Soulbound: A Lone Star Witch Novel (39 page)

Following my instincts—and the pain—I direct Nate into one of the parking lots closest to campus. When I climb out of the car, I’m still not sure where we’re going. But I take only a few steps before it hits me. He’s taken her to the tower.

The most infamous building on UT Austin’s campus, the tower stands in an area of UT called the Mall. Made famous by Charles Whitman in 1966, the tower is the site of one of the first—and most notorious—sniper attacks in American history. Standing on the observation deck at the top of the tower, Whitman killed fourteen people and injured dozens more.

Though the observation deck was closed for nearly thirty years, it’s open now—and has been for over a decade. And I know, with everything inside me, that that is where this bastard has killed again.

“He’s there,” I say to Nate, pointing at the top of the tower, as I start running.

He looks at me like I’m crazy, though he’s keeping pace. “There’s all kinds of security. Plus it’s closed—how could he get her up there?”

“I don’t know. But she’s there.”

I can tell Nate wants to argue more, but he doesn’t. He just stays beside me as we dash down Dean Keeton Street and across the East Mall to get to the base of the tower.

Once there, we look around for the security guard who should be on duty, but there’s no one there. The burning intensity deep inside me gets worse—even before Nate pulls his gun. “Stay here,” he hisses at me as he tries the front doors. They’re unlocked.

I ignore him—it’s not like the compulsion would let me stay even if I wanted to—following behind him as he moves cautiously through the lobby. Most of the tower is used for university offices, which means that the killer could be anywhere. But I know—and Nate seems to
guess—that he’s hundreds of feet up, on the observation deck. With the tower’s history, that spot would make the most impact.

It’s probably smartest to take the stairs—more chance of surprising the bastard with our presence—but twenty-seven stories is a damn long way up. In the end, we head for the elevator, but get off on the twenty-fifth floor, where we make our way down the hallway to the stairwell.

“Will it do me any good at all to demand you go back down?” Nate asks me as he leads the way, his face fierce with concentration.

“I can’t.”

“At the first sign of trouble, I want you to run.”

We’re whispering now, only a few steps away from the door that will let us out onto the observation deck.

I don’t answer him, and he turns to face me. “I’m serious. Tell me you will or I’ll handcuff you to the damn banister right now.” His green eyes are furious, his mouth twisted into a snarl that means business.

“I promise.” Even though I don’t. I can’t. There’s only so much I can do when the compulsion is pushing at me.

We’re at the door to the observation deck now and Nate reaches out, tries to turn the handle. It doesn’t budge. Looks like we were better off taking the elevator. It’s not like they can lock those doors.

I’m about to suggest that we go back down one floor and catch the elevator up, but Nate has his own ideas. The last fifteen minutes have obviously been as trying for him as they’ve been for me, because instead of doing the logical thing and going at this another way, Nate shoves me behind him with his left hand even as he uses his right to point his gun at the door handle.

Then he fires.

The sound echoes in the stairwell, hurting my ears and making them ring. But I don’t have time to worry
about that—don’t have time to worry about anything except dying because Nate is through the door in an instant, his gun raised and ready.

I follow, terrified but unable to do anything else, and find myself in what is obviously a reception area. There’s a small desk in the center of the room, with a computer and two picture frames on it. There’s a couch and a few chairs scattered around the room, along with numerous plants.

What there isn’t is a dead body. Or a psychopathic killer.

I don’t have time to be relieved because the compulsion is going crazy. The pain is excruciating and I know that we’re close. I follow the tugging toward the open door across the room, but Nate sees it too and puts himself in front of me.

His gun is raised and I pray this is it. I pray that murdering bastard is out there and we can end this. Now.

Nate sidles up to the open door, sticks his gun and his head out of it. And curses softly. Then he’s stepping back, radioing for backup in little more than a whisper.

My heart goes crazy. This is it. This is really it. The compulsion is screaming at me, tearing me apart with the need to get to the body, but Nate isn’t going anywhere—at least not with me.

“Get back downstairs,” he hisses.

I don’t move, I can’t, and he repeats the order, following it up with a definite shove back toward the stairwell.

I want nothing more than to do as he says—the last thing I want is to see another dead woman, let alone be caught in whatever battle might rage up here before this thing is done—but I’m not going anywhere.

I can’t.

“Damn it, Xandra. Go!” Nate wraps a hand around my upper arm and starts trying to drag me backward. I gasp—I can’t help myself. It feels like I’m being pulled apart.

The high-pitched sound echoes in the empty room. Seconds later, there’s a noise from the patio and Nate curses. Shooting me a disgusted look, he lifts his gun and steps back toward the open doorway. Then, before I can so much as blink, he’s stepping outside, his voice loud and firm as he says, “It’s over, Chumomisto. Get your hands up.”

My heart sinks as he confirms what I’d been so afraid of at the lake yesterday. Declan is going to be devastated when he finds out Ryder killed four women. I know him. He’ll blame himself and nothing I say is going to make any difference.

Part of me wants to stay right where I am. The last thing I want is to see Ryder standing over another poor woman’s mutilated body. But the compulsion is in full gear and what I want is nothing compared to what I have to do.

There’s no noise on the observation deck, save Nate’s harsh, seesawing breath as he cautiously walks toward Ryder.

Taking a deep breath of my own, I step outside. And nearly pass out when I realize it’s not Ryder Nate is talking to. It’s Declan. And he’s covered in blood.

F
or long seconds I can’t think, can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but stand here and gape.

I try to internalize what I’m seeing, to figure out what’s happening here, but nothing’s connecting. Nothing makes sense.

Declan out here on the observation deck, instead of Ryder?

Declan covered in an innocent woman’s blood?

Declan, the man I’m soulbound to, a rapist and a killer?

Declan, not Ryder?

Against my will, I flash back to those moments when I first woke up. When I felt someone strangling me, brutally slamming into me. I’d thought then that it never would have happened if Declan was there, that he wouldn’t have allowed it. Instead, all along, he’s been the one hurting me. The one killing those other women.

It barely computes.

But it’s impossible to argue with what I’m seeing. Declan kneeling next to a woman’s tortured, mutilated body. His hands—covered in her blood—held out in front of him. His face a grim mask as he slowly turns his head and looks at me.

When our eyes meet, his are endless pools of black obsidian, so dark and shadowed that I can’t read anything in them. It’s surreal—this whole thing is really—but
especially that. I’ve always been able to read Declan’s eyes and the fact that I can’t now makes me realize that everything, every bit of these past few days, has been an act.

I want to scream, but my throat is so tight I don’t think any sound will come out. It’s like I’m being strangled again—this time by my own horror.

“Lay down on the ground,” Nate tells him.

Declan doesn’t move, just continues to stare at me—like he’s waiting for some kind of sign. But I’m tapped out. I don’t know what to say or do to get him to follow Nate’s directions. Don’t know if there’s anything I can say.

“Don’t make me shoot you, Chumomisto.” Nate’s voice is as steady as his hands and I can see it in his eyes. If Declan doesn’t do what he says, Nate will shoot him. And it won’t be to wound.

There’s a part of me—the same part that is reeling with betrayal—that thinks I should step back, let this play out how it will. But I can’t do that. No matter what he’s done, I can’t stand here and let Nate kill Declan. Not like this. Not if there’s anything I can do to stop it.

“Do what he says, Declan.” My voice is barely a croak, so I clear my throat before starting again. “Please, Declan. Don’t make him shoot you.”

For long seconds, Declan still doesn’t move. And when he does, it’s to stand not lie down. Nate’s hand tightens on the gun and Declan’s eyes narrow. For a second, I think he’s going to do it. He’s going to break the cardinal rule in the Heka community and reveal himself as a witch to a human.

If that happens, I don’t know what I’ll do. Hell, I don’t know what any of us will do then.

“Goddamn it, I said get on the ground, asshole!” Nate yells.

Again, Declan doesn’t answer him. Honestly, I’m not
sure if he even heard him. For the moment, his entire focus is on me.

“Declan, please.” I’m pleading now, convinced that if he doesn’t give in, this is going to end with either his death or Nate’s.

For a moment, just a moment, there’s a flash of something in his eyes—hurt, betrayal, anger, denial? It’s gone so fast I don’t have time to identify it, and then he’s turning to Nate.

“I didn’t do this.” He’s clearly speaking to Nate, but I know the words are for me. I just don’t know if I can believe him.

“Fine,” Nate answers. “Get on the ground and we’ll sort it out after I get you down to the station.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” It’s as if he’s talking about the weather, so reasonable and unaffected is his tone.

Then, he takes a step back. Nate’s hand tightens on the trigger and I know, I know, he’s going to shoot Declan.

Instinct takes over and I dive forward—right between the two of them as the gun goes off—and straight into the path of the bullet.

It never touches me.

Instead, Declan throws out a hand, his magic slamming me into the ground as the bullet whizzes by. At the same time, he’s shifting, turning, so that the bullet hits him in the shoulder instead of the center of his chest, where Nate was aiming.

I hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of me, and by the time—long seconds later—that I finally draw air into my constricted lungs, Nate’s on the ground and Declan is gone.

Swearing, Nate stumbles to his feet and takes off after him. I don’t move. One, because the compulsion won’t let me leave the body now that I’m this close and two—maybe more importantly—I know my chasing after Declan
won’t matter any more than Nate’s will. I feel his absence keenly, know that he’s long gone. The second he was out of Nate’s sight, he probably used his magic to dissolve. Depending on how good he is at disappearing—and judging from his show the other night, he’s pretty damn good—he could be anywhere by now.

Hell, he could be in Europe by now.

For long seconds, I lie, faceup, on the observation deck. It’s still nighttime, and the stars are twinkling merrily in the sky—if I pretend hard enough, maybe I can imagine the last hour never happened.

Except I can hear sirens in the distance, the backup Nate so frantically requested. I can also hear his footsteps pounding on the observation deck as he rushes around the last corner and stops in front of me.

“Are you hurt?” he demands.

I shake my head.

“Stay here,” he orders.

Not a problem. “Where are you going?”

“To find that bastard who knocked you into the path of my bullet. He might have slipped past me, but he can’t have gotten far.”

I want to tell him that he’s on a wild-goose chase, but I know it won’t matter. Already, he’s rewritten what he saw out here.

Magic didn’t knock me to the ground. Declan did.

Declan didn’t disappear into thin air; he just slipped past him in all the confusion.

As Nate runs toward the stairs, he’s spewing a bunch of codes into his phone—codes that I’m guessing mean dead body and suspect on the loose. I just hope he and the backup he called for don’t end up killing each other in their haste to get Declan.

The stairwell door bangs shut behind Nate, and I push myself slowly—painfully—to my feet. Declan wasn’t fooling around when he sent me slamming to the ground.

In doing so, he saved my life—which is nearly impossible for me to comprehend, when I’m standing here with another body. Another victim…of Declan, it would seem, if my eyes can be believed.

But if torturing and killing women is really Declan’s thing, then why the hell did he bother to save me? Especially when my death would make things infinitely easier for him? If he wasn’t soulbound to me, his magic would once again be unbound…and there would be no chance of me destroying him.

So why did he save me? It’s a question I can’t answer, not now when I stand next to his latest victim. Maybe not ever.

Except there’s a little voice inside of me whispering that everything is not always as it appears. Yes, it’s hard to argue with the fact that I felt this woman’s death. Harder still to argue with the fact that Declan is covered in her blood. And yet, I just can’t reconcile the man who made love to me so tenderly tonight with the one who did this. How could anyone this sick, this depraved, be so sweet, so gentle, so giving?

It doesn’t make sense.

The sirens are closer now and I know I should make an effort to fight the compulsion. If I back away now it will save me trying to do so later with an audience.

But something doesn’t feel right. Or should I say, something feels more wrong than usual. That weird, oppressive energy is back—the same energy I felt down by Town Lake. And by the Capitol. Even in the forest near my house. I didn’t recognize it then, didn’t understand it, but standing here now, I feel it keenly—pressing down on me from every side—until it’s impossible to ignore.