Free Captive Soul by Anna Windsor Page B

brushed the outline of the coin hanging around her neck, feeling its gold ridges beneath her leathers.
    Golden light  …
    Blinding, blinding light. So much fire. Fire energy like I’ve never seen, never known .
    The power that had moved through her that night, the energy that her essence had moved through in return, it defied any description.
    Golden light .
    That’s all she could call it.
    As for the apparition with John Cole’s dark green eyes, black hair, and light, spicy aftershave—whatever.
    Even as Camille rested her hand against the proof of Strada’s proximity, that horrible confusion tugged at her.
    In the middle of all that pain and wildness and golden light, how was it possible that John Cole had seemed so real and present that she could have reached out and caressed the stubble on his cheeks?
    He had been there, the entirety of him, only without his flesh.
    Then came the light and the fire. Like lightning, burning through her and into her even as she almost fried herself throwing her essence into that energy, and she’d felt John Cole as he disappeared. Almost like his soul had moved through her own. She had wanted to grab hold of him, to call him back, but the light had exploded into nothing.
    Then Strada had reverted to his human form, healed himself, and opened his eyes.
    His dark green eyes.
    And that’s what made no sense, no matter how many million times she’d gone over this with herself, because Strada’s eyes had been black before—
    Before the golden light .
    It was the next part that really made no earthly sense, and the next part that had kept Camille from using her scimitar to take the demon’s head.
    Strada gave me the dinar. He put this coin over my head, and he helped me to my feet .
    Nothing about him had seemed evil or murderous or … demon. At that moment, Strada hadn’t felt like Rakshasa at all. He’d felt as human as that thing in Central Park a couple of months ago—that thing that was probably Strada, too.
    That’s why Camille had let him go. That’s why she’d kept her quad from pursuing him. That’s why she was so confused now.
    She dug her fingernails against the hard pavement, scraping at the demon trace as it slapped at her senses.
    No more confusion .
    This disgusting bit of left-behind energy told its story without any lies or tricks or distortions. It was truth, and it was demon.
    Rakshasa.
    She had to have been out of her mind to let a killer like that just run off into the night two separate times.
    And now Strada was back again, maybe this time with allies.
    Camille wanted him dead before her own weakness and choices came back to haunt her, before the demon or some of his Created hunted her sister Sibyls or any of her friends.
    Tonight was the night.
    Tonight she wouldn’t lose her nerve.

(  6  )
    “We—Duncan, with me in his head—we were down on the pavement in a dead-end alley,” John said, raking across every second of the night he took a demon’s body for his own as he tried to relate the experience to Elana. “No air. We couldn’t breathe, because the bastard was choking us.”
    He told the story in as much detail as he could. He told it openly and honestly, and soon enough, no matter what he wanted, he fell into the past as he spoke, and he lived it again.
    Duncan beat at Strada with both arms as the Rakshasa, still in human form, used the dinar’s chain to strangle the life out of him. Now that Duncan was changing into a Created Rakshasa from his wounds, the dinar no longer repelled the demons—not with its bearer sharing their essence .
    John poured all the energy left in his soul into Duncan’s fight .
    No use .
    Black spots danced at the edge of their vision .
    Everything faded—
    Until fire exploded all around them .
    She came flying through the air like a leather-clad ninja, her red hair streaming behind her and her scimitar raised and flaming with the force of the elemental energy she commanded. Camille landed and swung her