Duncan didn’t object as she led him out of the treatment room, but he hesitated when he saw the laboratory with its ultramodern machinery. Some of the equipment, like the geno-coder, were technology developed at Motherhouse Russia—things humans had never seen if they didn’t have earth Sibyls for friends.
“Looks like a first-class operation.” He leaned down and inspected the centrifuge Bela had been using to analyze the many samples of blood she had taken from Duncan. “This an offshoot of some hospital I don’t know about? Some sort of super-secret government lab deal?”
Bela took a few minutes to explain about the different types of Sibyls and their specialties, and was pleased at Duncan’s questions and level of interest.
When they finally headed out of the lab, she told him, “I’m into medical research, but Riana, the earth Sibyl who owned this place before me, preferred advanced crime scene analysis.” Bela pointed to the wall farthest from the door and treatment room. “She left me some of her microscopes, because the Motherhouse gave her some newer models. They’re pretty useful.”
“I know a little about microscopes,” he said as they closed the lab door and headed into the cool hallway. Duncan was walking stiffly, but his balance was good so far. “Did fair in chemistry. I took a few of the Uniformed Service University’s classes in biological, chemical, and nuclear weapons. Well, really it was nuclear and radiological weapons, if memory serves.”
Bela paused outside her bedroom at the foot of the stairs, surprised. She made sure to keep her back to the closed door of her room, because she definitely wasn’t ready for him to see what was in there. That would be … way too much information.
Duncan’s expression was distant, and thankfully, he didn’t seem to be interested in the secrets behind that closed door. He passed his fingers through his close-cut hair. “I thought about Military Contingency Medicine, but the Gulf War came along. I ended up picking Ranger School.”
“Army.” She took his uncasted hand in hers. “Aren’t Ready for Marines Yet, right?”
Duncan’s mouth came open as she squeezed his fingers. “Who told you that bunch of bullshit?”
Bela laughed. “My father was in the Marines before I was born. He had lots of jokes, most of them a lot less tasteful than that.”
“Your father was a jarhead. No wonder you know how to swear so good.” He whistled low and long, and managed to paste on a very serious expression. “A jarhead. And you let me kiss you? Damn, Angel. I thought you
liked
me.”
She punched his good shoulder. “You ready for these stairs?”
“Think so.”
She kept hold of his hand and walked up beside him, her arm laced around his for support. He didn’t object.
“We have a theory about the Rakshasa,” Bela said as they reached the brownstone’s small kitchen.
Oh, good. Somebody did the dishes—and nobody left a bra hanging on anything
. “We think the demons came here to make money. Andy believes some organized groups are hiring them—paying them to do their dirty work.”
Duncan stopped by the kitchen table, which Bela saw did have a bra on it after all, in the corner, under some mail. A red bra, damn it. It was probably one of Andy’s. Luckily, he was too busy catching his breath to notice.
“Then we’re dealing with demon hit-kitties?” he asked as Bela let go of him and casually scooted the bra farther under the envelopes. “And some bunch of assholes shelled out the bucks for them to kill Katrina Drake.”
“Something like that.” She gave up on the bra and pushed open the swinging door to the living room, did another quick underwear check, then let him through. “If we figure out who’s fronting the cash, we’ll find the conspirators behind Katrina Drake’s murder, and we’ll be that much closer to finding all the Rakshasa and shutting them down, at least in New York City.”
“You know,” he said as he stepped into the communications area and his good-looking reflection played back at her from the projective mirrors, “that makes more sense than just about anything since I woke up—except you.”
Bela’s lips tingled when he looked at her, and her arms ached to be around him. This was definitely not going to be easy, but the tired look on his face after a short walk and a brief haul up a dozen steps let her know that waiting was definitely the right choice. Still, upstairs, downstairs, it really didn’t make much difference. She wanted to kiss him, even if her entire quad and half the Sibyl Mothers busted in on them before she finished.
As it was, the knock on the door came with no jingle of wind chimes at all.
Duncan moved immediately, stepping between her and the front of the room.
“Down, boy,” Bela told him, moving past him easily and redirecting him toward one of the overstuffed chairs. “Trust me, this is probably nothing.”
The mirrors startled Duncan, and he raised his good hand like he thought he ought to be menacing one or two of his reflections. It took him a second to understand, then he shifted his focus back to her. “How do you know it’s nothing?”
“Ve haf vays. Now sit down.” She gestured to the closet as he ignored her and kept right on standing, looking like he was ready to beat up half the Bronx to make sure she was okay. “If I’m wrong and something eats me, there are swords and daggers in the closet.”
(16)
Frankenstein’s lab in the basement.
Swords and daggers in the closet.
Weird mirrors all over the walls.
And her father was a Marine.
Yep, and you still think she’s the hottest thing in New York City
. Duncan glanced from Bela to the front door to the closet and wondered if he could pick up a sword right now if he wanted to.
You’re probably in trouble here, Sharp
.
Her father was a Marine?
John Cole’s voice caught him by surprise, because John’s presence had been distant for a while, during—well. While Duncan was getting to know Bela a little better.
“Can it,” Duncan muttered to John.
She’s telling the truth
, John said.
There’s nothing dangerous here, other than us
. A second or two later, he added,
You have to learn to trust me. What I know, you’ll know. I won’t hold anything back or let you get your ass in a jam
.
Duncan sat down, but only because he saw who was at the door when Bela opened it. A tiny woman in a purple warm-up suit. Silk. Pricey. Stylishly cut gray hair, no handbag, very long nose—and she was already looking down it when she introduced herself to Bela as Mrs. Knight, the next-door neighbor.
“Did your water heater blow up again?” Mrs. Knight asked. She looked to be about seventy, but her voice was calm and steady when she spoke.
“Water heater—oh. No, it didn’t blow up again.” Bela sounded uncomfortable, and Duncan had zero idea what Mrs. Knight was talking about. “We were … moving furniture back into place. I’m sorry, did we bang around too much?”
“Everything shook.” Mrs. Knight’s tone was a shade less than friendly.
So that wasn’t my imagination
. Duncan saw himself smiling in the mirrors.
The earth really did move when I kissed her
.
Mrs. Knight peered around Bela to check him out.
Duncan gave her a nod.
For some reason, a visit from a pain-in-the-ass neighbor made him feel more relaxed and normal, as if the world hadn’t turned upside down and blown itself up.
“We’ll be more careful,” Bela was saying.
The chimes over her head gave a little ring, and the coin around Duncan’s neck went hot in two seconds flat. He grabbed the dinar and pulled it away from his skin. The metal warmed his fingers as the coin buzzed and shook like a cell phone on vibrate.
What the hell—
Something’s coming
, John told him.
Maybe something bad. The chimes and the coin react to elemental energy
.
That got Duncan’s blood pumping. His breathing turned shallow, and his arm and slash wounds burned like a bastard. Shoving aside his exhaustion, he pushed himself out of the too-soft, too-cushiony chair and headed toward the closet. The knife John had used to carve on the Rakshasa had been destroyed during the transmigration, but Duncan was willing to bet that Sibyl swords and daggers could cut into anything supernatural.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Bela trying to move Mrs. Knight along. The older lady seemed annoyed—or maybe nervous—and she kept glancing around Bela to get the measure of Duncan again.
Damn, lady. I’ve got my clothes on
. He got hold of the closet door, but the knob wouldn’t turn. Locked.
Besides
,
this is New York City, not Georgia thirty years ago. What’s the big deal if I’m here with Bela?
He grabbed the handle and was about to see if he had enough oomph in his good arm to break the closet door open when he heard Andy Myles say, “You have a nice day, too, Mrs. Knight, and don’t worry, everything will be fine.” Then, as she rumbled into the entryway in her wet jeans and drippy-looking blouse, “Shit, Bela. What did you do, make an earthquake while we were gone?”
Bela was still standing by the front door, rubbing her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, like she might be working on one hell of a headache.
Camille came in next, quiet, with her head down. She walked straight over to the chairs without looking at Duncan, and perched on the arm of the seat farthest from him.
Dio was right behind her, lugging a bunch of folders and papers. When she spied Duncan still holding on to the closet door, she said, “Whoa, King Kong, it’s just us.” A blast of air pushed Duncan’s hand away from the handle, and Dio’s gaze narrowed and fixed on the dinar. “Did Bela say something about elemental energy nearby, or did that coin give you a warning that we were coming?”
He read the mistrust on Dio’s face and in Camille’s frown, and his belly twisted. He wanted to tell them they didn’t have to worry about him, that he’d dial his own number before he ever let himself do damage to innocent people. Andy was staring at him, too, and Bela, though at least Bela didn’t look so suspicious.
Hell, he couldn’t fault the women for worrying. They didn’t know what he could do, what he might be capable of—and come to think of it, neither did he. All in all, it seemed like the best bet for their safety to be honest about everything, and that would keep his angel out of a bad spot with her fighting group, too.
“The dinar got hot and buzzed.” Duncan lifted the coin and glanced at the oddly shiny edges. “John said it reacts to elemental energy, like your chimes.”
The fire Sibyl slipped off her perch and came toward him.
“May I?” she asked, gesturing toward the dinar. “Just a closer look. It’s probably better if I don’t touch it.”
“Sure.” Duncan had a sensation of something squirming around his brain as he held the coin as far from his neck as the chain allowed.
Hot
, John muttered.
Duncan frowned.
What was hot? The dinar? But it was normal now. No buzzing, no heat.
The woman, dipshit. Camille. She’s hot
.
To each his own, John
. Duncan realized his frown was deeper, and that he might make the women nervous. He made his face smooth out again and kept his lips in a straight line.
She’s not for me
.
Camille leaned forward and held a hand over the dinar. Energy flickered around her shoulders and head. No smoke or fire like the old howler monkey general who had been helping him—but Duncan watched, amazed, as a yellow-orange tendril snaked from Camille’s outstretched fingers. It slipped around the coin, then drew tighter and closer, until the colors shimmered across the dinar’s worn golden surface.
“It’s projective,” Camille said. “Weird. I didn’t know metal could channel and project energy as well as glass—and it’s also like the elemental barriers we create.” The tendril let go and retreated back to the fire Sibyl’s palm as she straightened herself. “It’s got some sort of biological key that locks it to his living signature. I think he could voluntarily give it up, but nobody could take it from him and live.”
Duncan figured this kind of examination of objects must be commonplace among Sibyls, but wondered about that assumption when he saw how Dio and Andy were staring at Camille. Bela came over from the door, and she was staring at Camille, too.
“It’s the projective aspect that probably repels the Rakshasa—and maybe that’s what let his energy appear in the park when we fought the Rakshasa.” Camille was still all wrapped up in the dinar, and Duncan had a sense that she’d love to play with the thing for hours, just to see what it could do. “It’s magnifying its elemental locks and the energy of the person wielding it. That’s pretty impressive.”
“What you just did, Camille, that’s what’s impressive.” Bela’s tone was slightly awed, but her gaze was shrewd and excited. She reminded Duncan of a commander who’d just realized her whole unit had night vision or some other major battle advantage. “I hope you’ll keep working on that. It may turn out to be more useful than any of us can imagine.”
Camille blushed at the compliment, and her attention shifted away from the coin. A second or two later, she hurried back to her spot on the chair.
For a few seconds, Dio, Andy, and Bela kept studying her, then Andy broke off and stared at Duncan instead. “The Mothers are all here at headquarters. They’re arguing like cats in a tuna barrel about the best way to grow you an arm bone and cook your demon infection.” She shook a bunch of droplets off her right hand, then scratched the side of her freckled nose. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“Bela and I were talking about Katrina Drake’s murder.” Duncan left out the kissing parts, deciding that wasn’t exactly dishonest or keeping secrets. “Whoever hired the Rakshasa—that trail’s getting colder by the minute. I think I can help a little bit, on the light work, until your Mothers are ready for me.”
Dio still looked wary of Duncan, but she showed him the folders and papers in her hand. “We picked up some more info at OCU. Creed and Nick, our former liaisons, copied the rest of what they have for us. Let me go upstairs and get dressed. If you’re up for a car trip, we can get this show on the road.”
“Wait a minute.” Andy held up both hands like a traffic cop about to start directing the show. “Are you all transferred officially to the OCU, Sharp? Did Jack Blackmore approve you getting involved with this investigation?”
Duncan felt a little jolt of unease. “Ah, no. I’m not, that I know of, and he didn’t.”
Andy’s smile could have lit up half the city. “Hot damn.” She clapped her hands, spraying a mist of water in the air. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll help Dio fix herself up.” Camille followed Dio to the staircase near the front door, and Duncan thought she was talking a little louder, maybe, after getting compliments from everybody over how she’d checked out the dinar. “I have some outfits that might work, and some makeup—oh, and a really good pair of heels.”
“Rather die, thanks,” Dio called over her shoulder to Camille, but she didn’t refuse the assistance as she jogged up the steps. “You’re a lot smaller than me, anyway. I’d look like toothpaste in a tube in one of your shirts.”
“Exactly,” Camille said, and she was definitely talking louder. Walking a little straighter, too.
Dio’s next comment involved swearing that would have made a convict blush.
Andy’s contribution was, “I’ll get coffee.”
She peeled off, making a beeline for the kitchen, and Bela said, “You’re addicted to caffeine, you know that, right?”
“Fuck you very much,” floated back from the kitchen.
Okay
.
Duncan let himself breathe again.
All of this felt like a normal police operation about to be put into play. He let himself enjoy a few seconds of feeling sort of normal, if you didn’t count the cast, the cuts, the dinar around his neck, or the ghost in his head.
From upstairs, he heard Dio say, “Are you
kidding
me, Camille?”
“Thank you for being straightforward with my quad.” Bela’s voice instantly seized his full attention, and when he turned to face her, she was standing close enough to touch.
The arguing upstairs continued, something about halter tops, hookers, and fifteen-inch heels, but Duncan didn’t pay it any mind. He raised his arms and put his hands on Bela’s elbows. She felt electric to him whenever he touched her, wherever his hands happened to rest. She was so vibrant and full of power. “Secrets divide, Angel. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“I believe you.” Her dark eyes held his as she came closer and closer, leaning into him, challenging Duncan’s self-control with each fraction of an inch that disappeared between them. “I think you’re a good man, Duncan Sharp. I think you’re an honorable man.”
Her lips brushed against his, sending him to another place where nobody was upstairs fighting about “whore-red lipstick.”
“That being said,” Bela told him in her sweet, sexy voice, “we have to be clear on one very important point.”
“Anything.” Duncan waited, his body getting hotter and more ready for her by the second. When she kissed him again, she rubbed her belly against his hard length, and her leather and his jeans seemed like no cover at all.
Damn, he wanted her. Wanted to be inside her. Maybe he was strong enough. Maybe if he asked again, she wouldn’t say no.
“If you do change into a demon and threaten my quad, I’ll take you out.” Bela grabbed hold of his casted arm before he could react, and his good arm, too. “It’ll be easy.” She lifted his hands toward her full breasts, then slid them across her ribs to her back, let go, and put her arms around him. “I’ll ram an elementally locked sword into your heart,” she said as she tightened her grip and brought her soft lips toward his a third time. “I’ll behead you.” She kissed him. “I’ll burn you to ashes.” She kissed him one more time. “And to finish the job, I’ll scatter your remains in the Hudson.”
Damn, she was hypnotic. The sound of her, the feel of her, made everything bad in the world leave his mind. He didn’t want to let go of her, couldn’t stop staring at her, and her threats only turned him on more. She was mother tiger to her quad. He could respect that. Maybe she was secretly one of those cat-demons, and he wasn’t sure he cared. When she looked up at him, her dark eyes serious and steaming, Duncan almost groaned.
“Don’t forget what I said,” Bela told him. Another quick kiss, and she turned him loose. “And you’re right about secrets dividing people. I won’t be keeping any secrets from my quad or from the Sibyl Mothers. Sibyl fighting units have to function like perfectly fitted machines, and—”
A huge thump and bang obliterated the rest of her words.
Duncan grabbed her and used his body to cover her as splinters and bigger chunks of white painted banister pelted his head and back. He turned, keeping Bela behind him, to see Camille and Dio crash off the stairs and hit the floor slugging it out. One second later, they were trying hard to choke each other to death. The redhead was wearing jeans and a tunic, but Dio was dressed in something that looked like two red handkerchiefs. Really, really little handkerchiefs. The fabric whipped in the wind that was starting to rip wind chimes off the ceiling.
“Angel,” Duncan said, doing his best to keep some of the wind off her, “I think your machine has … issues.”
Bela stayed behind him, and she started banging her head on his back. Slowly. Not too hard. But real steady.