Captive Heart (11 page)

Jeans. She’s wearing jeans, and this time, the tunic’s rainbow-colored with great big sleeves
. A pair of huge sunglasses had been propped in her unruly red hair, and she was eating the last of some freaky-smelling sandwich—artichokes and goat cheese on rye, if his nose wasn’t lying to him. She looked like a glorious, happy mess.

It struck Jack that he could fall in love with her.

He made himself stop an arm’s length from her even though he wanted to go closer. What he really wanted to do was smooth her hair and help her lose the sunglasses. Then he’d kiss her and drink in that feminine scent of vanilla and ocean wind mixed with the tang of that weird sandwich—but she was probably packing her SIG and a backup weapon. Even if she didn’t drown him, bullets could do some damage.

A second or so ticked by before Jack realized Andy had finished eating. She licked her fingers and appraised him, too.

“Well, well.” Her eyes moved from his face to his feet, and he felt every inch of that stare. “Look at you. Jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt. I’d have bet money you didn’t even own clothes like that, Jack.”

Jack really liked listening to that soft Southern accent, especially when she wasn’t swearing at him. “You don’t like my suits. Flaming Bunch of Idiots gear, right?”

The corners of her mouth turned upward, and her smile came slowly. Surprised. Maybe curious. “I didn’t figure you for the kind of guy to change anything about yourself because of somebody else’s opinion.”

“No changes.” He pulled up the neck of his black T-shirt. “This is as much me as the FBI costume. I just don’t let my casual side come out to play too often.”

“You play?”

“Yeah.” Jack heard his voice drop. Damn, but she teased as well as she tortured. “I can play.”

“The surprises just don’t stop.” The most beautiful blush fanned across her freckled cheeks. She looked away from him and a few drops of water spilled off the hem of her jeans.

Jack’s blood surged like he’d just won something, but he didn’t think he’d better try to claim any prizes.

“I’m due to babysit Neala and Ethan so Nick and Creed get a breather, but I thought I’d drop off what we’ve got on the hairs so far, and what the Mothers told us about the coins.” She managed to look him in the face again and held out an envelope.

He took it, exercising every bit of his willpower not to brush her fingers with his own and push his luck.

“It’s not much,” she continued, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “So far, all we know is whatever shed the hairs is definitely part human—or it used to be. The human cells have been altered. Strengthened somehow. Even our technology can’t get a fix on them. As for the coins, they’re definitely Coven work, but more advanced than we’ve seen in the past.”

“The Coven. Part human.” Jack glanced over the lab reports, picking out what he understood after years of studying analyses of paranormal creatures. “And the part that’s not human?”

“The closest we can come is Rakshasa, or some kind of new Rakshasa mix, first generation, but with the Eldest all dead, that’s not possible. Besides, this combination looks nothing like the demon infection we analyzed when the Rakshasa attacked Duncan. The Coven’s up to something else, developing some other method for transforming fighters, but God only knows what it is.”

Jack nodded, still studying the reports.

When the Rakshasa Eldest had been alive, they had created half-breeds that almost always went mad. A few managed to control themselves and preserve their human essence, and they called themselves Bengals. Duncan Sharp was a Bengal, and in some ways, so was John Cole. Bengals could make other Bengals by biting or scratching humans, but second-generation infections were weaker, and third- and fourth-generation hybrids would be weaker still—more human than tiger-demon, and maybe not even able to access their demon essence. Whatever the Coven was doing, it had to be different from the usual methods the Rakshasa had always used—but what kind of infection were they working with? How could it even come close to Rakshasa essence?

Jack looked up to find Andy glancing from her watch to the townhouse stairs.

“How long will you be here?” he asked.

“A few hours, then I’ve got to hit the channels and head to Greece, then get back in time for patrol tonight.” Andy’s expression turned wry. “No rest for the wicked.”

Jack didn’t find the humor in her spreading herself so thin. “No time off?”

“Not this week. We’re pretty certain the Coven’s a part of all this, and we’ll have to hunt hard every night to have a prayer of finding them.”

He didn’t like the sound of that at all, and his mind started churning out ways to divide patrol duties so that Andy’s group didn’t carry too much of the burden. “You need to rest.”

Wry turned to sarcastic as Andy said, “Thanks, Dad. I’ll manage.”

Jack tucked the lab reports back in the envelope, more worried about her than about the case. “I know I’m the one who asked you to come back here, but I assumed you’d ease up on the Kérkira responsibilities. How are you going to manage both sets of duties?”

She gave a little shrug. “I’ll be going back and forth.”

“That sounds like a lot of work.”

“I’m up for it.” Her smile made him want to grab her and kiss her—or shake her. He’d never seen a woman who could pull off half-vixen, half-stuff-it-up-your-ass so easily.

“I meant—I hate to see you exhaust yourself. If it gets to be too much, just say something.” Jack folded the envelope and tucked it in his pocket. “Maybe Saul and I can do some of the commuting instead of running you ragged.”

“Thanks.” Her smile slipped away, replaced by an expression Jack couldn’t read. Professional, maybe. Certainly a lot more distant—meaning he didn’t trust the casual note of her tone when she asked, “So, you’re definitely planning to stay in New York City now that the Rakshasa are dead?”

Was she hopeful? Pissed off? He wished he had a clue. He kept his own voice level as he said, “Seems like most of the action is here. Since we’re asking questions, I’ve got one for you.”

She moved away from him, not much, but enough to underscore the limit she set. “As long as it’s not too personal.”

“Fair enough. I don’t think it is.” He took a breath and cued up the first of the hundreds of things he wanted her to tell him about herself, about Sibyls, about anything she’d talk about. “If water Sibyls have so much control over water, how did they get wiped out by a tidal wave?”

This surprised her and, he saw with a measure of relief, relaxed her a bit, too. “Even the strongest Sibyl, or group of Sibyls, can get overwhelmed by an unstoppable force.” Her tone and expression shifted farther toward professional, toward work and safety and not running away from him. “It’s not common, but it happens. The wave that took out Motherhouse Antilla was created by projective energy, and it was so large and forceful even an army of water Sibyls couldn’t stand against it. The weight and speed and force of the water crushed them, or they died from being battered by heavy debris.”

Jack tried to imagine the magnitude of that wave, but he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it—though it did help him to understand a little better about the potential dangers of projective elemental energy. “I’m sorry they all got killed.”

“It was hundreds and hundreds of years ago.” She seemed comfortable now, even warming to the conversation despite her waiting obligations upstairs.

“But it left you alone.”

“Not anymore, thank God.” A smile. A real one, no smirk involved. “I’ve got Elana now, and she’s like a miracle to me. She’s teaching me so much.”

She had started talking faster as she went, but she seemed to catch herself and put the brakes on before she went farther.

Progress. Jack would take it. He’d take whatever she chose to give him. “One more question,” he said before she could take off upstairs. “What do you think about sketch artists?”

For a moment she seemed confused, then understanding flared in her eyes. “You mean, for me to try to describe what I saw when I made contact with the hair at the crime scene? Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Want me to line one up?”

Andy looked at her watch again. “I’ll try to get back from Greece an hour before patrol tonight. Will that work?”

It’s a date
. The words almost came out, but Jack caught himself in time. “We’ll make it work. Thanks for your help. I’m glad you’re here.”

She started to say something, and he could have sworn it was,
I’m glad I’m here, too
, but that was probably wishful thinking.

Jack decided to quit while he was ahead. “Okay, then. Catch you tonight.”

He turned and headed to do more unpacking, but Andy stopped him. “Hey, that’s not your office.”

“It is now.” He faced her again. “I swapped out with the Brent brothers.”

Her eyebrows lifted, then pulled together. “Why?”

“Seemed like the right thing to do. I need to carve my own niche here, and I didn’t want it to bother you that I was in Sal’s old space.” Jack’s throat went a little dry as he said all that, hoping it was explanation enough—and not too much.

For a few seconds Andy didn’t say a word.

Right about the time Jack was about to decide he’d made yet another in a long line of bad mistakes with this woman, she said, “I don’t know whether to be touched or pissed off. What are you trying to do, Jack?”

“Clean up a lot of messes I’ve made.” He hoped she could hear the truth in his voice. “I want this to be a start.”

Her voice broke to a whisper. “A start for what?”

“Whatever you want.” He wanted to touch her so badly he could already feel her soft skin under his palms.

The blush came back, flowing across her freckles, and she actually leaned toward him, moved like she might take a step in his direction. He was more than ready to let her come even if she intended to slap him cross-eyed, but she seemed to think better of it.

“I’m … going upstairs now.” She pointed toward the steps.

“Okay.” That was the best he could do, and she did go, walking slowly away, and he couldn’t stop looking until he lost sight of her heading off the first-floor landing.

Before he could stop himself, Jack let himself imagine Andy playing with the cute fire Sibyl kid, Nick’s daughter Neala. If they had daughters together, and if those little girls looked like Andy—now those would be some gorgeous children.

Jack stopped himself and walked into his office, but the image wouldn’t leave his mind.

What the hell—was he trying to drive himself batshit?

He liked kids. He was good with kids himself, but he’d long ago abandoned the idea that he could have kids of his own.

Christ, this thing in my head about her—it’s getting out of hand
.

Mistake
.

Griffen could have chosen to see the projective trap in that light, but he preferred to consider it experience.

He sucked in a breath of antiseptic air and crushed the can of soda he had been carrying in his hand. The liquid blew toward the ceiling, but he used his elemental ability to capture and curtail it so it wouldn’t stain the white squares above his head. As an exercise in focus and self-control, he banked the can off the lab’s refrigerator and watched it drop into the deep stainless-steel sink positioned along the right-hand wall. As soon as all motion stopped, Griffen made himself direct the trapped soda into the ruined can. Not an easy trick in the low lighting.
Sickroom theater
, Rebecca called it.

True enough.

The rhythmic click and hiss of medical machinery helped him stay calm, helped him regain his center and complete his task. Not a drop of soda spattered on the glass doors of the refrigerator, the white cabinets, or the countertops. Not a drop hit the sink itself, until it oozed from the ruined can and ran directly down the drain.

“Better,” he said aloud, keeping all traces of emotion from his voice. Then he reminded himself that he was standing in his small but efficient laboratory, in the corner of his completely protected warehouse full of Coven members and their genetically enhanced fighters. All of this—all of it—testaments to his many successes. He’d had plenty of good moments, from his early alliance with the Rakshasa to his taming of Rebecca to the Coven’s robust and powerful ranks. He still had an active under-Coven as well, thirteen ready and willing men who could replace anyone in his current group, should they fall in battle, and a training group beneath that. Everyone had backup. Everyone was dispensable.

Everyone but him, of course. And Rebecca.

Everything … is … under … control
.

A soft knock on the lab door made him turn. “Open,” he said, happy with the placid sound of his voice.

The lab door swung until he could see Rebecca standing there with one of his Coven, who was holding the chain lead to her elemental cuffs. Griffen smiled at his sister and gestured for the man to let her come inside.

She brought her chain lead past two lab tables lined with empty syringes. With a glance toward the full syringes visible through the refrigerator’s glass doors, she handed the chain over without guile or protest. “What happened? Did the trap fail?”

“It worked beautifully.” Griffen said this with pride, because that much was true. He and his Coven had never attempted such a complex elemental working without the Rakshasa assisting them—and they had done a fine job. “One of the Sibyls had a strange sword with properties and strengths no blade should have. She used it to smash one of the coins and break the trap. If she hadn’t, Andy Myles would be dead now, along with Bela Argos Sharp and the other three Sibyls who were helping them.”

Rebecca’s lip curled at the mention of Bela Sharp. Bela had cost Rebecca a love interest in the past, and she apparently hadn’t forgiven the earth Sibyl for her meddling. For his part, Griffen had been grateful. That boy had been useless and elementally barren. Absolutely not worthy of his sister.

“Perhaps the next time you attack, you can let me fight Bela,” Rebecca said. Her eyes moved back to the full syringes, and Griffen didn’t much like the thought of what might happen if his sister got hold of the various batches of experimental enhancement formula. Whom would she choose to inject—and what would be the outcome?

He tightened his grip on her chain. “I wouldn’t risk you in combat. You’re far too valuable for that.”

She gave him a quick pout but let it go fast and walked forward, past the tables and Griffen, to the hospital bed where they kept their only patient. Heavy elemental shackles bound the creature’s great clawed paws to four metal poles set into the floor, just outside the bed. A fifth metal pole, also elementally treated, riveted him to the bed, directly through his heart. A respirator forced oxygen into the Rakshasa’s lungs. A set of IV poles held bags that carried food and fluid to his veins, while a second set stood ready to receive his blood the next time Griffen chose to access the permanent catheter he had placed in the demon’s chest.

Tarek’s eyes were closed and his fanged mouth hung open even though the machine did all his breathing through a trache in his throat. His golden fur had grown tattered and matted during his time in captivity, and some of his skin was bare and scarred due to poorly healed burn wounds from the molten ore attack that killed the rest of his kind. Griffen couldn’t risk taking the elementally treated metal out of his heart long enough for him to heal himself. No guarantees Tarek wouldn’t wake with enough strength and fury to deflect attempts to stab him again. As it was, Tarek was alive—or more to the point, he couldn’t die.

“Sometimes he wakes up,” Rebecca said, obviously hoping now would be one of those times.

Griffen studied the Rakshasa Eldest, who didn’t show any signs of agitation and movement, as was usually the case just before the demon roused for a few seconds—long enough to try to swear at him but fail due to the invasive placement of the respirator tubing.

“Now and then he opens his eyes,” Griffen agreed, “but the elemental metal in his heart sends him right back to dreamland and keeps him immobile. I’m not sure he’s really awake.”

Rebecca leaned down until her ethereal face seemed dangerously close to the Rakshasa’s big fangs. “If I behead him, he’ll die.”

“But he can come back if you don’t burn his head and body and scatter the ashes.” Griffen didn’t let himself rise to the bait or the subtle threat, and used the opportunity for reminders instead. “If you do have to kill him, don’t forget that part.”

“Will you ever be able to make the enhancement formula without him?” She touched the tip of Tarek’s fang with one delicate fingertip.

Griffen reached down and moved her hands away from the Rakshasa. “Once we have an ideal mixture, it’s possible we can synthesize the blood. For now, he’s not bothering anybody—and he doesn’t eat much.”

Rebecca didn’t laugh at the joke because she was already focused on the laboratory refrigerator again. “What do you think the formula would do to me?”

“The effects on people with elemental talents aren’t predictable.” Dread crawled up Griffen’s neck. “It wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“I’d end up like the Coven members you tried it on—crazy and dead.” She smiled, and her slender features made her seem so young and innocent.

“Probably.” Griffen relaxed a little. This was curiosity, not plotting. Rebecca’s curiosity tended to be a good thing, and it often led to breakthroughs, like figuring out how to leave traces of sound in the elementally treated coins he used to make the trap, just to add a little extra touch of terror for his victim. To play with her mind. “My Coven members who volunteered and died, they were brave men. They gave their lives for our cause.”

Rebecca’s blue eyes twinkled. “If Andy Myles is your cause, she’s still alive.”

Okay, so it would be this way today. Tease and poke. Griffen didn’t flinch. He could handle this mood from Rebecca, and he shrugged off his initial irritation with a teaser of his own. “For now. As for later—we’ll see.” He made sure to smile, to keep Rebecca’s interest and attention. “I’m thinking she’ll make a good test run for the fighters.”