Captive Heart (20 page)

“Exactly. I mean, I could do fun and casual, I guess, but it’s not what I want anymore.” Andy looked at Dio again, and noted that her gray eyes had darkened and worry lines stood out on her tense face. “Now what’s wrong?”

“You just admitted Jack’s not casual. So things are probably going to change around here. Again. Even faster than I worried they would.”

“I didn’t—wait a second. Whoa. You’re way ahead of me.”

“No, I’m not. But if it makes you feel better to think so, just keep kidding yourself.” Dio smiled, but this time the expression seemed forced and it faded fast. “Just be careful, Andy. Jack feels like a wanderer to me, a man with wind in his heart. That’s air Sibyl for somebody who doesn’t settle down. Somebody who doesn’t stay in one place too long.”

The flutters in Andy’s midsection got worse. “I’ve wondered about that myself.”

“Have you asked him?’

“The time hasn’t seemed right, and I don’t want him to think—I don’t want to give him the idea that—”

“That you’re developing serious feelings for him?” Dio’s knowing look brought heat to Andy’s face.

She smacked Dio’s knee. “I thought fire Sibyls were supposed to be the ones all about truth and open communication.”

Dio rolled her eyes. “Oh, for the sake of the Goddess. Our fire Sibyl works in the earth Sibyl’s lab and does more research than I do. In case you haven’t noticed, the roles in this fighting group get a little mixed up sometimes.” She yawned and stretched, and unfolded herself from Andy’s bed. “I think it has something to do with a water Sibyl being present—figuring out our flow and all of that.”

“Thanks a lot,” Andy said to Dio’s retreating back, glad that the wind in her wake felt warmer and stronger and more normal now, at least.

“Anytime,” Dio shot back as she drifted into the hallway, heading for her too-neat room. “Somebody’s got to do truth around here.”

   “This isn’t the same area patrol reported and examined before.” Bela’s leathers creaked as she knelt on the Central Park grass near the path that led to the sidewalk across from the brownstone. The moon hung in the summer sky, glowing over her head like a round, white lamp and illuminating every sad detail of the dead rabbit she prodded with her finger. “This is fresh. We might be able to get something. I don’t think natural material like leaves and grass can be used to make a projective trap—and I don’t think the Coven’s doing this, anyway.”

As Bela made a hand signal to let Dio know everything was okay, that she didn’t have to pull in closer from her surveillance and cleanup position, Andy and Camille stared at the dead grass around the rabbit. Nearby, Andy saw patches of dead leaves in trees that should have been rich with summer foliage. Dio was probably close to those trees, maybe in one of them, keeping a wide view of the fighting group and any potential threat. She’d let them know later what she picked up from the leaves. Andy knew that her group’s projective talents were rare, that they could see things other fighting groups couldn’t, especially when they worked together—but stuff like this could get unpleasant.

Get over it. Work to do
. She closed her eyes and gripped her crescent moon pendant, doing a preliminary scan of all the water energy in the area. “Raw power killed the rabbit, and probably the grass and leaves, too. Elemental. Nonspecific. You’re right that it’s not the Coven, because this energy feels too old. Like, ancient. Whoever did this, their power seems … older than time, but natural. Natural paranormal, I mean. Nothing enhanced. And I don’t think they’re demons of any sort.”

Bela had hold of the charm around her neck, and Andy knew she had done her own initial read of the earth and earth energy, to see what it could tell them. “This isn’t the ground the creatures usually walk. New York’s not their preferred habitat, and it’s costing them a lot of energy to be here. To be here and not do more of this.” She pointed to the dead patches.

Camille went last, but she didn’t handle the crescent moon charm she had made for herself last year. Her ability to use her projective energy had gotten so strong she rarely needed to focus her power like the rest of them. “This all feels … familiar. I keep wanting to say it’s fire Sibyl energy or something like it, but I don’t know what that might be. Or I can’t remember. It’s poking the back of my brain, trying to come forward.”

Bela prodded the rabbit’s carcass again. “Not human. And not something we’ve encountered.”

“Not something we
usually
encounter,” Camille corrected. “Maybe—maybe it’s something I sensed a long time ago, when I used to run around in the tunnels at Motherhouse Ireland. After Jack and the OCU and Sibyl patrols reported seeing something like this the first time, I searched the archives, and Dio did, too. We didn’t find much. I mean, vampires and some species of Fae cause minor die-offs if they use the full force of their elemental abilities, but this—”

“This is like a feeding,” Andy said, settling into the strange energy and understanding it a little more. “Like whatever drained the energy from these things did so to sustain itself. They did it with a lot of restraint, like drinking water in the desert.”

“They didn’t come here to watch us,” Bela said. “The patterns in the earth, the way they moved—our brownstone’s not the focal point. It’s here, and here, and right over there.” She pointed toward the trees. “Near some other energy, a lot weaker—residuals from perverted rituals. Griffen or some of his Coven.”

“We’ve known the Coven has been trying to do surveillance on a lot of Sibyl locations, but they can’t get past our elemental locks.” Andy let go of her charm. “All they can do is spy on us, and I bet the die-offs match up to a lot of vantage points near Sibyls’ dwellings.”

“So whoever or whatever is doing this, they’re watching our watchers,” Camille muttered. “Why?”

“No idea.” Bela stood, dusting off her hands. “I think the better question might be, are they friend or foe?”

“I’m betting they’re neutral.” Andy did what she could to put her instincts into words, trying to explain the flavor of the water she had sampled. “Nobody’s side. Whatever purpose these creatures have, we’re ancillary to it.”

Camille frowned. “And if we accidentally get in their way?”

“Let’s not.” Bela folded her arms. “After we get back to the brownstone, put out the word. If Sibyls get a sighting on these things, don’t take a shot. Leave them alone unless they make a move against us.”

All the unknowns in this equation made Andy squirm. She’d rather have a better grip on what was leaving dead animals and foliage behind, even if it meant stirring up the creatures with unwanted approaches. “Shouldn’t we try to make contact?”

“I don’t think so,” Bela said. “If they wanted to talk, they could have knocked on the door and said hello. There are things in the universe much older than Sibyls, and very few of them are actually evil—unless they’re provoked.”

“Problem is,” Camille said, “provocation takes different forms for different beings.”

Andy thought about the ocean, about the zillions of creatures beneath the waves, and the octopus she’d startled. A peaceful little thing that had coated her in purple only because she scared it, and all it had taken to scare it was extra motion, maybe a few words. The tension in her belly eased a fraction. Maybe these beings creating the die-offs weren’t any more menacing than the wart with eight legs. Maybe they were just … shy, or whatever.

“Maybe I should talk to Ona,” Camille said.

Andy gave Camille a look just like Bela’s—surprised and wary. “Ona doesn’t give audiences, you know. She’s on my island because she really doesn’t like talking to other fire Sibyls.”

Camille’s smile always made her look gentle and wise. “She’ll talk to me. Maybe not for long, but long enough.”

“You’re going to do that thing,” Andy said, unease flaring through her all over again.

“If you can do without me for a bit.” Camille gazed at Bela, waiting for permission.

Bela let out a fast, loud sigh. “Okay, fine. If you’re sure Ona won’t kill you.”

Camille knelt and retrieved some of the dead grass. Andy had a horrible moment when she thought Camille might take the rabbit, but she left the carcass alone. She put the grass in the pocket of her leathers, gave them all a smile, gripped her crescent moon pendant, and seemed to melt into the ground.

The sight of it gave Andy shivers. “I still find that completely creepy.”

“She’s not really disappearing or dropping into the earth,” Bela said. “She’s just using ancient energy channels without having to do the dance or use a projective mirror to open them.”

Moving almost instantly to where she wanted to go, which in this case was to Motherhouse Kérkira to have a confab with the world’s oldest—and craziest—fire Sibyl. The only other fire Sibyl on the planet who could use that little moving-with-no-mirrors trick. Ona was so unbalanced Andy figured Motherhouse Ireland had only let her stay in their castle so many years because Mother Keara had a soft spot for her. “It’s creepy,” Andy insisted. “It’s creepy when she does it, and it’s even creepier when Ona does it. Always popping up where you don’t expect her.”

“I wish I could learn how.” Bela actually sounded wistful even though she was already shaking her head and waving off her own thoughts. “I know, I know. I’m an earth Sibyl. The channels only open for fire Sibyls—but you have to admit, that trick could be way useful and save tons of time across a life span.”

“Dio’s tornados are pretty fast,” Andy grumbled. “That doesn’t mean I want to ride one ever again. They make me puke. God only knows what melting across thousands of miles would do to me.”

“Tornados are fast but messy,” Bela said. “You know Dio doesn’t like messy.”

Andy thought about her old friend Merilee, the first air Sibyl she had ever known. Merilee’s living space always looked like one of Dio’s tornados had just blown through it, even now that Merilee had gotten married. Explosive messiness was an air Sibyl thing. A trait. Why didn’t Dio have it?

She’s too hard on herself. A perfectionist. If she can’t do everything, if she can’t do it just exactly right, then screw it
.

Damn, that sounds a little too familiar
.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Bela said, the defensive edge to her voice sounding remarkably like Dio. “There’s nothing inside me that needs reading or fixing. Not tonight, anyway.”

Andy stared at the stars for a second to take her focus off Bela and try to help Bela feel less invaded. “Okay, okay, Ms. Touchy. Does this mean we’re done for the night?”

“Yeah. We’re history.” Bela gave the we’re-moving-on signal to Dio, wherever she was. “Camille can—you know—melt back home whenever she wants to.”

Jack felt surprised.

Normally he didn’t like surprises, but he had to admit this one filled him with a sense of wonder.

He had gotten Andy’s handwritten, formal-looking invitation to dinner at Dylan Prime in Tribeca. He’d never been to the place, but Saul told him to dress nice and try the fondue. Good thing he had a few sport jackets and trousers. He had picked navy and tan to keep Andy from ribbing him about FBI colors, but now that he was here, he wondered if he should have gone even more formal.

This place—it was nice. Totally not what he had imagined from Andy when she insisted on selecting the restaurant. He’d have put his money on some hole-in-the-wall cop dive, which would have been fine with him, too. This pick showed him a whole new aspect of her. Surprises. She was good for that.

Jack straightened his tie, approached the host, and gave his name and Andy’s. A minute or so later, he got escorted to a candlelit table near one of the windows looking out across the city. Completely exposed, but intimate at the same time. The host placed two menus on the table, along with an impressive wine list.

Jack sat in the comfortable chair and glanced around, impressed by the linens, the tasteful arrangement of the place—modern and open, yet private. Sound didn’t carry, and no blaring music distracted him from the peaceful, tasteful ambience. The lights of the city glittered, warm and inviting in the hot summer night. He had to admit, New York City had it going on. He’d thought he was a rough country sort of guy, meant to retire one day to the wilds of Colorado or Alaska, but New York had proven to be its own kind of wilderness—and pockets of highend civilization like Dylan Prime made it seem even more attractive.

There I go, thinking about staying here again
.

Jack’s insides tightened. He still couldn’t quite fathom waking up day after day in the same place for the rest of his life. Of having a home again.
A family?
Thoughts of it gave him a confined sensation, not quite trapped, but limited.

As for waking up day after day with the same woman, that didn’t seem confining anymore. Not if the woman in question seemed as deep and mysterious as the ocean, as free as waves on the surface of a lake, and as tempestuous and unpredictable as the rain. Jack couldn’t imagine Andy ever getting dull or confining. He could imagine—

There I go, thinking about her being mine again
.

Motion near the host’s desk caught his attention. When Jack glanced in that direction, he found himself standing before he fully registered the vision who had just arrived to meet him. That dress. Dear God. Dark green to set off her beautiful skin and the rich redness of her hair, and it touched her everywhere, hugging her full breasts, her tapered waist, her rounded hips, her slender thighs. Her arms and shoulders were bare except for her red curls, tamed, just barely, and pulled back from her face enough to accent the size and warmth of her eyes and the sexy curve of her glossy red lips. She had on dark green pumps that made her long legs seem even longer, and she seemed to float toward him across the quiet restaurant.

Jack couldn’t move. He couldn’t swallow. He knew he wouldn’t be able to speak when she got to the table.

This version of Andy looked like a pinup from a 1940s calendar, full of charm and so damned beautiful anybody who looked at the picture would want to touch it. He sure as hell did. Right here. Right now. All his stitches were out and his bruises had faded. All his parts worked. He could handle it. The table was a little small, but he’d make it work.

Stay classy
, his brain warned.

The rest of him wanted to let out a feral snarl and announce to anybody who might be looking that this woman was his. All his. Nobody else’s, not ever again.

She reached him and stopped. Close. Close enough to touch, to hold, to kiss.
She’s showing you a secret part of her heart, something she keeps to herself. Don’t blow it
.

Jack took her hand, brought it to his mouth, and brushed his lips across her knuckles. Her sweet scent made him ache to get closer, but he pulled out her chair instead and helped her get settled at the table.

When he sat down, she smiled at him. He wanted to say something about how beautiful she looked. No, not beautiful. Stunning. He wanted to tell her she had surprised him completely. Again. In every way. And he was really starting to enjoy that about her.

“Do you come here often?” he asked.

How lame was that?

“About once a month.” Her smile didn’t falter, which relieved him. “A little treat I give myself. But before tonight, I’ve always come alone.”

If she came dressed like that, he couldn’t believe she left alone, but he didn’t want to think about that. At the moment, if he found out she had lots of previous lovers who weren’t already deceased, he’d be too tempted to make them that way.

“I’m glad you included me,” he said.

“Have you looked at the menu?”

“I can’t look at anything but you. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Smooth,” she murmured, and seemed pleased, sitting up straighter and treating him to an even better view of the dress’s plunging neckline. “That’s right. You’re not a New Yorker, so you don’t know.” She made a quick gesture toward the main part of the restaurant. “This is the best steakhouse in Manhattan, in my opinion.”

“Steak.” His stomach gave a rumble. The way the place looked, he’d figured he’d be spending the meal sorting through weird French offerings—stuff that came on decorative plates in portion sizes so small they wouldn’t feed a mouse. He hadn’t cared, because he could always get a burger later. But steak? Damn. No burger necessary.

“The wine’s spectacular, and the appetizers and desserts are rich and filling.” Andy’s Southern accent only added to the ambience. “You can’t go wrong with anything you order. Are you a strip man or a filet kind of guy?”

Jack thought about picking up the menu, but he didn’t want to shift his attention off her for fear she’d vanish like a dream when he looked away. “Since this is your spot, choose for me.”

“A control freak like you, letting me run the show. I’m impressed.” Her smile captured him completely, in fresh, new ways.

When the waiter reached them, Andy ordered farmhouse cheese fondue for the table, and French onion soup for both of them as appetizers. She chose a filet for herself with baby baked potatoes and grilled asparagus. Then she studied Jack for a few seconds, glancing at the menu, then looking back up at him. Weighing. Measuring.

“For you, I think the Carpetbagger will do, with the lobster and white truffle mac and cheese for an extra treat.” After Jack selected a wine, Andy said, “The Carpetbagger is a big filet stuffed with oysters. There’s spinach and mashed potatoes—and the sauce is made from Guinness and brown sugar. Like I said before, food shouldn’t be boring.”

Andy handed her menu to the waiter.

“And I’m betting you picked a dish named
carpetbagger
on purpose.” Jack handed his menu over and tried to gauge her reaction. He was sort of glad to note she seemed surprised.

“There’s the whole Civil War and North-South meaning,” she said, trying to work it out. “Oh. But in general
carpetbagger
refers to an opportunist who shows up on the scene, loots, plunders, degrades the local culture, then splits when times get tough.”

Jack tried to keep it light, but he needed to know where he stood. “Is that how you see me?”

She didn’t give a flip answer or blow him off. Probably a good thing. Her eyebrows came together like she was sorting her thoughts, getting them in order, instead of trying to make stuff up on the spot. “I did at first. And now I’ve started to think you wanted me to. That you wanted all of us to see you as a carpetbagger so nobody expected you to be loyal, or put down roots, or finish what you started.”

Her words felt like a fast slap, so sharp and on target that Jack’s skin stung. “That’s harsh.” He swallowed, trying to shake off the stun-gun effect of that much honesty. “But there’s probably some truth to it.”

Andy put both of her hands on the table and laced her fingers together. The force of her gaze made Jack brace for a tough question or observation.

“A friend of mine told me you have wind in your heart,” she said. “Is that the truth, or is that an image you’re trying to uphold?”

Tough. Yep
. “I heard that phrase about wind in the heart at Motherhouse Greece. It wasn’t flattering.”

What to do here? Defend? Lie? Explain?

Or just … answer?

“There’s truth to that, too,” he admitted. “Both things. The wind in the heart—and the image I keep.”

Please don’t ask me why
.

She didn’t, which gave him enough space to keep breathing and thinking and functioning. Jack wasn’t sure he’d ever been out with a woman who had such a spot-on sense of when to lunge in for the kill and when to back off. Andy might be dangerous in a lot more ways than he had realized.

The wine and fondue arrived, and Jack got a few more minutes of reprieve as they sampled the rich, warm cheese. “This stuff spoils me for other dips and fondues,” Andy said. “Definitely not boring, and it’s hard to find any better.”

“It’s great.” Jack took another bite. He didn’t go to nice restaurants often, and he’d never really slowed down long enough to wonder why.

“I like the wine choice. Mount Veeder cabernet. Strong but not overpowering.” Andy raised her glass, and the wine looked almost purple in her glass as she sipped it. “How are you feeling?”

Jack knew she meant physically, his body after getting shot. A lot easier to answer than questions about character or emotions. “Almost like new, which is damned surprising. That healing thing you do, it’s pretty powerful, but I can’t figure out why it worked on me.”

She took another sip of wine. “We can do a little healing on non-Sibyls.”

“The Mothers told me it didn’t work well on people with no elemental talent—and they were pretty clear that I don’t have any of that—but you’ve helped me twice, with the shooting and, before that, with my hearing.”

Andy seemed surprised, then perplexed. Something else crossed her face then, a mix of confusion and shock, quickly covered by embarrassment. Maybe she’d just figured out why she’d been able to help him out with her healing talents—and she didn’t like what she realized? But whatever it was, she didn’t seem ready to share it. Instead, she said, “I guess water Sibyls are more able to help the nontalented. I’m still not good at healing. I need to learn a lot more, and I really need more practice.”

Jack tasted his own glass of wine and enjoyed it. Strong, like she said, but not too strong. “You don’t have time to do everything on your list. It’s not possible.”

Her smile looked a little sad. “Hardly ever.”

“If you’re a Mother, why do you fight?” He set his glass back down and waited, because this was one of the things he’d found most difficult to understand.

“Because I need my time on the streets, my time in a group to learn and understand and grow. One day I’ll spend all my time at the Motherhouse, but not until I’m a lot older.”

Jack thought about how long Sibyls lived and felt inadequate for a moment. Thirty years from now, Andy would still be lithe and beautiful, still fill out that incredible green dress like nobody’s business—but he’d be an old guy.

Stay in today. You’re thinking like you’ll get to keep her forever
.

Which is exactly what I want
.

The thought was so sudden, so certain, Jack almost dropped his wineglass.

Andy was talking about mug shots. Something about not seeing too many faces similar to the one she had been hunting. “Most of them are too young. I think I’m going to start on the upper echelon of all the local crime families. The bosses. Though I can’t imagine somebody high up agreeing to turn himself into a Frankenstein monster.”

Reverting to work talk was exactly what Jack needed to keep his sanity, so he went with it. “Unless the boss wasn’t given a choice, or he didn’t have an option due to other factors.”

“Good point. I’ll have Dio and Camille and the OCU search specialists poke around to see if any of the heavyweight players had bad injuries, or maybe got sick or something.” Andy’s wine was disappearing faster than Jack’s. “I know we don’t have reports of any of them going missing—well, any of them that haven’t shown up in pieces already. I think this was probably voluntary, even if the guy probably didn’t understand what the outcome might be. His family and his people aren’t looking for him, so it may be part of some plan.”

Jack enjoyed more wine and more time looking at her. He liked the alertness and interest in her voice when she worked on her thoughts about cases. “You think any of this is related to the stuff dying in Central Park?”

“Not directly, but Camille thinks she knows which beings might be responsible for the die-offs. The Host. Well, their actual name is the Sluagh.” She pronounced it “Slooa.” “They’re from around Ireland and Scotland, maybe Wales—all the old Celtic territory.”

“What are they?”

“Something like the Keres, an ancient race who made a treaty with the Sibyls to survive. Mythical, and not totally friendly. They likely blended with humans at some point to give rise to fire Sibyls in the first place. Some people say they’re a type of Fae, and other records call them fallen angels. In Irish fairy tales, they’re the Unseelie Court, or the Unblessed.”