Captive Soul (26 page)

(
 27 
)

Occult Crimes Unit headquarters, sarcastically dubbed Headcase Quarters, was a little pretentious for Camille’s tastes. She knew Sibyls and NYPD officers had to have a place to interact without public scrutiny, especially given the high number of demons wandering in or out at all hours, and sure, the Lowell brothers owned the place and let the OCU use it for free, but still. At night, the outdoor safety lights turned the place into a five-story showplace with lots of balconies, a black metal safety fence, and dual white entry staircases winding up to a brick landing with big white columns. There was even an eagle seal above the white front door.

Camille jostled through the door with John and Dio, heading for the emergency meeting. Andy had stayed behind at the brownstone to look after Bela. Camille was still aching from the fight, wearing yesterday’s jeans and sweater, running on literally about an hour’s sleep, and worrying about her quad—yeah, this was going to be fun.

Inside the townhouse, there was a massive basement gym, a ground floor with a kitchen, a great big conference room, and offices. The next two floors had private bedrooms, occupied by visiting demons and officers like Jack Blackmore, while the third floor had a few rooms but also a huge library. Everything was polished hardwood and expensive carpets and paintings, and it smelled like the wake room at Motherhouse Ireland. All polish and fresh linen and floral highlights to hide … well, better not to think about that.

High-end living overkill, even if it was being put to good use.

The conference room on the first floor, where the Sibyls and the OCU shared reports, had wood paneling and wooden blinds, a ton of chairs, and a blackboard and long table at the front. Despite the ample space, the room felt small and stuffy when they got inside.

“I hate it when it’s so crowded,” Dio grumbled under the low roar of officers and Sibyls rattling around and finding chairs. Camille was thankful she heard no thunder overhead. She didn’t like being Dio’s only babysitter, but she had to admit Dio was getting better at not losing her cool so often, even in large groups.

“Back with you in a few,” John said, giving Camille’s hand a squeeze before he peeled off to speak to Saul Brent, who was hunched over the main table with his brother, Cal.

Camille watched him go, hoping to have a second to enjoy watching him walk, but she was immediately besieged by Riana’s triad.

Dio went stiff beside her, but she didn’t say anything.

“How’s Bela?” Riana asked, her dark eyes, dark hair, and vaguely Russian looks reminding Camille enough of Bela to make her chest hurt. Behind her, Cynda Flynn let off a steady cloud of smoke from her shoulders, and Merilee kept it dispersed with casual bursts of air energy from her fingertips. At least the smoke blocked out the thick scent of leather, wood polish, sword oil, cologne, and perfume collecting in the air.

“Tired, but fine.” Camille ignored the little flames dancing along Cynda’s arms, though she really didn’t have issues with Cynda—and she adored Cynda’s little girl, who was one of the lights of Andy’s life. “Andy’s with her. Where are the guys?”

“They’re all with Blackmore getting ready for the meeting,” Cynda said, scooting her red hair out of her eyes. “The Brent brothers are still working the phones and secure e-mail with the rank and file, making sure everybody’s been notified and checking in with other paranormal crime units across this country and everywhere else.”

“That move Bela made in the meadow—kickass,” Merilee said, and Camille knew she was waiting for more explanation. Earth Sibyls could shake limited patches of ground and move small amounts of earth without making lots of trouble for surrounding areas. The way-deep, very targeted hole Bela had dug was unusual, especially since everyone knew earthmoving wasn’t Bela’s big strength.

“Yeah. Desperation breeds invention.” Camille smiled and gave Merilee nothing else. Dio, who had serious issues with Merilee and most other air Sibyls, wouldn’t have said a word for love or money, so Merilee didn’t bother to ask. That was good. Camille wasn’t much in the mood for a tornado outburst.

Nick Lowell came through the conference room door, followed by his twin, Creed, and their brother, Jake. Jake Lowell was one of the few Astaroth demons comfortable keeping a consistent human form, and he really was a gorgeous, ethereal man, with his tall frame and startling blond hair and blue eyes. In his demon form, he had white hair, golden eyes, translucent pearl skin, great big fangs, claws, and a double set of huge leathery wings—but either way, human or demon, his presence tended to get everyone’s attention. People started moving toward seats, getting out of his way, and barely paying any mind to the man behind him, Jack Blackmore, who for once had on jeans and a white shirt instead of his Flaming Bunch of Idiots suit. Camille made a mental note to tell Andy, then see if she fainted.

Riana and her group went to join their husbands, and John elbowed his way through the milling crowd, pressing his hand to the small of Camille’s back when he got to her. His touch gave her unexpected strength, and she liked the fact he wasn’t shy about putting his hands on her in public. Let everybody stare. Most of the people in the room probably had no idea what to do with John, and they most likely thought she was a freak anyway—not that she cared.

She caught John’s hand and laced her fingers through his, and with her other hand she gently took Dio’s wrist. “Come on. We better get seats.”

They jostled around and sat, all leaning forward as one, straining to hear over the continuing noise as Blackmore said, “So, as everybody probably knows, we’ve got Asmodai again, and we’ve had two strikes using these demons within the last month, one small, one large-scale.”

His dark eyes looked serious, and his too-handsome face seemed unusually pale. His black hair looked tousled, like he’d run his hand through it a hundred times in the last hour. Add that to the imposing figure of Jake Lowell standing next to him on his right like a silent blond thunderhead, and the effect was disconcerting. The twin Lowells on his left only added to the mood, as dark and big as Blackmore in build and coloring, and obviously just as concerned.

Camille felt her anxiety crank up a few notches. If she hadn’t been so exhausted, she might actually have mustered some panic. She realized she was still holding hands with John and sort of holding hands with Dio, but she wasn’t sorry. Let everybody else be hard-asses. She hated even hearing the word
Asmodai
, much less thinking about them or fighting them. If that made her chickenshit, then so be it.

“I’ve ordered an increase in production on our elementally locked bullets, and every OCU officer should carry elementally treated blades as backups,” Blackmore continued. “Those of you who were on duty during the Legion conflict, share what you know. We’ll have to reorganize patrols, because paranormal activity may go off the charts now that these bastards are back in play.”

Sheila Gray from the East Ranger group asked, “Have any other cities reported Asmodai resurgence?”

Nick Lowell took that question. “Not as yet. Seems like this is an NYC exclusive for now.” His gaze drifted to Camille and Dio, and Camille felt their liaison’s concern like a leaden weight descending on her shoulders.

“Is there any evidence the Legion is making these demons?” That question came from Riana, analytical as always. “Did we recover anything to analyze to explore that?”

Jake Lowell fielded her question. “Asmodai were Legion creations, but the ritual can be performed by anyone with elemental talent. We have samples of dirt from the earth Asmodai, but no additional artifacts or talismans. Their handlers”—he gestured to the wooden floor beneath his feet—“burned up in the earth’s core, as far as we know, so not much is left of them, either.”

People who hadn’t heard about Bela’s primo hole digging muttered among themselves, but Camille ignored them. Dio pulled her hand free and sat back, arms folded, and Camille knew she was working on keeping her temper managed, because Dio hated it when anybody said anything about Bela. Well, about any of them. Dio was a little protective, in her own slightly psycho way. John gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, and when she glanced at him, his gorgeous green eyes told her,
We’ll get through this
.

Camille wanted to believe him. She really did.

“Start watching your trash again, people,” Creed Lowell said, his dark ponytail spread across one shoulder. “Discarded personal items and in-container food products are the most common ways of targeting Asmodai.”

Blackmore took over again, stressing, “These demons are without human properties. Terminate on sight, but be careful about the blowback, especially from the fire Asmodai. Sibyls weather it pretty well, but the flameout can scar or kill humans who aren’t wearing protective gear.”

Camille watched everyone in the room get tenser, even Legion war veterans who knew this drill. She tried not to focus on everyone else’s worries, since she had so many of her own, but it was hard not to. The briefing droned on for a time, but she hardly heard the details. More and more, she just wanted to be alone with John and sleep, not necessarily in that order, and not necessarily without intervening events.

She held back a sigh and closed her eyes for a few seconds. She had to find some way to really rest, to relax and focus and think. After what had happened in the meadow, it was obvious that this round with the Asmodai and the Rakshasa and whoever else might be involved was going to demand more of everybody. Moreover, Camille and her quad had something to offer in this war, something more than low-average elemental talents, good fighting skills, and excellent demon tracking. They had to get better with their projective talents, and Camille knew she was the one who had to help them all get better.

Yet Ona’s words haunted her, about how dangerous their sentient gifts might be.

Were Ona’s warnings overblown?

What
were
the real dangers, other than exhaustion to the point of falling out, or maybe even dying? Camille had to know, and apparently Ona was the only person on earth who could tell her.

“You still with me, beautiful?” John’s sexy voice jerked her out of her obsessing, and she opened her eyes. The room felt even more stuffy, Blackmore was still talking, and she’d had about all she could take. She had to get out. Go. She didn’t even know where.

She smiled at John so he wouldn’t worry, then loosened her hand from his. “I’m fine, but I need some air.”

To Dio she murmured, “Don’t hurt anybody, okay? If the meeting ends, play nice and go home.”

For once, Dio didn’t crack back with anything. She eyed Camille like she could sense the jumpy agitation building in Camille’s chest, and she just nodded.

Camille excused herself as quietly as possible, slipping through all the standing and sitting people until she made it to the door, then out into the hallway. She almost headed outside, but opted out of that because the meeting might let out and flood her with people all over again.

Instead, she walked across the hall to the door to the basement gym and headed down, into the earth and stone most fire Sibyls abhorred. The second she hit the stairs, the cool air started to relieve her and help her think, and she almost ran the rest of the way down, through the gym door and into the big, empty stone space. There was equipment spread everywhere, with weights and mats and balls and machines, but there was a lot of open space, too.

She had only switched on one light, so the space seemed candlelit, and that was just fine by her. She went to the middle of the room, and for a time she just sat on the soothing, cold stone, breathing in the earthy, rocky smell of the place. Hints of rubber and sweat, light shades of cleanser—the gym smelled alive and fertile, energized yet completely relaxed. She needed to match that combination, but it wasn’t easy.

After a time centering herself, she said, “Ona?”

No idea why. Just hoping.

No answer.

“Ona, if you can hear me, I need to know more.” Tears collected in Camille’s eyes. “I need to know everything, and I know you can tell me.”

She waited.

Still nothing.

Of course there was nothing. Camille let her head roll forward to her chest. Ona wasn’t some ghost or invisible Astaroth lurking in the unseen shadows. If Camille wanted to talk to her, she’d have to use communication channels, but she definitely didn’t want to go through platforms and mirrors where everybody would know. She need to talk to Ona the way Ona had tried to teach her—the old way. Ona would probably say
the real way
.

Camille got up and took off her shoes, letting her bare feet touch the stone. She tried to imagine communication channels, large and small, running everywhere all around her. Ona’s diagram had shown the channels flowing away from the Sibyl, but Camille couldn’t wrap her consciousness around how that would work. She’d have to rely on the older models.

She remembered what had worked in the lab the few times she had been successful at getting some energy flowing, and she closed her eyes and got her feet moving. The dance came easily enough this time, faster and faster, flowing out of her like it did when she got on the platforms and worked the mirrors.

Camille put out her arms and started to spin, something she didn’t often have to do, but it built the fire energy flowing out of her, agitated it, and helped it join the ambient energy in the room, in the rock, and seemingly everywhere in the air. She imagined Ona hiding out in one of the tunnels in Motherhouse Ireland, maybe even the hollow little space where Camille first encountered her. In her mind, she reached out to the fire in the channels she imagined around her, and envisioned herself connected to Ona. The dinar around her neck warmed her chest and hummed, like she was feeding it exactly what it liked.

Her left foot came down, and she sensed a flexing burst in the fire, a sensation like the actual channels grinding open, only not so violent and total. This opening was just enough, just right, and she thought maybe, maybe, she could send a word through, and her right foot came down—