asked the one question that made sense to him. “So, Riana. And Cynda and Merilee. What are
you
?”
“As if you don’t know,” Merilee said.
Cynda snapped, “You don’t have the right to ask questions,” at the same moment.
A beat later, Riana answered with, “Sibyls. We’re Sibyls.”
This stunned the guard dogs into silence. They both stared at Riana with open mouths.