Soul Taker (6 page)

Nicholas walked over to her. She tried to
shake off her apprehension for his sake, but her brother knew her
too well. "What's wrong, Izzie?" Nicholas spoke softly, so as not
to disturb the vigil.

"Nothing." She shook her head. She couldn't
tell her brother what she saw. Especially, since she wasn't sure
what
it
was she'd witnessed. "Do we still have the Glock,
Uncle Sebastian Pucci gave us?"

"Yes," he answered with caution. "Why?"

Isabella didn't have a good reason other than
she felt a threat hovered near. "Where is it?" She turned and saw
the concern etched in his features. "We should have it on
hand."

"What's going on, Izzie?"

She hugged herself and chewed on her lower
lip before she glanced outside again. "Something is… here, Nick,
something that shouldn't be. I just can't put my finger on what it
is."

"And you need a gun?" He kept his voice low,
but the urgency in his words didn't go unnoticed.

She met his gaze. Tired worried hazel eyes so
much like hers, like their father's, stared back at her. How could
she explain it to him? "What if Marcy's death wasn't natural?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if she were murdered?" She hadn't
believed it was possible until she actually spoke the word out
loud. Marcy's death was
not
natural. Someone… or
something
had killed her.

Nicholas shook his head. "She had a weak
heart."

Isabella didn't understand why her brother
refused to see the truth. "Marcy was twenty-four and in good shape.
She didn't drop dead of a heart attack."

The murmurs of prayer for Marcy were a
singsong chant as her loved ones chimed in together, reciting the
prayers for her soul to find peace. Prayers were strong and
powerful, more powerful than some gave them credit. She hoped
tonight's vigil worked to free Marcy's soul from the man who held
her captive.

Nicholas ran his hand through his hair. "Do
you really believe there's been a cover up to a murder? Why would
someone want to murder a waitress from
North's End
?"

When he put it that way, it did sound
ludicrous, but she couldn't ignore the warnings. The tiny hairs on
her arms stood up on end and there was the tingling behind her ear
she always got when something was going to happen. But the real
clincher was the way her stomach lurched, as if she took a joy ride
down a steep hill, making her stomach do a flip-flop. Her
premonitions of impending doom were never wrong, but they were
unpredictable and never clear. Something happened to Marcy and it
had nothing to do with natural causes.

"I hope I'm not too late?" Harrison stood in
the doorway, expectantly. His whiskey-colored gaze landed on her
then shifted to Nicholas. He nodded a greeting to her brother.

Isabella's frown deepened. She hadn't
realized Harrison left.

"No, of course not. Please, join us," she
welcomed him. She glanced outside, scanning the street for the man
she spotted earlier with Marcy's ghost lingering beside him.
Everything appeared normal, nothing out of the ordinary, but she
knew the dark presence lingered, waiting to strike again. She shut
the door behind Harrison as a warning it wasn't welcomed.

Chapter Eight

After the visit to the morgue, Harrison and
Garran parted company, deciding they could cover more ground if
they separated. Garran would comb the murder site and Harrison
would take note if an unfamiliar face showed up to Marcy's
vigil.

Harrison never understood it himself, but
murderers oftentimes showed up at the grieving family's side to
give comfort, as if they got off on the family's pain.
Preternatural beings were no different than the human psychopaths
in that regard.

When Harrison walked up to the restaurant, he
spotted Isabella standing near the door, looking as if she'd seen a
ghost. Her lovely olive skin turned nearly as white as his Irish
hide. Maybe she had seen a ghost. She could see something extra in
the living. Who was to say she couldn't see what was left of a
person's energy once the physical body gave up? Whatever she had
seen, it made her fearful. His sensitive nose picked up the charged
scent of adrenaline.

His gaze scanned the sidewalk and the street,
ready to attack if the need called for it, but he didn't sense or
see anything other than humans making their way to their impending
destinations. When he turned back to look at Isabella, her features
shifted to worry, not fear.

The vigil lasted near to an hour followed by
the rosary. Harrison had forgotten how long the Catholic ritual for
saying goodbye to their loved ones could be.

He did, however, remember how Italian
families loved to follow up their wakes with food and drink. This
he could relate to with his Irish upbringing. He'd attended a few
wakes in his time that lasted days where the food and drink never
dwindled. His gaze found Isabella. She stood behind a long table
near her brother as they served the guests.

What had she seen outside, because she still
appeared apprehensive as she stole glances toward the window?

He shoved his hands into his chinos and made
his way over to the table set up with spaghetti, garlic bread, and
assorted pastries. Johanna spotted him nearing and hightailed it in
the other direction. He sighed. One day he would convince her he
wouldn't bite. Well, not unless she asked him to. He chuckled to
himself. Where had that thought come from? He'd bite his mate,
making her his. It was the way of the Mac Tíre.

His gaze followed Johanna as she retreated to
the back of the room with the O'Briens and their brood. She
skittered away from him like a frightened rabbit. If she only knew,
his inner wolf found that a challenge. This was possibly what drew
him to Johanna. God knew the woman wasn't his type, meaning she
lacked certain physical characteristics like a full figure, and
confidence. However, he couldn't deny there was something there,
some redeeming quality in Johanna that went beyond the
physical.

"Here you go."

He turned. Isabella stood there, offering him
a plate with all his favorites. "Thank you," he said, his stomach
growling in anticipation.

"I'm glad you could make it tonight. Marcy
would have appreciated it."

"Aye, that she would." He glanced around him
at faces he didn't recognize. "Are Marcy's relatives here?"

Isabella nodded.

"So everyone here knew Marcy?"

"Yes… I suppose. Why do you ask?"

Harrison shrugged. "Just curious. There seems
to be a lot of people."

"Father Dominic made all the arrangements for
the family. They wanted something informal. They wanted to remember
Marcy in life not in death, and chose to have her wake here,
without the encumbrance of a body to remind them how she was taken
from them in her youth. Nick and I offered the restaurant. It was
the least we could do."

"That was nice of you."

She pursed her lips then sighed heavily. "She
was on her way to work, you know."

Harrison realized she referred to the night
Marcy had died. He watched Isabella twist her hands. "What is it,
Isabella?" Her gaze touched his and her lovely lips parted. He
thought maybe she was going to confide in him, but Nicholas
interrupted. Damn, the overprotective brother.

"Izzie, can you ask Mario to bring up another
platter of garlic bread? We're out."

Harrison met Nicholas' gaze and knew the man
purposely interfered. What did Nicholas have against him talking to
his sister? At twenty-one, she was a consenting adult, not some
teenager he needed to protect from men. Then again, maybe Nicholas
inherited some of his parents' talents. Maybe he sensed
he
wasn't human.

"Mario's with the O'Briens. I'll get it,"
Isabella volunteered. "If you will excuse me," she smiled
hesitantly at Harrison before heading toward the kitchen.

Harrison took a large mouthful of spaghetti
as he scanned the room for preternatural creatures. He inhaled. Not
a vampire, Fae, or werewolf, or any other fiend for that matter
within smelling range, well, except for him. One more bite and
Harrison put down his plate and headed for the kitchen, too.

He strode into the room where the smells of
good cooking assailed his senses. His gaze slid over Isabella who
offered him a nice view of her shapely bottom as she leaned into
the oven to retrieve the pan of freshly made garlic bread.

"Need any help?" he asked.

"Oh…" She jumped at the sound of his voice.
Her sudden movement had her juggling to keep from losing her grip
on the pan and toppling the bread onto the floor.

Harrison's instincts kicked in and his hands
shot out.

"No, don't—" she warned.

Harrison realized his mistake. The pan was
hot. He plopped it down on top of the oven.

"Omigod. Let me see." Concern laced her
words. She took off her oven mitts and tossed them aside.

"I'm fine," Harrison told her, hiding his
hands behind his back.

"You aren't fine. I just took the pan out of
the oven. You're hands will blister if we don't take care of them
now."

"I have calloused hands. They withstand a
lot."

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. He didn't
blame her. It had been a stupid move on his part to grab a hot
baking pan.

"Let me see for myself." She wasn't going to
let this go.

He slowly brought his hands out in front of
him and showed her his palms. They were red and stung a little, but
in a minute or so they would be back to normal. All shifters healed
fast, a trait they shared from birth.

Her eyes met his. "Lucky for you that your
hands are calloused." She glanced at his smooth palms again
suspiciously, but before she could examine them further, he put his
hands behind his back once more.

She's wary now,
he thought to himself.
Make any more mistakes and Isabella will end up afraid of
you.
"I didn't mean to startle you," he said out loud, hoping
to put her at ease. "I just wanted to see if I could lend a
hand."

She gave him a half smile. "I'm fine,
really."

She took down a platter from the cupboard and
arranged the garlic bread on it.

"If you don't mind me asking," Harrison moved
beside her, "you seem a little jumpy tonight."

"Yeah, well, wouldn't you be if you knew a
woman had been murdered?"

"Murdered?"

"I mean died," she stammered to correct
herself. She looked up at him. "I meant to say
died
."

"Hmm… I don't believe you did."

Her tongued moistened her lips as if they
suddenly became dry.

He'd made her nervous again. It was now or
never to come clean with her. "I find it odd Marcy died of a heart
attack, and she's not the only one who's died of a supposed heart
failure in the last month." He had her full attention now.

Her hands stilled and she turned to level her
gaze on him. "What are you talking about?"

"There's been a total of four deaths where
women under the age of thirty have died of heart
complications."

She placed a few more pieces of bread on the
plate as she digested the information he'd given her. "If they
didn't die of heart problems, then what?" She looked at Harrison
again, fully expecting him to give her an answer.

This is where it got a little tricky. He
couldn't just blurt out that the
Soul Taker
was doing this.
She'd definitely think he was a whack job. "I don't know exactly,
but you must have the same suspicion. You said
murdered
,
remember?"

She didn't tell him he misunderstood, so he
pushed further. "What has you spooked?" he dared to ask. "Did you
see someone suspicious?"

"Not exactly," she spoke with caution,
keeping her voice low.

He lifted a brow. "What precisely did you
see?"

She considered his question for a moment
before she sighed. "You'll think I'm crazy."

"Oh, sweet lass, you wouldn't believe the
stories I've heard. Try me."

She added the last of the bread onto the
plate. Dealing with food obviously calmed her nerves. She turned
and leaned her hip against the counter. "I can see…" She pursed her
lips together.

He placed a hand on her arm. "You see things.
What? What do you see? You can trust me, Izzie."

She stared at him for a long moment before
nodding. "I saw Marcy's essence, only it's attached to someone. He
was in the shadows I couldn't see him clearly. I thought Marcy—oh,
this is crazy. Why am I telling you this?" She whirled away, facing
the counter and leaning her hands on it for support.

Harrison placed his palms on her shoulders.
"It's not crazy, Isabella. I believe you."

She didn't say anything and he backed away to
give her space.

Harrison was losing her. He had to draw her
back. "I knew your mother, Izzie."

She looked at him, her brows furrowing as she
obviously did the calculations in her head. Harrison knew he didn't
look much older than she did, even though he was centuries her
senior. Her mother and father died when she was nine.

"I'm older than you think," he offered. "I
know your mother was a Necromancer. I think you are one too, or at
the very least could be."

"Izzie?"

They both whirled around at the sound of
Nicholas' voice. Nicholas' gaze shifted to Harrison then to his
sister again, obviously forming the wrong conclusions. His dark
brows drew together into a frown as he leveled an accusing look at
Harrison. Again, Harrison wondered about Isabella's brother. Did he
perceive more of the preternatural world than he let on?

"Izzie, I don't care what you do on your free
time, but we have guests to attend to or have you forgotten?"

"I came back here to see if I could help
her." Harrison picked up the platter.