A Soul So Wicked (Moon Chasers) (3 page)

Sam squirmed in his grasp, his efforts wasted. The slightest squeeze and Darius could
put an end to him. Years ago, he would have. Before he’d regained his conscience.

“How’d you find me?” he pressed, tightening his grip on Sam’s throat. For years, he’d been mere myth and legend. He’d like to know how his existence had been verified, how he’d suddenly made it onto every hunter’s kill list. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make again.

“You’ve been getting a lot of exposure lately. Heard you’ve been working with some kill-forhires—and a bunch of scientists,” Sam panted. “Did you think you could hide from us? We’ve got men everywhere.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Single-minded in his focus, he’d cast his usual caution aside and gotten sloppy in his quest to break his curse. Hiring dozens of researchers, historians, and even his own army to accompany him on certain missions wasn’t exactly keeping a low profile.

He couldn’t regret it, though. The prey he hunted wasn’t anything he’d ever faced before. He didn’t know what to expect, but he had to defeat her. For himself. For the world.

“I don’t know what you’ve been playing at,
dog,
but you’ve lived long enough. Time to give it up.”

He sighed. He’d played enough with these
hunters, who smelled of the silver they packed. “Five of you? You really should have brought more—”

He flung Sam toward his comrades in a swift shove. Before anyone could register what had just happened, he catapulted into the air, touching down on top of the SUV before springing through the air and landing in the parking lot. He rushed across the asphalt, a blur in the night, too fast for the eye to process. Bullets plugged the air around him.

He stopped moments later, several miles away. The night hummed around him, silent except for the distant growl of cars on the far-off highway.

Sliding his hands into his pockets, he was comforted by the crinkle of paper there. That was all that mattered. Whistling softly, he strode down the sidewalk.

In the marrow of his bones, he knew he was closing in—he felt it. He’d have her this time. Whether or not he reclaimed his soul in the process, he’d finally have her.

He’d have justice.

T
WO

H
er face is lovely in her utter stillness. Possibly lovelier than the other two. Air falls in hot rasps from your lips. It’s impossible to resist. You have to touch her. Just a slide of your fingertips against her cheek, her throat, the delicate shape of her collarbone.

Envy fills you… deep and dark, a covetous yearning that pools in all those hollow places inside, every nook and cranny, until you’re overflowing, ready to burst.

You reach for the bag and spread rose petals around her gentle curves, taking care to crush a few of the petals so their aroma curls on the air.
So romantic.

In your other hand—the knife.

It feels comfortable. Right. Like it belongs there.

You give her cheek a sharp little slap, trying to rouse her. No sense in doing this if she isn’t awake to appreciate it.

She moans, a catlike little mewl, and you can’t help wondering if she makes that sound when she makes love, too. When she’s with
him.
The very possibility consumes you, smolders hotly in your blood until your breath falls fast and hard. Eager for it, you slap her harder.

Her eyes flutter open, and it’s there in that glimmering brown—her absolute wonder and awe as she sees
you.
You press the knife to her supple flesh and understanding floods her face. She knows.

She’s ready.

At last.

Now you can begin.

* * *

T
RESA WOKE WITH A
gasp, a scream lodged in her throat. She clutched the bedcovers to her heaving chest, staring blindly at the wall, straight ahead at the picture of a sandy beach dotted with striped umbrellas. She blinked, trying to focus on the seascape and rid herself of the image of a dying girl.

But the horrible images clung, impossible to shake. Just like the other dreams. They were becoming a regular occurrence.

It surprised her that mere dreams should take such a hold on her and fill her with such
horror. She had lived through countless terrible things and those images haunted her every time she closed her eyes. Even though the memories were faint and gray, she struggled to suppress the fuzzy recollections so that they didn’t overwhelm and cripple her.

But this dream was fresh, frighteningly clear. Just like the others, it felt… real. Like it wasn’t even a nightmare. The aroma of roses still teased her nose.

She dragged a hand over her face and closed her eyes in a slow blink. The girl’s face was waiting, the brown eyes rising up in the dark of her mind. Tresa quickly reopened her eyes.

The girl’s fear, her terror and pain… the person wielding the knife had relished every moment.

She flung back her covers and stepped into her slippers. Walking from her bedroom, she flipped on the kitchen light and squinted in the glare. The light provided some comfort; experience had taught her that monsters preferred the dark.

Opening her fridge, she removed a carton of orange juice and poured herself a glass. Setting the empty carton aside, she took a long drink. She’d need to brave a trip to the store tomorrow.

In truth, she dreaded her excursions out into the world less lately. She felt… safer somehow. Almost at ease. It had been over a year now. A year where she had led a safe, seemingly
human
existence. Fourteen months had passed since her demon attempted a possession. Some days she almost convinced herself that she was a normal woman.

Some nights, eating popcorn in front of her television, or looking for the right kind of shampoo at the grocery store, or brushing her teeth, the awareness of what she was slipped entirely from her consciousness. For those few blessed moments, she felt peace. She forgot that she was a witch who had surrendered her soul to a demon over two thousand years ago.

And then she’d suddenly remember, and the reality would crash down on her.

The repeating nightmares couldn’t be coincidental. Was it
his
doing? Balthazar using a new ploy to get at her? Usually he invaded her directly, planting himself inside her mind and taking over her body, but maybe he’d found a new way to torment her.

She squeezed the bridge of her nose. Her head was already starting to ache. Shoving thoughts of Balthazar away, she washed her glass. Putting it back in the cabinet, she moved
into her bedroom, determined to return to sleep.

The nightmare probably had nothing to do with Balthazar. Her overactive imagination had probably latched onto some horrible story she’d seen on the news last night.

Climbing into bed, she pulled the warm covers up to her chin and snuggled into them, enjoying her bed. Outside the wind whistled, stirring the wind chimes she’d hung on the porch. It was the longest time she’d stayed in one place. She actually felt comfortable here.

With a deep sigh, she closed her eyes and prayed to a God she was sure no longer heard her prayers that Balthazar continued to stay away. For the first time, she was somewhere that was beginning to feel like home. And even though she didn’t deserve it, she didn’t want to lose this.

* * *

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING,
T
RESA
put on her heavy snow boots for the half-mile trek into town. She had an all-terrain vehicle in the garage, but she rarely used it. Maybe the fresh air would help chase away the vestiges of her nightmare. While the nightmare hadn’t returned, she’d slept fitfully, as though she
feared it would return if she let down her guard.

Standing, she glanced outside. The snow fell swiftly and a shiver coursed down her spine. You’d think after residing in subarctic climes for generations, she’d be used to it.

Shaking her head, she grabbed her thick, hooded parka off the hook and tucked herself into it. Stepping outside, she closed the door and stood on the porch, tugging on her gloves and inhaling the crisp, cold air.

The skin at her nape prickled, and she stilled, gloves half on as her eyes narrowed on the snowy landscape. The bare, snow-packed road stared back at her. Her gaze moved on, scanning the tree line, studying the dark foliage peeking out from the thick blanket of white. She looked for anything, the slightest thing that wasn’t part of the natural landscape.

The flesh on her neck still tingled, but she didn’t see anything. She usually sensed Balthazar before he made his presence known. Their bond was palpable. If he was here, she’d know.

Of course, there were other things out there. Things like her. Inhuman creatures that had no right to life. Creatures that hunted and preyed on the innocent. That preyed on
her
. Not that she was in any way innocent.

With one last glance to assure herself that no one was lurking about, she set a brisk pace to town, letting the activity warm her blood. Her breath fogged in front of her in froths of white. Her thoughts veered to her nightmare again. The images intruded on her in bursts, like flashes of lightning in the dark.

Soon she was passing the post office that shared space with the police station. It was a small town where everyone knew everyone else. They even knew her. At least what she presented to them: Tresa King, a freelance writer who sometimes, when the courage seized her, volunteered at the nursing home.

When a month had passed and Balthazar hadn’t harassed her, she’d thought she’d test the waters and see if socializing attracted his notice and stirred him from wherever he’d gone. She’d chosen solitude not because she wanted to be alone, but because it was the responsible thing to do. No one was safe around her as long as she was under the thumb of a demon.

She’d started out volunteering a few hours a week, reading and visiting with the elderly, ready to flee at the first sign of Balthazar. As the weeks stretched out without sight or sound from him, she took on more hours.

The door of Mountain Pines chimed when
she entered the lobby. She stomped her snowy boots on the heavy rug. The place had that pungent smell found in nursing homes and hospitals, the stench of sickness mingled with antiseptic. The staff took extra care to make the place homey, though, and Tresa always felt comfortable the moment she stepped inside.

The lobby contained several couches and side tables. Lamps emitted a warm, fuzzy glow. There was something comforting about the place.

“Hello, Tresa,” Marcie greeted from the desk.

Tresa smiled back, removing her gloves. “Hi. How was your weekend?” Picking up the pen, she scrawled her name on the volunteer clipboard.

“Watched that new Matt Damon movie. Good stuff. Not much else to do… Can’t believe we got another snowfall this late in the year.”

“Yeah.” She tugged her scarf down from her lips. “Still steady out there.”

Marcie nodded.

Setting down her pen, Tresa flashed her a smile. “I’ll have to check out that movie.”

Marcie nodded. “Definitely.”

Tresa walked the familiar path to the community
room. Two women and a man in a bright red vest sat around one of the round tables near the television, staring vaguely at a morning talk show where two women bantered cheerfully and discussed the latest spring fashions.

Tresa stopped at the table and cleared her throat until she snared their attention. Pulling a deck of cards from her pocket, she asked, “Who’s up for a game?”

The old man in the vest grinned, revealing a set of perfect dentures. “About time you got here.”

T
HREE

D
arius blew his breath into his hands as he leaned against a pole outside the town’s lone diner. The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted to his nose, enticing him. It wasn’t the only enticement. More than once, the waitress had sent him a tentative smile through the front window as she wiped down tables.

He considered her for a moment and then stared back across the street. It was warmer inside the diner, but his view would be obstructed. And he’d endured far worse things than cold weather.

The wide double doors of Mountain Pines remained shut, sealing
her
in. His heart squeezed tightly in his chest. To have come so far… to be this close…

It took everything inside him not to rush across the street and barrel through those doors. But there were people in there. He couldn’t risk it. He’d have to wait until she was alone. He should
have snatched her this morning before she came into town, but when he’d seen her on that front porch, he’d been startled at the sight of her.

He had watched her, sliding on her gloves in such an ordinary manner. Only she wasn’t ordinary. She was hell incarnate. He’d always had a basic description of her, and yet the reality of her felt like a punch in the gut.

He didn’t know what he’d expected to see, but not the dark-haired willowy female who looked like some woodland fairy. He supposed he expected a demon witch to look more intimidating, more like… a witch.
Not so beautiful.

Disgust curled through him. He’d encountered many beautiful women over his lifetime. This one would not affect him.

He continued to stare at the doors to the nursing home, perplexed at what she was doing in there. Dropping his hands, he burrowed them deep into his pockets. Even with his elevated body temperature, it was damn cold.

The waitress stuck her head out, rubbing her arms against the chill. “Can I help you?”

He offered her a disarming smile. “I’m fine, thank you. Just waiting for someone.” He let the power of his stare charm her, blind her to his actual words. Another gift of his curse.

“Okay.” She smiled at him rather dazedly.
“Got some sweet buns in the oven. Best around. Sure you wouldn’t like to try one?” The vague, besotted look in her eyes suggested she was offering him more than a sweet bun.

But that was the power of his curse. Lycans had no difficulty in luring prey. She wasn’t in full control of herself.