A Soul So Wicked (Moon Chasers) (4 page)

“That’s tempting. Maybe later.”

With a regretful nod, she ducked back inside.

Turning around, he settled his gaze on the squat building just as a snowplow crawled down the middle of the street. The driver sent him a friendly wave. He waved back, trying to be inconspicuous.

Smoke puffed from the nursing home’s dual chimneys and he wondered again what nefarious activities she could be up to in there. It couldn’t be good, that was for certain. Despite her deceptive exterior, nothing that ever came from Tresa could be good.

He was the proof of that.

* * *

“F
ULL HOUSE.”
T
RESA LAID
down her cards with relish. The two ladies groaned and tossed down their cards.

Albert puffed up his chest and displayed his cards. “Four ladies.”

Tresa gasped with mock horror. “You’re killing me, Al.”

The old man cackled, “Pay up.”

Glancing around to make sure none of the staff was watching, Tresa dipped into her pocket and pulled out a box of Milk Duds. “Now, don’t choke on these, Al. It’s bad enough they’re hell on your dentures. I don’t want to go to your funeral. I look terrible in black.”

Albert’s sloped shoulders hunched as he laughed in glee.

Pearl batted her hand at Tresa. “I doubt you look terrible in anything, honey.”

“Young girls are always beautiful,” Al declared. “It’s the benefit of youth. Impossible to be anything but attractive.”

His two companions nodded sagely, their heads angled in reflection, as though they were recalling the beauty they’d once possessed.

Tresa felt a pang of regret as she looked at them. She was older than all of them by a couple of thousand years. She had no right to be here, walking this earth, but she was. Because of one foolish act, a hastily made bargain that continued to punish her.

Staring at the elderly trio, she accepted that she’d give anything for what they had. Mortality. A soul.

The chime for lunch rang. The room would be crowded soon with those who could still walk unassisted and didn’t take meals in their bedrooms.

She slid her cards into the case and stood. “I’ll be back. And next time I’ll win.”

“You say that every time,” Pearl teased.

Tresa wagged a playful finger. “One of these days.”

“Keep dreaming, doll. Maybe one day it will happen.” Al patted his vest where he’d secured his Milk Duds.

Slipping on her coat, she waved good-bye and left.

If possible, it was even colder outside. Snow fell in sheets that cut like razors as she headed toward the small general store. Once inside, she grabbed a handbasket near the door and waved to Mr. Clarke, the owner. She bought only a few items at a time, so he was used to the sight of her.

“Got in some of that sweet corn you like so much,” he called.

“Thanks, Mr. Clarke.”

She immediately went to the part of the store where she could find her favorite junk food. Pringles, Ding Dongs and a package of those powder-frosted doughnuts. Next came
the produce section. She picked out a few corncobs to roast in the oven tonight. As she was examining the avocados for any hopefuls, her nape prickled with awareness again.

Swallowing against the sudden dryness in her mouth, she whirled around and peered through the wide window stretching in front of the produce department. Only three cars sat in the parking lot. Her gaze narrowed. No unusual shadows as far as she could tell. A figure walked along the sidewalk across the street, but he was headed in the other direction, toward the hardware store.

Shaking her head, she turned back around and snatched up a too-ripe avocado. Feeling a sense of urgency, she rushed through the rest of her shopping and paid for her items. If Balthazar was out there, ready to pounce, it would be better if she was in the privacy of her own home. Better to wrestle for control of herself there, rather than out in the open where someone might get hurt.

She carefully eyed her surroundings as she left town, her legs eating up the snow-packed ground as she scanned the press of trees at the edge of the road. Nothing stirred save the swaying branches and leaves weighed down by snow.

Gradually the itch in her skin faded. Still, she remained vigilant as she entered her house, bolting the door and closing all the curtains. She drew a deep breath and stood in the center of her small living room, chafing her perspiring palms against her thighs. Tense. Waiting. Half expecting a shadow to leap out at her from the walls.

Several deep breaths later, she finally moved. Balthazar would come when he wanted and there was little she could do about it. Flipping on the television, she welcomed the noise, the distraction, as she unpacked her groceries. She listened to the world news report with only half an ear as she went about shucking and cleaning the corn.

She was pouring herself a drink when the anchorwoman’s voice penetrated her consciousness. She turned slowly, a sick churning starting in her belly as she gazed at the well-coiffed blonde with inflated lips staring grimly out of the flat screen.

“With the body count at three, the San Vista Police Department has confirmed that this is the work of a serial killer. The FBI is now on-site, helping local officials with what the residents of San Vista have dubbed the Rose Petal Killer because he surrounds his victims in rose petals…”

The glass slipped from Tresa’s fingers and crashed at her feet as her nightmare flashed through her mind… the rose petals spread lovingly, with a killer’s hand.

She’d
seen
that.
Been
there. In the killer’s head. It was no coincidence. There was a serial killer out there, and she was witnessing his crimes, living them vicariously through him.

No
. Not him. It wasn’t a man, she suddenly realized.
She. Her. They weren’t dreams at all.

It was Balthazar’s doing.

He’d taken possession of another witch. That explained why he had suddenly become so disinterested in her. He had someone else to vicariously live through, someone else to do his bidding. Someone more willing to commit atrocities.

The police had no idea these killings were being perpetrated by a woman. And not just any woman. A woman with powerful magic at her disposal. The odds of them catching her, stopping her, were slim.

Tresa tore her gaze away from the television and hurried into the small nook off the living room where her computer desk sat. Hands shaking, she logged on, determined to learn everything she could about the Rose Petal Killer.

Before she left for San Vista, she needed to know what she was up against.

* * *

S
HE PACKED ONLY ENOUGH
clothes for a week. If she stayed longer than that, she could buy more or wash what she had. Hopefully she could take care of this quickly, though. Point the police in the right direction so they could make an arrest.

She stuffed her toiletries into a small bag, her movements clumsy in her haste. The names of the victims floated through her mind. Taylor, Hannah, Shannan. All murdered at the hands of this Rose Petal Killer. She’d seen their photos online. Their faces, so shining and bright, flashed through her mind and made her stomach churn. A sudden draft of cold air slid over her and for a moment, it didn’t register. She was accustomed to the cold.

But then she straightened, her hands falling away from her bag.

A familiar energy hummed at her core, the call of her magic, ready to be used. An instinctive defense, one she hadn’t felt in a long time. Hadn’t needed in a long time.

Her gift was what gave her away; it was like a homing device within her. It was how Balthazar
had found her in the first place and how he kept track of her still.

The energy inside her stirred, ready for what her instincts had been warning her about all day. Sucking in a deep breath, she whirled around, almost expecting someone to be standing there—or some
thing
. She released her breath in a shudder. No one. Nothing.

She moved cautiously from her bedroom and stepped inside the living room. The front door stood open, explaining the cold draft. Her gaze flicked around the room.

Seeing nothing, she approached the door with hesitant steps, certain she had locked it. Ignoring the cold bite of wind, she grasped the edge of the door, peering behind it and then stepping out onto the porch, her body tense and alert as she scanned the snow-draped landscape. Nothing. Calling herself all kinds of crazy, she stepped back inside.

That’s when the dark shape materialized, moving so quickly she couldn’t even make out a face. Just a blur.

The large shape filled her world, came at her in a growling rush. Hard hands closed over her arms, lifting her off her feet.

She struggled, resisting, fighting, punching. Her efforts made no impact. Her fists bounced
off hard muscle. Instinct took over. Desperate, she reached deep inside herself and seized hold of the powers she’d long avoided.

Her gaze flicked around the room, propelling objects with the merest glance. Books and vases flew off shelves, striking him. It took only a look, the slightest whisper through her mind, and it was done. Unlike two thousand years ago, she knew how to summon her powers. Under Balthazar’s possession, she’d honed her gift.

She aimed a clock at his head. He ducked it.

When he straightened, she paused, assessing him.

He looked her up and down with a face carved from stone. His lip curled in a sneer. “Is that all you’ve got, witch?”

So he knew what she was.

She let a vase fly, crashing it into his head and shattering the glass into a thousand pieces. He didn’t so much as flinch. And then she knew. Her stomach clenched. She was dealing with someone otherworldly.

He moved faster than she could process and seized both her wrists in a single hand. She hid her wince. Just the slightest bit tighter and he could snap her bones.

The list of otherworldly creatures was relatively short. This wasn’t a movie with sexy
vampires bent on seduction. He could be a slayer, protecting white witches and hunting the demons that hunted them. But that didn’t explain what he was doing here. She was a demon witch—a lost cause as far as any slayer was concerned.

So that left two things. He was either a lycan or a dovenatu, a hybrid lycan.

Lifting her chin, she endured his hold. No sense in fighting until she knew for sure what he was.

“What do you want?” she asked with a calm she didn’t feel.

His eyes seared her. Her breath caught, froze inside her lungs. His pewter gaze was as cold as the world outside. Just the sight of him, the evidence of his existence, made her stomach churn.

After a long moment, he slid his hands from where they clutched her wrists like iron manacles. She fluttered her fingers, letting the blood rush back. Rubbing out the imprints of his fingers on her flesh, she took a careful step back.

Everything inside her sank and withered. He was a lycan. The first lycan had bred and infected thousands of people. Had killed and destroyed countless more. The creature before her was the legacy of that first lycan.

Her legacy
. A result of her careless actions.

She’d successfully cursed Etienne Marshan into
this
. A beast. Balthazar had tricked her. He had failed to explain
how
he intended to curse the man who’d murdered her family.

She scanned the six-foot-plus creature in front of her. His existence, the existence of every lycan, was her fault. There was no penance for that, no way to run from the guilt. To undo all the death, all the misery.

She couldn’t even kill herself. Decapitation was the only way to kill a demon witch, and that would free the demon. Her death would grant Balthazar the power to manifest on earth, to walk among man. Then he could wreak even more havoc.

She was the one responsible for creating the monster she now faced. Whatever he did to her, she deserved it. Except she couldn’t let him kill her. She couldn’t give Balthazar the freedom he’d been craving these many years. Her only reason to live was to thwart him, and to save as many people as she could from him. So this lycan didn’t get to kill her. She couldn’t let him.

She lifted her chin as she gazed at him. “What do you want?” she repeated coldly, her tone indicating none of the desperation humming through her. With a breath, she let him know she knew what he was. “Lycan.”

F
OUR

S
he wasn’t what he’d expected.

Up close, he was caught even more off guard at the sight of her. Not that he’d expected her to look like a two-thousand-year-old hag. He didn’t look anywhere near his thousand-odd years.

He inhaled thinly through his nose. Her beauty didn’t faze him, though. He knew what she was. All she had done. If not for her, he would have lived and died a peaceful existence long ago, his soul intact. And countless lives would have been spared.

“What do I want?” he repeated. “What I want is
you
dead.” He raked her with a scathing glare. “Your corpse at my feet. Only that will satisfy me.”

She didn’t so much as flinch.

He continued, “But I’ve been told you can’t die.”

“You’re not totally ignorant, then?” She
cocked her head as though in approval. Her glossy dark hair swayed, as smooth as glass around her. “Yes. My death would be a bad idea,” she agreed.

He bristled at her condescension. “Unleashing an evil worse than you isn’t what I’m after.”

She arched an elegant eyebrow. “If you know killing me would release the demon, then why are you here?”

“Because you’re the key,” he bit out.

She looked bewildered. Again, not the reaction he was expecting from evil incarnate.

Where was the rage? The cruelty?

She shook her head. “The key to what?”

“You started all this.” He motioned to himself, and then stilled when he saw that his hand shook ever so slightly. “You have to be able to end it.”

Understanding filled her whiskey gold eyes… and something else, something he couldn’t identify. “You think I can help you?” She considered him slowly, crossing her slim arms in front of her. “What is it you want exactly, lycan?”