Captive Spirit Page 4

  (3)

  The entryway of the converted Garment District warehouse was dark and quiet as Strada held his youngest true brother in his arms. His chest crushed with disbelief at the torn tissue, at Aarif’s dark blood flowing across his fur. A pool of the liquid spread across the hardwood floor, radiating heat and light to Strada’s acute senses. Aarif’s life-force smelled of ammonia and earth, of all that was rich and natural, and it tore at Strada’s essence to see one of his pride so wounded.

  “Why do you grieve?” From the doorway that led to the larger office space beyond the entryway, Tarek’s deep voice echoed against the high ceilings. “Let him pass so the healing can begin.”

  The converted former warehouse had been fitted out with ultramodern décor and designed to resemble a top-level human business operation. When Strada glanced up at the true brother nearest to his own age, he thought how odd Tarek looked in tiger form, still gripping his sword in one pawed hand, against a tableau of brick walls, Renaissance prints, computers, desks, and leather chair. The desert expanse they had known for millennia seemed incredibly distant now, lost to them forever.

  “Death should never be rushed,” Strada said. “Even now. Especially now.”

  Tarek’s black eyes were little more than shadows against the dark golden fur of his face. He chose to stay in tiger form most of the time, even though Strada had instructed all of the Eldest to remain in the shape of their new human allies as much as possible, to give them every advantage in remaining anonymous. They had to learn the new speech, the new ways, the new world, if they were to continue to rise—but Tarek preferred more brutish methods.

  “Death is inconsequential,” Tarek growled at Strada. “It is temporary! Cease Aarif’s suffering and allow him to come back to us.”

  “They wounded him,” Strada snarled back, rocking Aarif and watching as the stain of blood coated his brother’s thick black fur. “Those women struck blows against us. They cut Aarif as if he had no more strength than a kitten. Each death teaches us something. I will not deny Aarif his experience, his growth.”

  As if to deny the reality that humans had bested one of the Eldest in a hand-to-hand battle, that a mere four warriors—female warriors—had done harm to them, Tarek grumbled, “Aarif will learn, whether his death takes minutes or hours.”

  Strada bared his teeth even though he couldn’t muster much volume in human form. “Honor your brother’s suffering. Aarif is in pain.”

  Tarek roared so loudly that three warehouse windows cracked. He sprang forward and rammed the point of his blade directly into Aarif’s barely beating heart. “Now he is not!”

  Blood sprayed, then abruptly stopped as Aarif quivered and went still in Strada’s grip.

  Shock at such rank disobedience held Strada in place for the blink of a human eye. Then rage boiled through his veins, stretching muscles and tendons and bones. His heart pounded with the force of his fury, filling him with a blast of power so great his mind seemed to split as he howled. Fur erupted across his skin, white and shimmering even in the darkness, scalding him with pain as it moved. He flung Aarif’s body to the wooden floor and launched himself at Tarek, slashing before he even stopped moving.

  Tarek leaped backward.

  Too slow.

  And not far enough.

  Strada slit Tarek’s tiger throat in five places, the razor tips of his claws far more deadly than swinging swords.

  The punch of claw through skin satisfied him so deeply he forgot his pain.

  Tarek’s black eyes bulged. His challenge roar strangled away in his damaged throat. He gurgled as he pawed at his face and neck, but Strada hit him again and again, flaying his flesh as Strada roared his fury at Tarek’s insolence.

  Throughout the five-story warehouse, the Eldest would be calming the Created, keeping them on task, training their ever-increasing numbers to carry out contracts they received. Expensive contracts, negotiated through their intermediary.

  They would clean up the gore from Aarif’s death, and Tarek’s, too. Looking at the remnants of death and pain would be a lesson in strength and power, and on remaining ready for all possibilities.

  White-hot battle frenzy consumed Strada. His own blood roared through his veins even as he spilled Tarek’s. “You will learn respect,” he shouted in the ancient language, and then in English, for any of the Created that might be listening. “No one stands against me, Tarek!”

  Tarek was a brutal fighter, always thinking he was ready to challenge for pride leadership—but Tarek couldn’t match the most powerful and skilled of the Eldest. Sooner or later he would understand that. Strada absorbed a fresh, blistering rush of heat as he hammered his advantage, feeding off the glorious power of his age and knowledge and strength.

  “Suffer Aarif’s pain.” Strada shredded Tarek’s arms even as the younger Rakshasa tried to cover his mutilated head. His flesh was soft, all too easy to destroy. “Know the humiliation our brother felt at the hands of those—those females. ”

  Tarek stumbled backward between the desks and chairs, his dark blood flecking monitors and papers and keyboards. Strada advanced, striking harder with each blow. His growls echoed against the brick walls, and the sound pleased him. Pieces of Tarek’s ears, hands, and chest rained on the once-spotless floor, chunks of fur and skin. The coward tried to shift to fire form, but Strada easily used his energy to block Tarek’s attempt.

  “Fall,” he instructed his brother. “Die now, fool, and get it over with.”

  Near the back of the room, by the single door that separated Strada’s private office and the elevator to the upstairs quarters of the warehouse, Tarek collapsed with a weak, pitiful mewl. Strada kicked him, his energy flowing even stronger now, racing through his very being like a mad, ceaseless storm. Tarek’s ribs cracked under this fresh assault, then his arms, and finally, most satisfying of all, his spine.

  The delicious snapping of bone fed Strada as surely as blood and flesh from a kill. He laughed, kicking Tarek’s limp body once more. He watched as the corpse struck his office door, leaving a dark red streak as it bounced off the wood and once more fell limp on the floor. With a trumpeting snarl of triumph, Strada left the ingrate on the floor. At least his blood wouldn’t make a permanent stain on the expensive flooring.

  By the time he reached the warehouse’s entryway, Aarif had already been reborn. He was sitting up in tiger form, massaging the newly knit black fur stretching across his healing chest. “Brother,” he whispered as he came back to himself completely, then immediately and obediently shifted to human form, to obey Strada’s standing instructions.

  Strada shifted to human form with him, impressed by how well Aarif managed the subtleties of pulling together elements to create human clothing appropriate to his age and youthful appearance as well as his station in the life they were creating for themselves. Slacks, a white shirt. Even well-made leather shoes. Aarif looked American, perhaps with Hispanic heritage. He might have stepped out of a photograph taken at an East Coast preparatory school—which was fitting, given the number of such photos they had studied.

  Strada’s natural human form was a complement to Aarif’s. An older brother, perhaps, or a father who’d had his first child very young. The blood coating Strada’s fur after his punishment of Tarek shifted away with his tiger form, leaving his gray silk business suit untouched by anything unpleasant. Strada knew he was impeccable, and he took pride in Aarif’s perfection as well.

  “Welcome back to us,” he told Aarif, opening his arms.

  Aarif took a step toward him, then halted and hung his head, obviously shamed. “I was defeated in battle.”

  Strada’s smile felt as natural as his suit in human form. “We were surprised, little brother. Do not let it trouble you. Learn from your pain and death, and we will all move forward.”

  But Aarif was troubled nonetheless, which was one of the reasons Strada approved of his youngest true brother. Aarif managed to raise his head, and his chin quivered only once before his
face became a mask of determination and anger.

  “It will not happen again.” Aarif’s voice grew louder with each word, a tiger-form roar laced behind each syllable. “I give you my word, culla.”

  Culla.

  Leader. The head of the pride.

  Strada’s smile widened. He enjoyed how this one never forgot who ruled him, or how to speak to his betters. “I have no doubt.”

  Tarek slunk into the entryway, his rapid rebirth a testament to how many times he had died in the past. He was in human form, his business clothing poorly formed and mismatched, but Strada acknowledged that his most stubborn true brother had at least chosen to make a proper effort to follow standing orders. He did not hug Tarek to welcome him back to the pride. Tarek’s averted gaze and submissive posture were sufficient for now, despite the obvious anger rippling through his muscled human body.

  “Fetch Griffen again, and have him bring the Created,” Strada instructed. “The office must be cleaned before the start of business tomorrow. We are a security firm, not a slaughterhouse.”

  Tarek quickly reversed course, out of the entryway, back through the office space, and toward the elevator to the upstairs quarters, which was located at the rear of the large square room. His posture communicated even more rage at his continued humiliation. Their human intermediary and all of the Created that Griffen supervised would know whose blood and fur they were scouring from the floor, walls, and furniture. And they would know even more clearly who had won the battle between Tarek and Strada.

  Strada was the first and strongest. He was the most powerful of the Rakshasa, and he had been since the universe chose to create him. It never hurt to remind Eldest and Created alike. If Tarek didn’t enjoy being the stooge of the lesson, perhaps next time he would choose not to challenge his culla.

  Minutes later, perhaps only moments, activity filled the staircase and elevator, and Tarek, Griffen, and the Created swept quietly into the office space, cleaning supplies at the ready. Many different colors of fur and scents tickled Strada’s awareness as Griffen set the Created straight to work, and with a definite sense of pride he watched the numbers in the room swell.

  Where there had been five Created, now there were dozens, too many, even, to answer his call. They were still in full possession of their reason and ability to follow commands, so conversion methods were definitely improving. Hundreds of years in limbo, with nothing but his own thoughts for company, had given Strada plenty of time to consider what might have gone wrong in the sharing of Rakshasa and human blood.

  Even if these Created were still smaller than true Rakshasa, and unable to assume full human form, they were far superior to the mindless golems he had created centuries ago to fight their wars in the desert. The two nearest to him had paws, while others had pointed ears atop their heads, or patches of fur marking their skin. A few flickered back and forth between flame form and fully shaped bodies, giving them the appearance of human candles. But they were sane, sentient, and capable of learning.

  Tarek broke away from the laboring crew and came to stand beside Aarif. He remained, respectfully and atypically, in his human form. Strada was impressed by his obedience, even if he knew it wouldn’t last.

  “These Created do better every day.” Aarif’s angular face softened as he grinned. “I hope our true brothers across the globe are faring as well.”

  Strada felt his own human-form face ease once more into a pleased expression. When they had been released from that cursed desert temple in the Valley of the Gods, Strada had divided his small family of thirty Rakshasa into groups of two and three and sent them forth.

  By now, small armies of his kind would be surging through major cities on all seven modern continents. Strada was learning to use devices like computers, though electronic equipment often didn’t wish to cooperate with his kind, with their powerful energy. Still, he could use the contraptions to see that their coffers were filling. Working hard for his promised reward of immortality, Griffen had taught Strada much about banks and accounts, about how digital signals now filled air once populated by only the psychic workings of gods like the Rakshasa.

  Humans were just as clever now as they had been in ancient times. Perhaps even more so—and perhaps that was why they were having more success establishing Created who didn’t go mad and require immediate extermination.

  As the Created finished rendering the office space presentable once more, Griffen separated himself from the ranks and strode toward Strada, Aarif, and Tarek. His blond hair seemed to gleam in the unnatural bulb lighting, and his blue eyes were bright with the intelligence and elemental ability that had drawn Strada to him when the Rakshasa arrived in New York City. Tonight, Griffen wore jeans and a shirt he’d called a “polo” when he brought Strada his own collection of such garments.

  “Culla, I think they’re close to ready,” Griffen said, gesturing back to the Created, who were polishing chairs, desks, and the floors. Griffen’s movements were fluid and exact, like the trained warrior Strada knew him to be.

  “And your … men?” Strada had almost said pride, but corrected himself.

  Griffen’s gaze sharpened with his cool smile, and the twinned-serpent tattoo on his forearm seemed to writhe and pulse. “The Coven is more than prepared.”

  A heat rushed through Strada, anticipation mingled with his never-ceasing appreciation of the freedom he had so recently regained. Freedom to recover. To grow. To conquer once more. “We will give them a trial soon, then.” He slapped Aarif on the back, and even Tarek gave a soft growl of eagerness. “Griffen, the women who fought us earlier this day, those wicked creatures who injured my true brother—I want to know more about them.”

  The shifts in Griffen’s posture and expression were subtle but easily detectable to Strada. Hatred. Hunger. Anxiety. The emotions radiated off the man until Strada could scent the tang of each separate feeling. So his human allies, Griffen and his twelve companions with their rudimentary elemental talents and their snake tattoos, had encountered these women before.

  “The Sibyls.” Griffen’s tone was controlled, but hints of rage laced each syllable. “They’re part of an ancient worldwide order known as the Dark Crescent Sisterhood, pledged to the Dark Goddess and trained in combat since they were children.” His fingers curled, then relaxed. “The Coven had contact with them many times before the downfall of the Legion. They were on the list I provided you when we came to our agreement with their allies in the NYPD’s Occult Crimes Unit—but their numbers have been low of late. I don’t think they can muster much consistent interference with your business.”

  Strada remembered the history lesson Griffen had given him after Strada captured him during one of his Coven’s midnight rituals. The Legion was a defunct cult that had achieved a basic confederation of many smaller paranormal groups. They had attempted domination of the city, and ultimately worldwide politics. The Legion had failed because its leaders were weak and greedy. They lacked Strada’s finesse and simplicity of purpose.

  As for Griffen and his capture, it had taken some time—and much money—for them to come to a voluntary and cooperative accord, but Griffen and his Coven were now dedicated, if subordinate, members of Strada’s pride. Griffen was telling Strada what he knew of Sibyl Motherhouses and their locations, but Strada cut him off by holding up one hand. “No. I want to know about them. The four women who challenged us. I want their names, their strengths and weaknesses. The location of their lair.”

  Griffen went silent, and he looked perplexed. “Four would be unusual. Sibyls normally fight in groups of three.”

  “There were four. One had the flavor of earth about her, and one called to the wind and made it obey her.” Strada gestured toward the ceiling, sensing the night sky far above. “One commanded fire, and the other seemed to be able to make water do her bidding.”

  “Water?” Now Griffen sounded amazed, but also relieved. He was smiling again, and his gaze gave off more hate than ever before. “Yes, that makes it mu
ch easier. I’ll have what you need very soon.”

  Strada dismissed this, too, with a quick wave of his hand. “Those who dare stand against the Eldest will fall, swift and hard.”

  Griffen dipped his head in response, “Culla.”

  Would that Tarek would learn such respect.

  Deep in the renovated human office space, a telephone rang.

  The silent ranks of Created parted like a sea of fur, fangs, rags, and witches with brooms as Griffen moved to the jangling bell and pushed a button on the telephone’s black base.

  “Panthera Security,” Griffen said in a calm, professional tone. Strada took a moment of pleasure in the fact that he and Griffen had established a cover that would be particularly irritating to the enemies who hunted them. Borrowing tricks, Griffen called it.

  “What the hell was that shit in DUMBO tonight?” The voice that shouted back at him had a European accent, and Strada knew at once that they were dealing with one of their new “employers.”

  “None of your concern,” Griffen responded without any undertone of annoyance. He had explained to Strada about working a position called “customer service” in his life prior to the fall of the Legion, and how that had prepared him for any type of verbal assault.

  Swearing poured through the telephone’s speaker, followed by “Your people almost killed a freakin’ cop!”

  Griffen’s high cheekbones and square chin settled into a mask of patience. “The man who lost his life was a suspected serial killer. A detective was wounded, but as far as we know, he’s still alive.”

  More swearing. Then, through the telephone, “When he does croak, you’ll have the other forty thousand badges in the boroughs hunting you like dogs.”

  Aarif’s lip twitched at the canine metaphor. Tarek looked bored, staring out the warehouse windows. The Created didn’t shift or make a sound.

  “Do you have further work for us?” Griffen asked, his muscles remaining infinitely relaxed. “Another contract? If not, our business together is finished.”