Captive Soul Read Online Free PDF Page B

inside him, maybe forever.
    She was as beautiful as he remembered.
    “You don’t know anything about her,” he reminded himself, his voice seeming to echo across the deserted bridge. “She’s nothing but a fantasy to you.”
    Only that wasn’t really true, was it? He’d spent some time with Camille Fitzgerald and all the Sibyls in the South Bronx fighting quad after his best buddy, Duncan Sharp, got himself attacked by Rakshasa demons. John had died trying to save Duncan from John’s worst enemies, the creatures he had been hunting every single day of his life since he accidentally helped set them free from their prison in the Valley of the Gods.
    John’s body had died, but a strange paranormal accident involving the ancient dinar John had given to Duncan to shield him from the Rakshasa had left John’s spirit alive and well and hanging out in Duncan’s head—until Camille had done whatever it was she did in that alley.
    Golden light.
    John remembered that, and he remembered giving her the dinar she now wore around her neck, but more than anything, John remembered her. The light in her eyes. The rich tones of her auburn hair. The feel of her, not just physically but spiritually. It was like he had moved through everything that made her. Like he had connected with her on every level.
    Yeah.
    On his way to this new body, which she could never see. She or any of her Sibyl buddies.
    That thought brought him more grief than he expected, the kind of grief he remembered from the war, when somebody had died right beside him—or when he’d seen the Rakshasa start to take down Duncan Sharp, the only person in the world he’d truly cared about saving until he touched Camille.
    The possibility of never really seeing her again, except from a distance, of never getting to truly talk to her or know her or hold her—it kicked him in the gut so hard he wanted to roar.
    And something was roaring.
    That was the real bitch of this whole situation, wasn’t it?
    John almost laughed out loud, but he was afraid it would be a madman’s lunatic braying, because something in his mind was definitely making a lot of noise. The thing in his mind, it wasn’t quite dead or alive, but he knew it was dangerous. And definitely, definitely evil.
    Dark energy surged forward, wrong energy, perverted and twisted and nauseating. John slammed his head against his fists, letting the shock of pain help him focus. Bile surged in his throat, and the darkness around him swam in sickening, expanding, contracting ways.
    In his days as a priest, before he lost his faith and his collar and his freedom, John had known true evil like the thing in his head, but he had never known insanity up close. Crazy had to feel like this, taste like this, smell like this. He was crazy now, and that’s all that was left of him.
    He had to put this fantasy with Camille away and focus on his only purpose. John Cole knew his spirit and knowledge had survived for one reason, and that was to kill Rakshasa, to make sure every last one of the demon bastards got wiped off the face of the earth. Then and only then could he leave crazy behind, set himself free, and take the lingering soul and essence of the last demon with him.
    The demon living in his own head.
    “You’re fucked, Strada,” he whispered to the monstrosity trying to chew its way through his brain.
    And the Rakshasa in his head howled, and howled, and howled.
    The man stood on a path in Central Park near West Sixty-third, across from one of the park entrances and in front of the brownstone where his gods-cursed enemies chose to reside. A warm, comfortable breeze stirred leaves and branches in nearby trees, making the night crinkle and rattle around him like it had some secret duty and purpose, much as he did. Moonlight lit the few steps leading into the three-story dwelling he sought, but he sensed no powerful energy and saw no sign of activity from within. The plain white curtains in the windows remained still,