A Soul So Wicked (Moon Chasers) (2 page)

Villagers trailed them. From somewhere in the crowd the cry of
witch
was taken up. She looked back toward the village, obscured now by a thick veil of trees. A dark, winding snake of smoke stretched into the sky. Even from the river, the sharp smell of her burning cottage filled her nose. It was all she could see in her mind.
Michel. Grandmère
.

At the river’s edge, heavy chains were hastily wrapped around her. Several bone-breaking stones hung from the ends, weighing the chains so that they cut into her flesh.

She heard Marshan’s voice over the crowd, pronouncing her guilty of various crimes, but she could only stare numbly at the sky, the dark curling serpent of smoke reaching high.

She lifted her face and closed her eyes.
Michel, I love you.

A sudden warm breeze washed over her. She opened her eyes, watching as a dark shadow wended its way through the crowd toward her, ribboning through all the oblivious spectators.
Over and around bodies, like a lover’s hand, it slid toward her.

It wasn’t the first time shadows had visited her. Ever since she was a girl and had become aware of her
gift—
her ability to move things with just a thought—the shadows had plagued her. Tempting her, offering her promises of power and eternal life in exchange for her soul.

She’d resisted the demons’ dark lure, discovering that the more she suppressed her magic, the less they appeared to tempt her.

Despair twisted inside her heart. For all her efforts, Michel and Grandmère were dead, their flesh and blood reducing to ashes as she stood waiting for her murder at the river’s edge.

Marshan’s men shoved her forward. The shadow reached her just as her feet met the water.

“Be gone, demon,” she hissed, wincing at the cold water lapping her toes.

The demon ignored her, wrapping around her like a warm blanket, seductively soothing. Its guttural voice curled enticingly in her ear.

Wouldn’t you like to make him pay? Make him suffer for Michel’s death… make him know Michel’s pain? Your pain…

She shook her head, her hair tossing wildly. In her mind, she heard Grandmère’s voice as
she had all her life, warning her to resist the shadows.

“No!” she shouted, denying more than this demon. Denying her death, the death of her family—the loss of everything that mattered in her world.

A pair of soldiers dragged her out deeper into the water, until her feet couldn’t touch. The only thing keeping her afloat was their hard hands. The weight of the chains pulled on her bones, sucked her body down.

And what of your grandmother? Did her old, tired bones deserve the fire? She woke, you know. At the first lick of flames. Marshan should pay. He shouldn’t be allowed to live on to inflict further pain.

The demon’s words arrowed straight to her bleeding heart.

Her chin bobbed at the water’s surface. With the weight of chains and stones, she’d sink right down. Plunge in this very spot to a watery grave.

Water slapped against her lips. “Please,” she sobbed, but she was no longer sure who she was begging. Marshan and his men? Or the demon propositioning her?

The hands released her and she sank with the demon’s voice a whispery coax in her ear.

Come, Tresa… don’t let your death go unavenged.

The air left her in the roar of a thousand bubbles, and then there was no more. Cold, brackish water rushed inside her mouth and nose, filling her lungs. The water was dark. Her eyes could see nothing as she thrashed, desperate for air, for freedom. Life.

Come, Tresa. Avenge Michel…

Her lungs burned. Spots flashed before her eyes, brightening her dark, dying world.

Avenge Michel…

The words spun dizzily in her head, eclipsing all else. Marshan had to pay. This was her only thought as her hair rippled like silky seaweed around her.

Suddenly the words formed in her head, exploding free.

Curse Marshan! Make him pay. Make him pay and I am yours. Demon, I am yours…

O
NE

The only beautiful thing in the world whose beauty lasts forever is a pure, fair soul.

—Bram Stoker

P
RESENT DAY

D
arius’s footsteps echoed off the silent street. The waning moon gleamed down, casting the dark street in a pearly glow. He inhaled, glad that he didn’t need to worry about another full moon for nearly a month. He hated losing those three nights, putting his mission on pause, but he could do nothing about it.

At least not yet.

For now, this was the life he lived. As much as he despised it, he could only make the best of it. That’s what he had been doing, but finally he was close. After all these years, the witch would evade him no longer. He’d have her—and an end to the curse.

He stopped before the narrow brick town house and double-checked the slip of paper in his pocket to make sure he was at the right place. He couldn’t very well meet with the FBI
analyst in her field office, but he was surprised she’d given him her home address. He could be anyone… a dangerous man. A
beast
. There were all manner of predators in this world.

He pushed the buzzer and waited. A yippy dog inside immediately started up a frenzy of barking. Through the blurry stained-glass front door he watched the vague shape of a female appear, scooping up the dog in her arms. A pile of dark hair bobbed on top of her head as she approached.

She unbolted the door and peered at him over the wide rims of her glasses. “Darius?”

He nodded. “Anna Posner?”

She stood on her tiptoes and looked over his shoulder, evidently assuring herself that he was alone.

Satisfied, she undid the flimsy chain and motioned him inside. The fluffy white dog growled low in its throat, shaking uncontrollably in its mistress’s arms.

“Hush, Lacy.” She sent Darius an apologetic look as she patted the dog’s head. “She’s usually very friendly.”

“No problem.” The dog had good instincts. It recognized him for what he was. The same could not be said for Anna Posner.

They lingered in the small foyer. The analyst stared at him with a rather transfixed expression
on her face… as if she’d never had a man in her home before and didn’t quite know what to do. He eyed her baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants that hid any hint of her gender.

“Do you have the information I need?” he asked, eager to get what he came for and leave. He wasn’t one for banter.

She blinked, straightening to all of her diminutive height. “Uh. Yes. Sure. Wasn’t easy, of course. A first name and the little description you provided isn’t much to go on… especially as off the grid as this woman happens to be.”

Of course she was off the grid, or he would have found her sooner. “So you located her?”

“Naturally.” She blinked like he’d asked the silliest of questions. “That’s what I do.” She gestured for him to follow her.

He trailed her a few feet down the corridor into her home office. She immediately took a seat at her desk, behind her computer, setting her growling dog in her lap. She tapped at a few keys with rapid-fire speed.

“I think this is her…” The printer began spitting out a sheet of paper, which she pulled out and handed to him.

He glanced at the fuzzy image: a slim female, dark hair peeping out from the hood of a coat.
From the accounts he’d heard, it could be her. But so could a lot of other women.

He stared at the blurry image awhile longer, absorbing everything he could. There was something about the female. A way she held herself even when she didn’t know someone was looking. A guardedness.

“Where is she?”

“That was taken at a small airport in Rocks-burgh ten months ago.”

“Ten
months
ago?” She could be anywhere now.

With several more clicks of the keyboard, she printed out another page. “Here.” She tapped a small town on a map of Alaska. “This town is an hour’s drive from Anchorage. I found the name of a Tresa King on a roster for a town meeting, signed two weeks ago. Tresa’s not the most common name.”

Two weeks ago. He stared at the small dot on the map, his chest filling with hope. A town meeting? Would she be participating in society? Something as mundane as a town meeting? It didn’t fit with his idea of her, but then, she wasn’t operating under her own free will. She was a slave to something else.

He folded the second printout and tucked it inside his jacket. From his other pocket, he
pulled out the payment owed and dropped it onto her desk.

She opened the envelope and peered inside. “Thanks.” Rising, she led him to the door. “Let me know if you ever need any more work done.”

“A word of advice.”

She gazed at him, her eyes wide through her smudged lenses.

“If you’re going to freelance, don’t be so trusting. Don’t invite your clientele inside your home.”

She blinked up at him. “You mean I shouldn’t have trusted you?” she asked baldly, trying to smile, but it failed to reach her eyes.

“No,” he returned evenly, grasping the doorknob. “You shouldn’t have. You never know what kind of man you’re dealing with… especially after he gets what he wants from you. Once you become unnecessary, you’re expendable.”

The pulse at her neck beat faster, like that of a rabbit face-to-face with its hunter. His gaze narrowed on the rapidly thrumming flesh, everything in him pulling tight. Humans. So very fragile. So tempting.

She looked nervous now, but he could smell her excitement, too. An acrid, loamy aroma on
the air. She was getting her kicks off the danger of this moment.

“And what kind of man are you?” she asked.

He leaned in closer; whispered the word against her ear as he inhaled her. Citrus shampoo and popcorn. “A killer.”

At first disbelief crossed her face, but as he continued to stare at her, her expression changed to trepidation. Her hand moved to her throat self-consciously and she edged back a step.

Satisfied that she would be more cautious in the future, he turned to go. Perhaps he shouldn’t have bothered to warn her, but he couldn’t help caring. A weakness maybe, but caring was what made him different from his brethren—bloodthirsty animals. As long as he cared, deep in his gut he didn’t feel like he was a total lost cause.

Descending the steps of her town house, he vanished into the night, moving quickly, nothing more than a shadow to any passing eye. He covered several blocks, passing a row of sleepy bungalows in a newly restored section of Charlottesville. Restored or not, there was no hiding the fact that three blocks away was one of the most dangerous areas of the city. A slum where all manner of unsavory characters skulked.
He had once loved places like this. They were familiar… the best hunting grounds.

At first he thought the men trailing him were thugs who had drifted over in search of prey among the quiet, trimmed lawns. He walked on, unconcerned, as he waited for them to make their move. It wasn’t a question of him being ready. He was always ready. He was a creature of instinct, his aggression and his violent impulses always there, simmering just beneath the surface.

As they continued to trail him, following him out of the neighborhood and into a wide parking lot of cracked and broken asphalt that backed into a strip of warehouses deserted for the night, he concluded they might be more than your standard thugs.

He stopped. Without turning around, he called out, “Are we going to do this all night?”

The footsteps stopped. The hush of silence fell. He knew human nature. At his invitation, the thugs would either run or attack.

Only neither happened.

Quiet surrounded him.

His skin prickled and pulled tight. Even without a full moon, his strength and speed put him at an advantage. All of his senses sharpened. He listened, straining for the slightest
sounds that were unnatural to the surroundings. And then he heard the faintest click.

He dropped to the ground effortlessly in one liquid motion as the bullet whizzed above him. He scanned the parking lot and spotted the figure in the distance, taking aim again.

Darius moved then, unleashing himself. He covered the distance separating him and his would-be killer in one second and snatched the gun from the man’s hands. The man flailed and writhed, cursing, striking him with useless blows.

Darius’s nostrils flared. He brought the pistol closer to his nose and inhaled the sweet, metallic odor.
Silver
. Kryptonite for him and his kind. His gaze snapped back to the man, and he understood instantly who—
what
—he was. “Hunter,” he spat.

“And you’re Darius,” the guy sneered, his lip curling over his teeth. He grimaced when Darius tightened his hold around his throat.

“How’d you find me?” He’d worked hard to stay off the grid.

“You’re on every hunter’s wish list—the lycan without a pack. You should have been taken out years ago.”

Darius didn’t bother responding. How could he explain that he was different from the rest of the lycans out there? The hunter wouldn’t
believe him. He scoured the area for more hunters. Where there was one, there were others.

Almost on cue, a dark SUV tore into the lot at full speed. The vehicle jerked to a stop several feet before them, trapping them within the bright glare of headlights. Singed rubber polluted the air.

Darius positioned the hunter in front of him, not keen on taking a silver bullet. The other hunters spilled out of the SUV. Using the doors for cover, they sized up Darius and the captive hunter.

“Sam, you okay?” one barked out.

“Let him go!” another shouted.

Darius smiled lazily, considering the scenario. Four hunters, all with weapons aimed at him. He’d faced worse odds.

“I’d be happy to let you all go. If you just walk away and forget you ever saw me.”

“Not a chance in hell!”

Darius sighed. He didn’t relish killing anyone, even hunters. They thought they were doing the right thing. Truthfully, most lycans needed killing. They killed indiscriminately, gorging themselves every full moon. Like rabid dogs, they needed to be put down.