A Soul So Wicked (Moon Chasers) (22 page)

A soft chuckle floated on the air. Eerie and faint.

There was a click, almost imperceptible, and suddenly a sharp burning sensation stabbed Tresa in the chest. Her hand flew there, grasping the slim object protruding from her breast. With a grunt, she pulled it free.

She peered at it in the dark, unable to see it clearly. It felt like some kind of… dart. A tranq? She felt it carefully with all her fingers, discovering wet blood at the pointy tip.

And then everything blurred.

The dark swirled around her and she dropped to one knee with a bruising jar. She fell onto her other knee next. The object
slipped from her fingers as the ground rose up to smack her in the face. Then she was nose deep in loamy earth.

Steps crunched near her face. Her breath wheezed strangely from her lips, stirring the moist soil.

A hand touched the back of her head, stroking, petting her almost tenderly. An incredible sense of lethargy stole over her.

As everything slowed and dulled, the world slipping away, she heard a voice say, “What makes you think I don’t enjoy hurting people?”

* * *

D
ARIUS WATCHED THE FEMALE
crouching at Erin’s back window. She moved on to another window, a satchel bumping her hip as she tried to peer between the blinds. She wasn’t very stealthy, trampling over the flower beds, muttering beneath her breath at the mud on her shoes. He was almost surprised she’d gotten the upper hand over Erin. Then again, she had Balthazar at her disposal.

A dark rope of hair snaked out of the hood of her sweatshirt, and as she angled toward the light he saw her profile. It was Megan.

When she started to fumble inside her bag, he moved forward and seized her by the back
of the neck, stopping her before she could pull out a weapon.

She squeaked and spun around, her hands lashing out, as harmless as a flurry of moths.

“Let me go,” she panted, her eyes as wild as any hunted animal’s. Clearly, she wasn’t under Balthazar’s influence at the moment.

He hung on to her with one hand, his other hand delving inside her bag. She pelted him with her free hand, her punches bouncing off him.

Some of the fight left her when he pulled out a can of spray paint. “What’s this?” he demanded.

“What’s it look like?” she snarled. “I’m gonna teach Erin and her bitch roommates a lesson. They laughed at me… looked the other way. Erin knew—” She choked on a sob, her hand flying to her mouth to cover the sound. Tears streamed down her face. He saw,
felt
, her raw pain.

“She knew what Jason was doing to me in that room, and she didn’t care. She didn’t try to stop him.”

“So what were you going to do with this?” He stared at the can of spray paint. Hardly the weapon of a killer bent on vengeance.

“What do you think I was going to do?” She looked at him as if he was an idiot. “I was going to spray-paint the house.”

Staring at her, he accepted the fact that he wasn’t looking at the face of a killer. Not even close.

The obvious conclusion came next. If she wasn’t the killer, then the killer was still out there.

“Tresa.” Her name escaped him without thought. Foreboding crawled up and over his scalp, and he released Megan. Turning, he raced back to the street in a flash of wind.

The car still sat there, but Tresa wasn’t in it. He backtracked, every sense alive, straining for any sight or scent of her as he studied his surroundings.

Suddenly he stopped. The coppery aroma of blood filled his nose. He got down on the ground and patted the grass until his fingertips met something besides mud and rainwater.

Leaning back on his heels, he rubbed his fingers together, testing the slick moisture, knowing what it was even before he brought it to his nose for a sniff.

Blood.

Tresa’s blood.

He dropped his head into his hands, pulling at the strands until they felt close to ripping from the roots.

She was gone. He’d lost her.

T
WENTY-THREE

T
resa came awake slowly, sensation returning to her limbs gradually, chasing away the needles-and-pins feeling. Coherent thoughts formed slowly, drifting like wispy clouds. Her breastbone ached where the tranquilizer had hit her, but she resisted the urge to rub it. She didn’t want to alert her captor yet to the fact that she was awake.

She listened, trying to gauge whether or not she was alone. After several moments of suffocating silence, she cracked open one eye. Gray brick walls stared back at her. She was lying on a mattress. In an empty room. She rotated her neck, seeing one window covered with cheap blinds. No light spilled inside.

Confident she was alone, she tried to raise up only to fall back down. The ropes at her wrists and ankles stopped her from moving more than a half inch.

She held herself still, staring at the cracked
plaster above her. Darius wouldn’t know what had happened to her. And her stomach lurched sickly as she realized that this was just like the settings in her dreams… and that now she was the victim. Her gaze slid left and right, searching for any possible way to save herself.

Nothing but a built-in particleboard dresser. A closet with a sliding door hanging off the track. It looked like an empty dorm room. She lifted her head to peer out the blinds. A vacant parking lot. She dropped her head back down on the mattress and strained for any sounds coming from inside the building. Voices. A door slamming. Footsteps.

Nothing. Thick silence.

Turning her head, she closed her eyes in anguish. The witch had stashed her here in total isolation. Wherever she’d gone, she’d be back. And Tresa didn’t doubt her fate. She knew what Balthazar wanted. It was what he’d always wanted.
Freedom
.

Once she was dead, he’d have the ability to take corporeal form and walk this earth. He could do what he wanted, when he wanted, without having to manipulate an unwilling witch—like her.

Lying here, defenseless, she was a lamb for the slaughter. It would be a simple matter for
Balthazar to get his way. His new witch just had to decapitate her.

In the distance, a door slammed shut. It sounded like it came from below somewhere—a bottom floor. She held her breath as she listened. Every part of her trembled, her heart beating like a fierce drum inside her chest. The footsteps started out faintly, growing louder until they were a steady tread drawing closer and closer.

She rested her cheek on the mattress, watching the handle turn and the door swing open with a creak of protest. Tresa didn’t know what frightened her more. The prospect of finally coming face-to-face with the witch whose mind she had stepped inside during all her horrible murders? She knew the evil that lurked in her. The absolute lack of emotion.
Or
confronting Balthazar again? Even if he didn’t currently possess his witch, he’d be along soon enough.

Her gaze settled on the woman’s face and shock rippled through her. She should have known. Should have sensed something in her.

“Flannery,” she breathed. Maybe the detective had been too quick to believe her. Maybe she’d brought her into the investigation too readily. Tresa should have known. Should have recognized her for what she was.

“You finally woke up.” She closed the door behind her. “I got tired of waiting and decided to go get a latte and a bite to eat.”

Tresa gazed at her, seeing the real Flannery for the first time. Her eyes were their usual shade of brown, not the soulless black that meant Balthazar was in residence. Tresa scanned the room, looking for his shadow.

“He’s not here,” Flannery replied affably as she sat on the edge of the mattress. As if this was a friendly visit. Dropping a brown paper bag beside her, she wrapped her fingers around her cardboard coffee cup and took a deep sip.

“Mmm,” she moaned appreciatively. “That’s good stuff. Better than the tar back at the station.”

She turned her attention to the bag and pulled out an enormous chocolate chip muffin. “These are so good.” Flannery tore off a corner and chewed it with a moan of appreciation. “Course, I’ll have to make up for it at the gym later.”

“Why?”

Flannery looked at her. “Never know when I’ll be chasing down a perp.”

“No.
Why
are you involved with Balthazar?”

“Ah, of course.
That
why.” She waved her hand in a small circle. “Why did I bring you here?
Why did I kill all those people? Why did I give myself over to Balthazar?” She snorted. “I think the answer to that last one is obvious. I mean, you did the same thing, right? You tell me.”

Tresa considered why she had surrendered her soul to Balthazar, the horror of that day…

“Well? Why’d you do it?” Flannery stared at Tresa as if she was really interested. “Was it the power? The immortality?” She motioned to her body. “I’ll get to be young forever. Nothing wrong with that.”

Tresa’s cheeks heated with indignation. She had not given herself to Balthazar for reasons so shallow. “I didn’t care about that.” She was nothing like Flannery. Nothing. “My family was murdered. Balthazar offered me revenge. I was stupid, overcome with grief.”

Flannery nodded, her expression far away. “Revenge. Yeah. That was a perk for me, too.” She blinked as though snapping from her reflections. “I met Jason a year ago. He charmed me.” A hint of a smile brushed her lips. “He got off on the idea of fucking a cop. He liked me to wear my holster when we did it.” The softness in her gaze turned hard. “I covered for Jason, saved his ass from arrest. And then he kept getting with other girls when he promised it was just me.”

“He raped Megan Johnson.”

Flannery’s eyes flashed. “She asked for it. She threw herself at him.”

“Hannah? Shannan? The others? Why did you kill them?”

“I took care of Hannah to send him a message.”

“Apparently it didn’t work.”

She glared at Tresa.

“What about Carson?”

“A loose end. He’d seen me with Jason.”

“And Shannan?” she pressed. “Was she another message for Jason?”

“She was a stupid bitch. I saw her flirting with Jason. I pulled her over and warned her to back off, and she just laughed at me. I showed her.”

“You took revenge.”

She nodded. “Just like you.”

“We’re nothing alike.”

Flannery’s eyes turned to ice. “That’s right. I’m better. That’s why Balthazar chose me.”

“Balthazar chose you because you’re evil. Like him.”

She shrugged, clearly unoffended. She shook off the crumbs from her fingers. “Yeah. Well. I’m not the one tied to a bed, about to have my head cut off.”

Tresa jerked at this announcement.

Flannery smiled broadly, her white teeth a sharp contrast against her tanned skin. She made a cutting motion against her neck.

Tresa inhaled a ragged breath, fighting for control over her emotions. Fear, desperation, and clawing panic threatened to choke her.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she realized she would have reacted differently a year ago. Even a few months ago. Before Darius.

All these years, she had fought death to keep Balthazar from gaining corporeal form. That was the only reason she’d stayed alive. It was her responsibility to the world. She had no one. No one to love her. No one she loved back.

Even when the loneliness ate at her, and the misery of her memories gnawed at her, she’d resisted ending her own life. Because she had to.

But now things were different. She had someone she wanted to get back to.

Panic crawled hotly over her skin. She wanted to lash out, to shout, to scream. She sucked in a deep breath, fighting for calm. Now wasn’t the time to lose it.

Grasping for something to keep Flannery talking, she asked, “What’s your gift? Your
power?” Every witch had one. It was what attracted a demon, like a huge blinking light over your head.

Flannery scowled, as if this was a sore point. “Not anything useful. That’s why I need Balthazar. Without him, I might as well be nothing.”

Tresa shook her head, moistening her lips. “I don’t believe that—”

“I had the touch. I could heal people,” she snapped, her expression annoyed. “Like I said. Useless.”

Tresa stared at her, marveling at the bitter irony. She could heal with a touch, but instead she was killing people. “Why would you think that was useless?”

Flannery flattened a palm against her chest. “What does that get me? Nothing. Balthazar showed me the way. He gave me true power.”

Balthazar or no, this woman had been destined for a dangerous path. But
with
Balthazar, she was a sociopath.

Her thoughts spinning, Tresa forced a smile. “So he actually convinced you to cut my head off, did he?” She managed a chuckle. “Wow. I didn’t think you were that stupid.”

Flannery slowly lowered her muffin to the bag on her lap, her eyes narrowing. “What does that mean?”

“Kill me and you lose him. He’ll be free. He might even turn on you.” She tried to shrug despite the ropes binding her. “He won’t need you anymore. He’ll have corporeal form, be free to wander the earth.”

Flannery blinked slowly, processing this.

“Yep. You can kiss immortality good-bye. You’ll just go back to being you. And all he promised you will be gone. Guess he didn’t explain that, did he?”

Flannery knocked the muffin bag aside and jumped up to storm back and forth across the small space in angry strides. “If I can’t kill you, what am I supposed to do with you? I can’t let you go!”

Tresa sagged against the mattress, relieved she’d convinced the witch not to decapitate her.

Flannery stopped to glare at her, her calm facade gone. She dragged a hand through her hair and spoke in a low, rough voice to herself, “Think. Think.
Think
.”

“I don’t have to say anything to anyone,” Tresa practically whispered, hoping to insinuate the idea that it would be okay to just let her go.

Flannery’s eyes narrowed in thought. “I can’t kill you. And I can’t let you go.” Then a slow smile stretched her lips.

Tresa’s skin crawled. She’d obviously arrived at a solution, and if it brought a smile to Flannery’s face, Tresa knew she wasn’t going to like it.