Captive Spirit (35 page)

(acknowledgments)

As always, my thanks go first to my readers. I hope you enjoyed Bela’s tale as much as I enjoyed writing it. Bela and her entire fighting group call to me in special ways, and I intend for their stories to rock their world—and yours.

Thanks, Chey, for not letting my opening get off track, and for always thinking I can do it. Thanks to my family, for letting me vanish and get this written. And to the people I work with—
now
do you believe I’m not just working there to research a book? I put it in the dedication and everything!

To my editor, Kate Collins, thank you very much for being patient. I’ve never tried to write a book during a natural disaster before, and if you’d been irritable, I think my hair would have fallen out somewhere between the five-degree temps, endless carbon monoxide alarms, and the month with no power. Kelli, thank you for paying attention to all the tiny details and making sure everything gets where it’s supposed to go.

And Nancy—you’re in Italy right now, so I hate you. No, seriously. More chocolate. More chocolate!

Read on for an excerpt from
CAPTIVE SOUL
by Anna Windsor

Whatever was following Camille, she didn’t think it was happy. Sibyls could sense states and traits, and fire Sibyls were particularly adept at judging emotional energy. The strange part was, she didn’t pick up much negative feeling from the thing. It seemed … intent. Almost overly focused on its mission—which appeared to be following her.

Well, that’s nothing new in my life, is it?

Camille had spent more hours than she cared to count sneaking through Motherhouse Ireland to dodge other adepts hunting for her, or hiding out in one of the castle’s hidden rooms to avoid angry Mothers who wanted to teach her a lesson. She could hold her own in any battle, but when everybody wanted to pick a fight at the same time, she had learned it was best to minimize opportunities.

Not exactly what she was doing now, out alone in Central Park, almost daring something to give her grief.

Camille walked faster, purposeful, not panicked. She wasn’t prey, so she didn’t intend to look like prey. She tugged the zipper on her battle leathers as high as it would go. The bodysuit was designed and treated to deflect elemental energy, but it didn’t shield her from a fresh round of shivers. She thought about pulling on the leather face mask she had stuffed in her pocket. Thought about it, but didn’t do it. The stupid thing made her feel like she was suffocating.

Camille’s fingers flexed. The worn ivory hilt of her Indian
shamshir
felt cool as she brushed her palm against it, though these days she usually called the weapon by its Americanized name—scimitar—because she heard that so often from her quad. Her mother had given her the weapon before she died, and she had taught Camille how to take a head with a single strike. Scimitars had a curved edge made for hacking, and Camille liked the fact that nobody expected a small woman to draw such a long, deadly blade, much less swing it like the Grim Reaper.

Everyone except her quad underestimated her strength—physical, emotional, and otherwise. Since she sucked at making fire, enemy misperceptions about her abilities were her greatest advantage in any type of fight.

Her heat rate picked up to a steady
beat-beat-beat
.

Would she be taking a head tonight?

Camille moved quietly around a copse of trees and bushes, letting the thing behind her gain a few steps. If this needed to come to blows, it was better that she pick the moment and the location. Yes. This little clearing would do. Shielded from view, plenty of moonlight, enough room to swing, but not enough room for too many surprises.

Her mouth felt dry when she tried to swallow. Her quad would be so pissed if she got herself beaten to death or eaten tonight. They’d have no idea why she was out without them, or what she was doing—or that she was doing it for them, to make up for that big mistake.

Let’s get this over with
.

As soon as Camille heard the rustle of brush near the clearing she had picked, she ripped her scimitar from its sheath, spun toward the noise, and pulled the blade back for a strike.

The thing in the bushes went totally still.

Camille blinked at the spot where all sound had stopped. She had expected the creature to run or fight, not just stand there and wait for her to hack it to death. What the hell was that about?

It occurred to her to kill the thing first and figure it out later, but what if this creature was friend, not foe? Just because something had powers didn’t make it evil. Sibyls worked with all manner of supernatural practitioners, and even some kinds of man-made demons. Most natural demons—and the man-made kind, too—were nothing but soulless murderers. The Asmodai the crazy Legion cult used to create, for example.

Camille’s insides clenched.

No
.

Don’t think about Asmodai
.

Brainless elemental golems. Strong as hell, targeted on one victim, bent on killing no matter what got in their way.

She’d lost one of her first fighting group to an Asmodai. She would never forget its towering bulk, its blank, hateful face, or the fire pouring out of its mouth and nose and eyes.

Let it go. Now
.

No time to dwell on Asmodai, because some demons were a lot more complex, and a lot more human. Cursons, half-breeds, with human mothers and human souls, were Sibyl allies now, and so were full-blooded Astaroth demons. Most of those had been human children when they got converted into demons, so they still had human intelligence and emotions. Hell, Cursons and Astaroths had even married Sibyls. And then there was Duncan Sharp, Bela’s husband, a half-human, half-Rakshasa creature called a Bengal. Even their next-door neighbor Mrs. Knight was half demon, a Bengal like Duncan.

So maybe this thing in the bushes was more like Cursons and Astaroths and Bengals—something new to Sibyls and paranormal police officers of NYPD’s Occult Crimes Unit, but friendly and a little shy. She still didn’t sense any malice from it. It was hard to behead something that gave off the energy of a distracted kitten.

She could almost see it, a man-like outline in the deep shadows under the trees, but even her sensitive Sibyl vision couldn’t make out details. Weird. Was it doing something to throw off her perceptions?

“Show yourself,” she demanded. She didn’t make any threats, because Camille never made a threat she didn’t plan to back up in full.

The thing refused to move, but its energy … it was—what? Amused?

That pissed her off enough to begin drawing fire power into her essence, intending to use her pyrosentient talents to send the energy back out, to channel it so she could use it to explore Tall, Dark, and Shady Silence over there.

“You’re out past your bedtime, beautiful,” the thing said to her in a startlingly human voice. “And that’s one hell of a pocketknife.”

Camille’s grip on her scimitar loosened, and she almost dropped it.

My big mistake
.

She needed to get hold of herself, but she barely managed a complete breath. It took all she had to keep hold of her blade. She knew she was overreacting, because if this was the Rakshasa she had been looking for, it would have attacked already.

This was something else. It had to be—but that voice. So raw and low.

So familiar and enticing.

She was losing it.

Even though she’d been searching night after night, she had to admit she’d never expected to actually find what she was looking for, much less have it find her and not try to tear her to pieces.

If it is him, he’s a deadly demon, and I can’t forget that no matter how many new tricks he’s learned. Not this time
.

But why would he play with her? Rakshasa weren’t prone to dicking around. They killed. Then they ate what they killed. Pretty simple formula.

“Step out of the shadows and let me see you.” Her voice still had some authority even though she felt like the tree leaves over her head were rustling through her chest and belly instead. Thank the Goddess for small favors, and for scimitars. One look and she’d know if this thing was her demon or something else entirely. “Come out now.”

“No,” it said, and its tone suggested it didn’t think Camille could force the issue.

Moonlight spilled into the clearing. Camille knew she was lit up like a silvery neon sign, but the thing in the bushes stayed dark and inscrutable. The sense she had of it now wasn’t demon at all. It was human. Completely.

Yet not.

The confusion that had gripped her a year ago, the same confusion that led her to make that big mistake, seized her again.

Kill it
, she told herself.
Don’t take a chance. Chop it into pieces, and if it turns out to be a good guy, apologize to its kin and make peace with them later
.

If it even had any kin.

“Who are you?” she whispered, and now her voice was shaking like the rest of her. She tightened her arms to make sure her weapon stayed in ready position. “What are you?”

The thing in the bushes didn’t answer immediately, and the rush of emotion it put off went by too quickly to read.

Then the dinar resting against Camille’s chest grew faintly warm.

“You know who I am,” it said, and that intense voice curled across her body like she wasn’t even wearing her battle leathers. She felt the sound
everywhere
.