snarls in his mind died back to a tolerable level. When he was sure he could speak normally again, he asked, “So how do I get rid of what’s left of Strada’s consciousness?”
“You don’t.” Elana gave him another sympathetic look. “Battling with the demon king you carry in your mind, that’s the price you pay for this second chance at life.”
Another surge of emotion threatened John’s control, but this time he beat down the sensation before the snarling got louder. His thoughts shifted to the moment when his spirit had entered this body—and, before that, the moment his awareness had passed through the woman who had helped him claim Strada’s flesh.
Camille .
He had shared space with her, only a second or two. A moment of the most perfect peace he had ever known, being part of her, mingling his essence with hers.
“You’re thinking about the woman again,” Elana said, from what might have been a thousand miles away. “She’s a Sibyl, isn’t she.”
Not really a question.
Good, because John didn’t want to answer.
Elana’s smile was gentle. Encouraging. “You would have learned about Sibyls last year, after the Rakshasa attacked your best friend, Duncan Sharp.”
She really did know everything. Whether she’d gotten it from his mind or somewhere else, John didn’t know, and he figured it didn’t matter. If this woman really was as old as she claimed, if she knew as much as she seemed to about powers of the mind, he needed her help—and maybe, just maybe, she needed his.
“Duncan was a detective with the NYPD.” John made himself loosen up again, until he was standing in front of Elana more like a normal guy than a tense soldier ready to grab for a weapon he hadn’t even brought to this fight. “He started investigating Rakshasa killings and thought I was the murderer. The night he finally found me to arrest me, I was tailing the Rakshasa and he got caught in the cross fire. A group of Sibyls saved him.”
Elana’s unseeing eyes fixed on his with eerie accuracy. “Sibyls are an ancient order of female fighters, trained from birth in Motherhouses around the globe. They have elemental power—earth, air, fire, and now, I believe, the water Sibyls are making a comeback from the long-ago tragedy that destroyed them, thank the Goddess.” This time her smile turned very sad, then a little wry. “Like me, some Sibyls can live a very long time.”
“They saved Duncan,” John repeated, still not wanting to mention the woman he was determined to protect, even though Elana probably already knew her name. “Their fighting skills, and the medallion I gave Duncan to keep him alive. It’s a dinar from the Afghan temple where the demons were trapped, and it repels Rakshasa.”
Camille’s still wearing it now, I hope .
“You chose death at the hands of the demons,” Elana said, “but Duncan Sharp used the dinar to hold your essence in this plane of existence. For a time, you resided with him, inside his body. We learned this from Duncan himself, when he was making his own transition into a Bengal from his Rakshasa wounds.”
John hated the thought that Duncan had become part demon because of him. Just another sin and failure to stack on top of his ever-growing mountain of mistakes. Since the moment he saw the Rakshasa break out of their temple prison, he’d been adding crap to that teetering pile, starting with failing to reach the young soldier who had so stupidly wandered into the containment design etched into the temple floor and picked up the dinar.
Elana’s expression had shifted back to interested—and almost needy, in a weird sort of way. “Duncan couldn’t tell us what occurred in the alley the night your spirit left his body. What happened with the Sibyl who helped you, John? That’s what I wish to know, and this time, please, leave nothing unsaid. Your secrets are safe here with me and my guards.”
John didn’t respond. He was fairly certain Elana and her Bengals
“You don’t.” Elana gave him another sympathetic look. “Battling with the demon king you carry in your mind, that’s the price you pay for this second chance at life.”
Another surge of emotion threatened John’s control, but this time he beat down the sensation before the snarling got louder. His thoughts shifted to the moment when his spirit had entered this body—and, before that, the moment his awareness had passed through the woman who had helped him claim Strada’s flesh.
Camille .
He had shared space with her, only a second or two. A moment of the most perfect peace he had ever known, being part of her, mingling his essence with hers.
“You’re thinking about the woman again,” Elana said, from what might have been a thousand miles away. “She’s a Sibyl, isn’t she.”
Not really a question.
Good, because John didn’t want to answer.
Elana’s smile was gentle. Encouraging. “You would have learned about Sibyls last year, after the Rakshasa attacked your best friend, Duncan Sharp.”
She really did know everything. Whether she’d gotten it from his mind or somewhere else, John didn’t know, and he figured it didn’t matter. If this woman really was as old as she claimed, if she knew as much as she seemed to about powers of the mind, he needed her help—and maybe, just maybe, she needed his.
“Duncan was a detective with the NYPD.” John made himself loosen up again, until he was standing in front of Elana more like a normal guy than a tense soldier ready to grab for a weapon he hadn’t even brought to this fight. “He started investigating Rakshasa killings and thought I was the murderer. The night he finally found me to arrest me, I was tailing the Rakshasa and he got caught in the cross fire. A group of Sibyls saved him.”
Elana’s unseeing eyes fixed on his with eerie accuracy. “Sibyls are an ancient order of female fighters, trained from birth in Motherhouses around the globe. They have elemental power—earth, air, fire, and now, I believe, the water Sibyls are making a comeback from the long-ago tragedy that destroyed them, thank the Goddess.” This time her smile turned very sad, then a little wry. “Like me, some Sibyls can live a very long time.”
“They saved Duncan,” John repeated, still not wanting to mention the woman he was determined to protect, even though Elana probably already knew her name. “Their fighting skills, and the medallion I gave Duncan to keep him alive. It’s a dinar from the Afghan temple where the demons were trapped, and it repels Rakshasa.”
Camille’s still wearing it now, I hope .
“You chose death at the hands of the demons,” Elana said, “but Duncan Sharp used the dinar to hold your essence in this plane of existence. For a time, you resided with him, inside his body. We learned this from Duncan himself, when he was making his own transition into a Bengal from his Rakshasa wounds.”
John hated the thought that Duncan had become part demon because of him. Just another sin and failure to stack on top of his ever-growing mountain of mistakes. Since the moment he saw the Rakshasa break out of their temple prison, he’d been adding crap to that teetering pile, starting with failing to reach the young soldier who had so stupidly wandered into the containment design etched into the temple floor and picked up the dinar.
Elana’s expression had shifted back to interested—and almost needy, in a weird sort of way. “Duncan couldn’t tell us what occurred in the alley the night your spirit left his body. What happened with the Sibyl who helped you, John? That’s what I wish to know, and this time, please, leave nothing unsaid. Your secrets are safe here with me and my guards.”
John didn’t respond. He was fairly certain Elana and her Bengals
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