Duncan looked at Bela. Her dark eyes were calm but concerned, and her expression was unreadable. A dozen memories of her whispering to him and touching his face competed with each other. He wanted time to sort through each image and enjoy it.
When he’d first seen her in DUMBO, she’d had a sword, hadn’t she?
A long, down-curving blade with a serrated end, like a
kora
, a kind of sword he’d seen once in Nepal. A kind of sword made to behead things. Duncan felt his insides lurch as pieces snapped into place. Pieces he didn’t want to see, didn’t want to understand—but the picture couldn’t be denied.
“Warriors with elemental powers.” Just saying it out loud made him feel batshit crazy. He knew he sounded as sarcastic as the old, smoking Irish woman, but he didn’t really care. “What are you trying to pull on me, Blackjack?”
“The Rakshasa cut you with their claws, cop.” The old Irish woman let off a burst of flames from her knuckles as she pointed to the bandaged half of Duncan’s neck. “You’re infected, and there’s nothin’ we can do to stop you from changin’.”
“You’re crazy.” Duncan’s response was reflex. He didn’t usually disrespect his elders, even when they were covered with puffs of smoke. The Sibyls, all four of them, twitched at his insult, and the bolt of shame that struck Duncan’s insides felt like a rebuke from his very religious mother back in Georgia.
“Sorry,” he said. “The way I was raised, this kind of talk would get you taken to church—or sent to hell. I just don’t believe in anything you’re telling me.”
Tell her you won’t turn
, John Cole’s voice insisted, louder than before.
Tell the old woman I won’t let it happen
.
Something tickled, then burned against his chest, heating up the cloth of his hospital gown. Duncan glanced down to see the coin John Cole had placed around his neck during the battle at DUMBO.
Duncan tore his gaze from the coin and stared at the fire-breathing howler monkey, disliking her and liking her all at the same time. She seemed like a real bitch—but he liked the strength of her voice and her attitude. Kind of like an ancient, retired police officer. She probably would have worked Vice, or maybe Narcotics.
“Who are you?” Duncan asked the old woman.
“She’s Mother Keara,” Bela answered him in that rich, silky voice. He felt the sound of it like a tangible comforting force on his aching skin. “One of the oldest fire Sibyls in the world, and one of the wisest. She knows a lot about fighting ancient demons. All the Mothers do. Several of them have been working to keep you alive, but Mother Keara is the only one staying here full-time.”
Tell Mother Keara about me and the coin, Duncan
.
Duncan studied Mother Keara. The fire in her eyes. The fire in her soul. He could see the general in her then. The way she would protect her troops at all costs. When her gaze strayed to the Sibyls in the room, he noticed that her eyes flickered in a certain way as she appraised Bela.
This old woman was attached to his angel. Probably protective as hell.
Christ, what are you waiting for?
John was starting to sound desperate.
Can’t you see the power rolling off her?
Duncan squinted at the old woman. A strange shifting sensation gripped his mind, as if he were joining his thoughts with someone—no, something—else. Something other and alien, yet also familiar. Compatible. He had a flash of the blood-brother ritual he and John Cole had performed when they were eight. Moon Pies, Coca-Cola, and pocketknives, down in the cornfield. All very solemn and way stupid, but it was the same sensation now. A quick cut, a little burning, then nothing but rightness and relaxing. He swallowed, almost tasting the sweet chocolate and hot, fizzy soft drink they had shared that day so long ago.
John Cole’s knowledge and awareness flowed into Duncan’s, until they mingled almost seamlessly. Then, slowly, like a distant vista coming into focus through a camera lens, Duncan saw a change in Mother Keara. Or, more specifically, the air around her. A rippling aura of fire and death swelled out from her wrinkled skin and gnarled limbs. Sheets of it, in brilliant reds and greens, then a deeper blue like the hottest of flames. The colors came in layers, then layers on top of layers.
“I won’t turn,” he said, understanding John’s urgency now.
The old woman’s dangerous energy flared like a flashbang, and Duncan winced, seeing spots for a few seconds. She leaned toward him, close enough that the deadly heat of the flames that had to be living in her heart and soul made his breath come short.
“What did you say?” she asked, her voice echoing with the force of a roaring explosion.
Duncan’s words deserted him.
This was too horror-movie. He couldn’t handle it.
Talk to her
, John Cole urged, but Duncan shut him out.
This was still his body. Still his life.
Right?
Not for long
, John muttered, and Duncan had the horrible feeling his dead best friend was telling him the complete truth.
(14)
“I won’t turn,” Duncan said again, partly of his own will, and partly because he felt as if John Cole had hold of his tongue, flapping it to make him talk. “Not until I’m just about to die.”
Then, drawing off John’s knowledge, Duncan reported, “This dinar around my neck was blessed by the priest who trapped the Ruck—ah—Rakshasa over a thousand years ago. John Cole found it in the temple the day the demons were released, and that’s why he survived. He gave it to me in DUMBO. As long as I’m wearing it, the Rakshasa can’t touch me directly. Its energy will help slow the infection, and John knows how to keep me from changing until the moment before I die.”
Mother Keara’s sharp green eyes drew down to slits. “Your friend John Cole is dead.”
“Maybe his body, but his mind—” Duncan broke off. He wanted to pick the right word to describe the process that had put John Cole’s thoughts in his brain, but he wasn’t completely certain. He also couldn’t look at anyone in the room save for Mother Keara. No way did he want to tell this to anyone, least of all an Irish howler monkey with fire shimmering all around her.
Mother Keara glanced from the coin to Duncan’s face, gazing so deeply into his eyes he wondered if she could melt his skull without ever laying a finger on him. Then she smiled and tapped the side of her head, as if she understood that Duncan had something unusual going on his brain.
Transmigration
, John told Duncan.
Say it. If I have to take you over and make you say it, I will, but you’ll look
different and sound different, and they’ll chain you to the bed again
.
“Transmigration.” Duncan figured they’d take him for a full-blown idiot. “John—well, shit. The John voice in my head says to tell you we’re sharing space.”
Silence reigned between the yellow walls of the room, which, now that he was studying it more closely, looked more like a giant bricked-in jail cell than a proper hospital area.
Blackjack and the Brent brothers weren’t laughing. Bela and her Sibyl friends were all staring at him, and none of them seemed to be breathing. For reasons Duncan couldn’t explain, their response made everything real to him. The remnants of his denial fell away like torn cloth, and his gut churned. It was all he could do to keep himself still.
“Mr. Blackmore, you haven’t lost your best operative,” Mother Keara said, smiling that monkey smile of hers. “You still have John Cole and all that he knows. For a time, at least, he’s alive and well in Duncan Sharp’s mind.”
Blackjack’s only question was “How long?”
Duncan couldn’t process the words, but he saw all the Sibyls shift their attention to Mother Keara. Their expressions changed. He saw emotions. Lots of them.
He wanted to yell at them to stop, to back off, but he didn’t yell at women.
How long?
That’s what Blackjack wanted to know, but why? What was he talking about?
“How long they remain on this earth is hard to say.” Mother Keara’s smile faded. “The universe will be fightin’ to set things right soon enough, so they won’t be continuin’ the partnership forever. Weeks. Perhaps a few months before nature takes her own course. The infection will worsen, and as Duncan Sharp begins to die, John Cole’s spirit will depart, along with all the protection it’s offerin’.”
Her words drifted through Duncan’s awareness.
He was starting to get it now.
John had saved him from the Rakshasa, and John’s spirit and his magic coin were slowing the infection in his slash wounds. But it couldn’t go on forever. Somewhere in the universe, a countdown timer had clicked on, and the numbers were spinning down fast. Sooner or later—sooner, probably—this little ball would end, only Duncan wouldn’t be turning into a pumpkin when the clock struck midnight.
He’d be turning into a demon.
The fingers on his good hand pulled into a fist. Deep in his brain, Duncan saw images of the Rakshasa, images that had to be from John’s memories. With each picture that flashed through his awareness, Duncan understood a little more. Like how long John had been fighting the nasty cats. So that’s why he’d been dreaming of the old war—and of new ones he couldn’t quite understand.
Next, John showed him the intent of the Rakshasa, as John understood it. The Rakshasa wanted to regain their former glory, to gather power and wealth. It was their only purpose. Their obsession. They would consolidate allies.
They would avenge themselves on any and all who dared to stand in their way.
Like the Sibyls
, John said.
Especially these four, who took them on in DUMBO and battled them to a draw. The demons will track these women without mercy and tear them to pieces
.
“No way in hell,” Duncan muttered, and even his bad hand curled.
“Only a few months?” Bela’s beautiful voice sounded strained as she spoke to Mother Keara. “Couldn’t it be longer?”
Mother Keara’s shoulders slumped. “We’re doin’ what we can to contain that infection, but the demon energy fights back. It’ll break through the wards and barriers we’ve set in his body, and in the end it’ll take him. Duncan Sharp will become Rakshasa.”
Duncan heard the words, but once more they didn’t sink all the way through his numbed understanding.
Blackjack and the Brent brothers stood still, staying silent, conveying frustration and rage in their stony expressions. Bela opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her gaze darted to Duncan, then she closed her eyes and turned away from him, staring out the yellow room’s open door.
“We know a lot of stand-up guys who are demons or half demons.” Andy dripped water faster and faster, like a broken fountain. “Duncan’s one of us. One of the good guys. Why couldn’t he learn to control himself after the change?”
Mother Keara’s long gray hair rustled against her green robes as she shook her head. “You’ve been readin’ the same scrolls I have, child. Rakshasa are inherently evil, perhaps some of the worst entities known throughout history. When he changes, there won’t be any of Duncan Sharp’s essence left to guide his actions. Created Rakshasa always go mad.”
Duncan wanted to close his eyes like Bela and find some way to stare into the center of his own brain until he found John Cole’s spirit.
“Is she telling the truth?” he asked John out loud, not caring how insane he sounded.
Yes
. Then, more quietly,
I’m sorry
.
Duncan smashed his good hand against the railing of his bed. The metal snapped sideways. An IV pole went flying, and a needle tore out of his forearm, tape and all. Blood welled and trickled down his fingers, but he waved off Blackjack and Andy.
“Leave it.” His mind was fixed on the Rakshasa and how fast he’d have to work to take them down before he died. To Mother Keara he said, “You people have been doing something to help me heal faster, haven’t you?”
She met his stare with her bright eyes, fire dancing in the green depths. “Yes.”
Duncan nodded, feeling the pull and pain of the bandages against the demon cuts on his neck and shoulder. “Do it more. Do it faster. Seal up these wounds as much as they can be sealed, and get me out of this cast. I want to get back on the streets at full strength.”
Her stare continued. She looked impressed, but she said, “You’re fully human. The pain would be unbearable.”
Duncan felt John’s resolve join with his own. “I don’t give a shit. I—we—don’t have time to waste.”
Blackjack didn’t argue, but Duncan knew he wouldn’t. Jack Blackmore was practical, and above all, he was a man determined to take down his enemies. If the Rakshasa were his targets now, then God help them. Saul and Calvin stayed quiet, too, but Duncan figured he’d be hearing their opinions later, if he survived this speeded-healing shit.
As for his angel and her group of Sibyls, they said nothing, and their expressions remained fixed. Duncan felt a flicker of respect from Dio, the blonde with the wicked stare that even an enemy combatant would fear. The little redhead, Camille, nodded to him, and Andy, arms folded, set her mouth in a straight line.
“Do it.” Andy’s tone communicated as much as the unhappy determination in his angel’s eyes. These women were definitely warriors, just as focused on their purpose as Blackjack and Duncan and John Cole.
Duncan forced his gaze away from Bela.
“Take me to the townhouse,” Mother Keara was telling Camille and Dio. “The building north and east of here, where your OCU has its headquarters. We’ll be needin’ a bigger space like their stone basement to pull this off—and a lot more Mothers. Better I do the organizin’ and plannin’—and the transports, too. Yana will get cranky if she’s dragged back here by any child less than a century old.”
To Bela, she said, “He’s safe enough for now with what we’ve put in place, for a few weeks I think, but keep a Sibyl with him and don’t let him be too active past general movin’ about. Get as much as you can from all those medical machines—his blood, his genes, his energy, and that infection. Every bit of information you can find.”
Bela nodded, and Mother Keara’s attention shifted to Duncan. “We’ll send for you when we’re ready. It’ll take some time, workin’ out the details, and settin’ the barriers to make sure we don’t kill you and what’s left of yer friend John straightaway, and everyone else in the bargain. Do what Bela says about the medical tests. We need a good sample of yer body’s patterns as you get a little health to you.”
Duncan almost swore over the delay, but a phrase from his childhood helped him hold his peace.
Beggars can’t be choosers
.
No shit
.
He kept his mouth shut as Camille and Dio took hold of Mother Keara’s elbows.
Bela moved over to them and spoke in low tones, and Duncan thought he caught the words
Cole, investigation
, and …
murder
.
Murder.
Duncan felt a shiver of energy and a surge of his focus returning.
Yes. There had been a murder—that’s why he’d been chasing John in the first place. A woman had been slashed to death. Damnit. Had the NYPD been on that, or did they think John was the perp and put the case to bed? If the cat-demons did it, he at least needed to find out why, and how the killing tied into the similar murders in other cities—and the detail trail would be cold as hell already.
He had to get himself out of this bed.
Dio frowned, glanced at Duncan, and nodded to Bela. Camille had no reaction at all, but Duncan was beginning to realize that might not be unusual. Camille seemed the type to stay to herself, maybe in her own head, but she also seemed kind in her own fashion, especially as she helped Dio lead Mother Keara out of the yellow room.
Saul and Calvin followed them out, as if the brothers had been assigned to stay with Mother Keara while she was in New York City. That wouldn’t surprise Duncan at all. Any sane person would be worried about a woman that powerful tottering unsupervised down the sidewalks of New York City.
That left only Blackjack, Bela, and Andy with Duncan.
Typical to his style, Blackjack ignored the bandages and blood and the upcoming healing ritual that might kill both Duncan and what was left of John Cole. He got straight to the rest of his business. From the iron set of his jaw, Duncan could tell he wouldn’t like what he was about to hear.
“If this works, you’ll be immediately transferred to the Occult Crimes Unit. You’ll work under my supervision, and Saul and Cal will keep a watch on you. Mostly, though, you’ll work with Bela’s fighting group.”
“Quad,” Bela corrected. “Most Sibyls fight in triads right now, but one day we’ll all be in quads again.”
Duncan liked looking at her, liked hearing her talk, and he planned to stay right next to her until the cat-demons were handled. But he didn’t like Blackjack’s tone, or the way his former commander had slipped right back into giving him orders.
“I’m staying with the Sibyls,” Duncan growled at Blackjack. “But it’s because I want to do it. If I make it past this big healing thing, I don’t need a babysitter, and I’m through taking orders from anybody. Fire me if you want to, but stay out of my face.”
Blackjack didn’t shoot back because Andy started laughing. “I knew I’d like you, Sharp.”
Bela didn’t look quite so amused. More worried, and a little annoyed, though Duncan didn’t know if her emotion was directed at him or at Blackjack.
Blackjack’s expression was a cross between frustrated and confused. “Babysitter,” he repeated, like he was trying to work up another argument about the need for supervision.
Duncan was a cop’s cop, but with weeks to live and demons probably plotting to attack a woman he intended to protect, Duncan didn’t want to discuss rank, assignment, command structure, or any other pointless bullshit. His lips pulled back from his teeth, and the fire in his neck and shoulder burned twice as hot. He was about to give Blackjack a piece of his mind, but John Cole shut down his speech centers somehow. Duncan couldn’t find the words he needed. What he could find, he couldn’t say. He felt like his tongue had been lashed to the bottom of his mouth.
Calm down
, John’s voice instructed.
Getting pissed only speeds up the infection. All strong emotions do
.
Wonderful
, Duncan shot back at him, but when he looked at Bela and thought about the Rakshasa, what they might do to her, he made his muscles relax.
Blackjack finally came up with something, and when he spoke, his voice was calmer and more authoritative than Duncan expected. “It’s either my way or we leave New York City today, and my other friends will monitor your infection until you change. We’ve never had a captive Rakshasa. The information would be useful.”
Bela and Andy both spun to face Blackjack, but Duncan never gave them a chance to speak.
“Other friends? Screw that!” He almost slammed his fist into the bed rail again, and would have if he hadn’t already broken the damned thing. “You’re playing on old rumors, Blackjack.”
“He’s playing at something,” Bela said, and she sounded dangerous.
“Fucking idiot.” Andy’s snarl was wicked and backed up by a spray of water from the sprinkler over Blackjack’s head. “Don’t try to pull this shit again, or I’ll wash you into Central Park.”