Captive Soul by Anna Windsor Page B

the woman might be useful to him if he could win her trust. Something about her reminded him of every military officer he had ever known, and power like she seemed to command usually proved to be useful in a war.
    In the depths of his essence, the snarling of his body’s previous owner never stopped. “I’m not a demon,” John said, ignoring that racket as best he could. “I haven’t gotten rid of the fuck—ah, sorry, the monster—who used to own this bag of bones, but I kicked its ass, and I’m the one in control now. Dig through my thoughts if you have to. See for yourself.”
    The scarred old woman in the silvery robes moved closer to him, slow but supple as a year-old cat. The soldiers nearest to them shifted positions, just enough to defend her if John made some sudden move.
    Don’t worry, boys. I’m pigheaded, but I’m not stupid .
    John’s skull tingled as the old woman leaned in even tighter. Hot prickles lit up his brain like it was nothing more than a bunch of wires slammed into a wall jack.
    Okay, maybe the not-stupid part wasn’t spot-on.
    He breathed through the fiery jabs, flexing his fingers. Somehow he managed not to move any more than that, and to let the old woman do what he’d invited her to do—dig around his head until she found all she needed to know.
    When she finished, she was frowning. “You say your name is John Cole, but you’re wearing the skin of our worst enemy. Why should I let you live?”
    John reminded himself to watch his mouth in the presence of a lady, and he gave her what he hoped was a polite smile. “Because I slaughter Rakshasa, and I’m good at it.”
    John sensed a fierce surge of approval from the woman. Whatever she was, she had no love for those creatures.
    Good.
    Killing the bastards had been his one purpose since he walked away from the first Gulf War.
    The snarling in his brain got worse.
    John ground his teeth to tamp down the noise in his brain. It distracted him. That’s why six of this woman’s henchmen had been able to sneak up on him, club him stupid, cuff him, blindfold him, gag him, and drag him down to this godforsaken set of tunnels. Why the men hadn’t killed him in the alley, why they’d taken a chance on bringing him to what was obviously a hideout or staging area to meet this woman who was obviously their leader—those were questions he needed to answer.
    The old woman backed off a step, then closed her blank white eyes for a few seconds. She seemed to be adding up everything about him and trying to come up with some description that made sense.
    Yeah. Good luck with that .
    The men protecting her didn’t so much as twitch as they waited, but their mistrust buzzed like wasps against the back of John’s neck.
    Tiger , his overly sensitive nose told him, picking out the acrid musk from the old woman’s rosewood and the musty odors of the aqueduct. Yet not tiger .
    “You’re a priest who gave up your collar,” the old woman said, her eyes still closed. “You’re a soldier who gave up your stripes. You’re a man so determined to complete your mission that you escaped death and stole a demon’s body to complete it.”
    John kept his expression as friendly as he could manage, given the circumstances. “That about covers it.”
    “You have the look of Strada, leader of the Rakshasa Eldest.” The woman’s puckered face eased into a semblance of peacefulness, and she finally opened her eerie eyes. “You have his human form, but not his energy. Mind and flesh are yours, John Cole, but the struggle for this body’s soul is far from over.”
    How old was she? A hundred? Two hundred? John had a suspicion she was much older, and maybe some of her soldiers were, too. The Rakshasa Eldest had spent a millennium trapped in a temple in the Afghan mountains, in the Valley of the Gods, until a special-forces expedition—an expedition he had been part of—accidentally set them free from that bombed-out temple. Was it possible that the woman and