Soul Deep: Dark Souls, Book 2 (30 page)

He sat in a diner a few miles south of Portland, staring at the small screen, listening to the newscaster insist the Rivershore Hospital had been reduced to a pile of ash. Fisting his hands at his sides, he stood and approached the television set.

“Pretty crazy shit, huh?” said a man sitting at the counter. He was middle-aged, thick around the waist, and quite content to gorge himself on a heap of eggs and sausage. “Happened last night. The place just went up in flames. As if the flood last year wasn’t enough.” With the help of a napkin, the man wiped the greasy sheen from his mouth. “At least no one died this time.”

Kyros tamped down his revulsion, tempering the slow build of rage in his gut. “Do you know how the fire started?”

“No one’s got a clue. Probably just a bunch of kids playing a prank. Or maybe a bum tossing a cigarette butt aside.” The guy stuffed his mouth with toast, then mumbled, “The good news is, whoever did this just saved the city the trouble of demolishing the place.”

Kyros’s fury reached the boiling point. Had he not been in a crowded restaurant, he would’ve crushed the repulsive man’s windpipe and enjoyed every second of it. That was one of the side effects of ingesting a soul—the ability to feel intense emotion, whether it be joy, excitement or hot, burning fury.

He walked backward to the door, his eyes still riveted to the screen, his mind racing. How had the Watchers uncovered his operation? There was no doubt in his mind the Watchers were behind this. No human could have gotten past his guards.

Outrage ballooned in his chest. Everything he’d created, gone. All the souls he’d carefully extracted, lost. His latest batch of embryos, all burned to a crisp. And what about the humans he’d gone through the trouble of abducting? What had become of them?

He had so many questions and so few answers. But he knew one thing—when he found Diane, the ugly bitch would pay for her carelessness. She had the ability to control water. She could’ve doused the fire. Why had she allowed the hospital to burn to the ground? And why hadn’t she contacted him immediately when the place erupted into flames?

Regan awoke alone in bed, her body still thrumming from the memory of Marcus’s heated touch, her pulse an erratic drumbeat in her throat. The souls she’d ingested had yet to release their hold on her, and her emotions were in a frenzy.

Memories of last night played through her mind, warming her blood, filling her with a ridiculous pleasure that was overshadowed by fear. The fear of losing the incredible connection she’d found. She knew it couldn’t last. In her world, nothing was permanent. Not even death. And yet the most secret, feminine part of her hoped things could be different this time, that Marcus’s crazy declaration of love was real, that Kyros and Cal would cease to stand in their way.

Nonsense, all of it. Just the desperate musings of a woman drunk on a man she could never have. Last night had been a dream. A beautiful, foolish dream, as insubstantial as the images that had shaken Marcus awake a few minutes before dawn.

Today, they were back in the real world, where monsters crouched in the shadows, dark prophecies ruled, and silly notions of love were reserved for people with souls.

Casting all thoughts of love aside, she got up and dressed in an efficient pair of jeans and a plain white blouse, then secured her hair in a ponytail. Before she left the room, she allowed her gaze to stray to the bed. Thoughts of Marcus exploded in her mind—the feel of his strong hands gliding over her flesh, the warmth of his mouth as it explored hers, the scent and taste of him. A hot flush swept through her system, making her skin burn.

Inhaling a deep cleansing breath, she shuffled to the door and went in search of him, unsure how he’d react when she found him. Would he pull her into his arms, greet her with a smile and a melting kiss? Or would the shutters be drawn again? Would he turn away from her, avoid her gaze at all cost?

Something inside her died a small death at the thought. She could handle anything, anything but the inevitable regret she was sure to see in his eyes once the effects of the countless souls he’d ingested wore off.

She descended the stairs, catching him as he was about to walk out the door. “Where are you off to so early? It’s barely seven o’clock.”

He froze at the sound of her voice, even though she knew he must’ve sensed her coming. Maybe that was the reason he was in such a rush to leave. “Ben’s still at Adrian’s, remember? Thought I’d go pick him up before I run out of favors.”

Why wasn’t he turning around to look at her? His shoulders were stiff, his posture guarded. Regan’s heart shattered. She was a goddamn idiot for ever having entertained the notion of a welcoming kiss. Marcus was back to being Marcus, distant and terse and about as emotionally accessible as a stone monument.

“He might still be asleep.”

“Adrian always gets up at the crack of dawn.”

“I was talking about Ben.”

He finally pivoted on his heels to face her, and the expression in his eyes was like a sharp slap. He looked at her as though she were a stranger, as though he hadn’t spent the night making sweet, passionate love to her. “That’s all right. I don’t mind waiting.” His voice was as tense as his features.

Regan’s spine turned to ice. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, fortifying herself against the inevitable onslaught of pain. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Marcus’s construction boots struck the walkway as he made his way to Adrian’s house, the repetitive thud echoing in his ears. He shouldn’t have walked out on Regan that way, shouldn’t have been so curt with her, but something inside him had hardened to stone at the sight of her. Not because he hadn’t been pleased to see her. Not because he hadn’t wanted to yank her into his arms, feel her soft curves mold to his body, taste her sexy-as-sin mouth.

Despite what she probably believed, he didn’t regret making love to her last night. What had shaken him was the dream that had followed. The chilling image of her deadened eyes had stubbornly imprinted itself in his mind, and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t chase it from his thoughts.

It was just a dream, nothing more.

And yet some buried consciousness inside him recognized it as truth.

Ben wasn’t the only mystery he needed to solve.

He walked past Adrian’s door, kept going. Regan was right; the kid was probably still asleep. Might as well make good use of his time and head over to the computer room. There was no point idling in Adrian’s kitchen for an hour getting psychoanalyzed.

The place was deserted, which suited his purposes just fine. He didn’t want anyone poking around in his business, especially if the dream proved to be nothing more than the product of an overactive imagination.

He didn’t have much to go on, only a few faded images hovering in the recesses of his mind. Images that were vaguely familiar. The two-story Georgian-style brick building that had loomed behind the hanging platform taunted him. He knew that place, had been there before, a long, long time ago.

Taking a seat at one of the computer stations, he searched his memory for a clue. He recalled a marketplace under construction, the clamoring sound of the ocean, a redbrick building with a gilded grasshopper weathervane on top…

He quickly typed in a search key. How many historic buildings could there be with a gold grasshopper crowning their roofs? Apparently not many, because a list of websites promptly appeared, all featuring Boston’s famous Faneuil Hall. It looked different now, larger and more imposing, but the weathervane was one in the same.

Built between 1740 and 1742, the building once graced the shoreline, before several landfills were constructed along the Boston waterfront. Now he knew why the place had looked so familiar. That was where he’d awakened after he’d turned, back in 1742. His first memory was in Boston, standing naked in a patch of scorched grass, his clothing reduced to a pile of ash at his feet. Someone had attempted to burn him, dead or alive he wasn’t sure.

He remembered nothing of what had transpired before. All he recalled was a yawning emptiness, coupled with an unrelenting hunger for death and violence. He’d gone after the townsfolk with a vengeance, cutting them down as they’d slept, stealing their souls before their bodies had a chance to grow cold.

Was it merely a coincidence that the first dream he’d had since his human days was set in the exact location of his rebirth? Was his subconscious weaving the past and the present together, creating a fictitious new reality? Or could there be more to it? Could an old memory be attempting to reassert itself?

Since Marcus didn’t believe in coincidences, he placed his bets on the latter. He spent nearly an hour searching the Internet for information on hangings that took place in Boston in 1742, came up empty-handed. If a woman had been hanged that year, he wouldn’t learn about it on the Web. Most likely he needed to consults history books or old court records, assuming they still existed.

He shot a glance at his watch. For the time being, the mystery would have to remain unsolved. Right now, he had a seven-year-old to pick up and an irate woman probably wearing a vicious hole in the rug back home.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Adrian welcomed Marcus into his home with his trademark nod. As usual, his expression was cool and unreadable.

“I’ve come for Ben,” Marcus said. “Is he up?”
 

Clad in a faded pair of black jeans and an old gray T-shirt, Adrian looked like your average guy spending a quiet day at home. But Marcus knew his son was anything but ordinary. Beneath that unruffled façade, a dark intensity crouched.

“Not yet.” Adrian ushered him into the foyer. “He had a rough night.”

“What happened?” Given the boy’s susceptibility to nightmares, Marcus wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t told Adrian about Ben’s visions. He figured the less Adrian knew, the better. But it seemed certain things were not that easy to keep secret.

“He went into some kind of trance, started scribbling gibberish. I tried to get him to snap out of it, but I couldn’t get through to him. It lasted about ten minutes. Then he collapsed on the bed and slept like the dead.” Adrian dug into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he handed to Marcus. “Does this mean anything to you?”

Marcus studied the familiar symbols, penned in a childlike scrawl. He couldn’t read it, but he recognized the language. “Looks like Enochian script, the language of the angels.” Concern rippled through him. He would’ve given anything to decipher the message. “Could be another prophecy. Unfortunately, Cal’s the only one who can read it.”

Adrian didn’t bother to conceal his astonishment. “How does a seven-year-old, who barely knows how to spell his own name, suddenly start writing in Enochian script?”

Marcus hesitated, then decided to come clean with his son. Adrian was part of this now, whether he’d asked for it or not. “Cal suspects the kid is some kind of prophet.” Marcus folded the paper and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. “His soul was forged by an archangel, which makes it pretty powerful. He can predict the future, make things happen with his mind. That’s why Cal considers him a threat, and why Kyros can’t be allowed anywhere near him.”

Adrian’s brows rode high on his forehead, a sardonic grin twisting his mouth. “Thank God I never joined the Watchers. The never-ending drama must be exhausting. Ever think of retiring?”

“Can’t retire from who you are,” Marcus voiced honestly. Being a Watcher was in his blood.

“So what kept you out all night?” Adrian asked, abruptly changing the subject.

“Regan and I—” he faltered. “We had some important business to take care of.”

Adrian didn’t miss the slight hitch in Marcus’s voice, and a knowing look flitted across his face. He studied Marcus with that probing gaze of his, until Marcus felt compelled to explain.

“We tracked Kyros to what used to be the Rivershore Hospital in Portland. Turns out he was using the building to farm humans. We managed to free his prisoners, ended up burning the place to the ground.”

“Not bad for a day’s work,” Adrian praised, but there was a mocking lilt to his voice. A smile ghosted over his mouth.

“What the hell are you grinning about?” Irritation flared within Marcus. “Check the news if you don’t believe me.”

“I never said I didn’t believe you. And I’ve already seen the news.”

Marcus ran rough fingers through his hair. He exhaled a long stream of air, fought to get his frustration under control. “Look, I don’t mean to take it out on you, but I’m a little on edge this morning.”

“I can see that. Do you want to tell me what’s really bothering you?”

He met his son’s keen stare. “I know you mean well, but I’m not in the mood for a heart-to-heart today.”

“Good, because I’m in no mood to play shrink again.” Adrian’s blunt words he could handle. It was the hint of humor with which they were spoken that grated on Marcus’s nerves. That and his son’s persistent attempt to read him.

Realizing the guy would keep hounding him until Marcus spilled his guts, he decided to tell Adrian about the dream, leaving out the part about Regan and the gnawing suspicion he had that she was the woman he’d seen hanged.

Adrian listened intently, his expression calm and encouraging, an assessing quality to his gaze. When Marcus finished recounting his story, his son echoed his thoughts. “Our kind doesn’t normally dream.”