A Soul So Wicked (Moon Chasers) (9 page)

Mrs. Guzak nodded, absently running her hands up and down her thighs. Her son, standing several feet away, crossed his arms, watching like a hawk.

Throat dry, Tresa added, “Do the police have any leads?”

Mrs. Guzak shook her head, as if the question confused her. “They don’t know… they wanted to know if anyone had been bothering Shannan, following her, hanging around her… giving her problems…”

“Had anyone? Done that?”

“You don’t know?” Shannan’s uncle replied, his tone seeming to say:
Shouldn’t you know? You’re her friend.

“Shannan didn’t say. But she’s been so busy. Between school, soccer and work, I haven’t seen much of her lately. We were supposed to go to dinner—” At this a choked cry burst
from Mrs. Guzak’s lips. She covered her face with one hand, waving the other apologetically at Tresa.

Her son stepped forward then, placing a hand protectively on her shoulder. “That’s enough. This isn’t a good time.”

“I understand,” she mumbled, grabbing her bag. “I’ll show myself out.”

Her heart twisted as she remembered the conversation.
It was Balthazar’s doing
. She knew it. More pain, more heartache and misery. And it wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.

She closed her eyes in an anguished blink. He’d never stop as long as he had a new vessel… someone willing and malleable. Someone unlike her.

She’d always fought him, resisting his wishes. And she would continue to do that once she made sure this witch was put away where Balthazar couldn’t manipulate her anymore.

She swallowed against the sudden bitterness flooding her mouth. The moment he lost his new witch he would be on her like a parasite, sucking her life, her will. Especially if he caught her here, where he flourished.

She forced the prospect from her head. She couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t let it
frighten her. Sighing, she rolled over on the hotel bed, hugging a pillow under her cheek, suddenly tired. The last forty-eight hours were catching up with her.

The fading sunset glowed through the curtains, turning the yellow bedspread to gold. Her eyes drifted shut, her body easing, tension slipping away as she surrendered to sleep.

N
INE

H
e struggles against his binds, his face red with exertion and fury. He’s an athlete. His body strong and young, corded with muscles. Muscles you have admired for so long, loving and caressing them with your yearning gaze. Now they’re yours.
He
is yours.

You drag the knife against one of his pecs, quivering with tension.

“Stop!” he shouts, jerking against his bindings. “Let me out of here, you crazy bitch.”

You smile at him. So strong. So masculine.

With a mind of its own, the knife trails down the flat, shuddering belly. Washboard abs. A powerful body… Capable of so much. Defenseless against you.

The knife dips, tracing his manhood as would a lover’s mouth. Less impressive than the rest of him, but still nothing to be overlooked. It’s so important to him, after all.

“Please.” He sobs now, the sounds mingling
with his broken pleas. They always beg so sweetly at the end. A symphony to your ears. The knife kisses his skin, presses deeper, eager for its next meal. Deep moans fill the air.

He’s ready.

But not yet. Everything has to be right. A handful of rose petals, soft as satin, trail from your fingers. They fly through the air like a dove’s wings and land over the bed, over the beautiful body stretched out for your pleasure.

His head twists and turns, his glassy eyes wide and rolling, scanning the petals that cover and surround him.

“What—”

“Shh.” A finger to his lips and he falls silent.

Until the blade plunges deep.

And the true symphony begins again.

* * *

T
RESA WOKE WITH A
scream lodged in her throat. At first she wasn’t sure if it was her voice or the vestiges of her nightmare, some echo of that young man’s suffering.

She dragged a shaking hand down her face. No nightmare. It was happening now. She knew that. Bile rose in her throat and she lunged for the bathroom. Clutching the seat, she emptied the contents of her stomach, heaving until
there was nothing left. Rising, she wiped her face with a hand towel.

Panic hammering in her heart, she staggered into the room and reached for the phone. Without planning what to say, she dialed 911.

At the operator’s greeting, she stammered out in a rasping voice, “Hello. Yes. A man is being hurt…” She wet her dry lips. “He’s being murdered.”

“Can you tell me where this is happening, ma’am?”

“I don’t—” She pressed a hand to the side of her head.

At her pause, the operator asked, “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“I don’t know where it’s happening exactly,” she rushed to say, her mind running back over her dream, seeing the room again, the tiniest details. “I saw a light. Red glowing letters. They blinked. The Hungry Horse. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a restaurant?” Helpless, she pounded her fist against her thigh and blinked burning eyes.

The sound of keys tapping came through the line, and then the quick, calm voice: “Off Highway 71?”

“Yes, there was a highway.” She recalled the roar of trucks in the distance. “Maybe that’s it.”

“Do you have any more information? Can you describe the victim?”

“He was on a bed. The blinds are to the left of the bed.” She sucked in a deep breath and rubbed her forehead, wondering whether she should just go ahead and say it. “It’s the Rose Petal Killer. Please help him. He’s bleeding—”

“The killer is bleeding, ma’am?”

“No! The victim. The guy on the bed!”

“The man with the knife… can you describe him? What’s he wearing?”

“Just help him,” she cried, desperation thick in her throat, making her voice a hoarse whisper. Her fingers clutched the mouthpiece. “Save him!”

Frustrated and unconvinced that calling 911 had done any good, she hung up the phone and quickly picked it back up, dialing information for the Hungry Horse.

Moments later, directions in hand, she yanked on her shoes and raced out the door. She’d come here to stop Balthazar and his witch. This might be her chance to do that. And maybe she wouldn’t be too late.

* * *

S
HE WAS TOO LATE.

By the time she found the roadside restaurant
that shared a parking lot with a sprawling, run-down motel, police cars and ambulances already swarmed the area. Apparently her call to 911 had been taken seriously. There was even a television van on the scene.

She parked in front of the restaurant and walked to where several other bystanders had gathered, craning their necks, hoping for a view of something to talk about to their friends.

“What’s going on?” she asked a guy in a plaid shirt.

He adjusted the John Deere cap on his head. “They’re saying some guy’s dead in there.”

She closed her eyes in a slow, pained blink. “They were too late.”

He sent her a curious glance. “What?”

“Police,” she amended. “Always too late.”

He nodded as though in agreement.

She carefully schooled her expression into mild curiosity. “How’d he die?”

“Heard it was murder.” He scratched his bristly jaw and shrugged. “Least I don’t think they’d have a dozen cop cars, ambulances and reporters around for some guy who just had a heart attack.”

She nodded, and then tensed as she caught sight of one of the news cameras scanning the crowd. For a moment, it seemed like that lens
paused on her. All her life, ever since she was cursed, she’d worked hard to stay off the grid.

With a gasp, she spun around. The last thing she needed was her face on the news. Especially after just escaping a lycan and a group of lycan hunters.

Hands shaking, she fumbled with her car keys as she returned to her car. Sliding behind the wheel, she stared bitterly at the flashing lights and mob of people.
Was the killer out there? Balthazar?

She would have a better chance of catching Balthazar’s witch if he didn’t know she was here. She felt her lips curl. He must be loving this new one. She was on a roll. Four dead now.

She clenched her hands on the steering wheel. She had to catch the witch before she made it five.

* * *

D
ARIUS WATCHED THE TELEVISION
as he waited for the hotel bartender to finish pouring his drink. His fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on the bar, his mind playing over how he might locate Tresa.

He glanced around the dim, mahogany-rich bar as if he might find her here. Across the bar a blonde toyed with her straw and looked at
him with coy invitation, hunching her shoulders to maximize the effect of her cleavage. He looked away, back to the television above the bar.

A female like Tresa was hard to forget. It wasn’t just her beauty. She possessed a seductive allure… Secrets lurked in her eyes. She stood out. He had that going for him, at least.

A reporter was live on the scene, reporting what she called another gruesome murder. He started to look away again from the well-coiffed reporter. He’d had his fill of gruesome murders. He’d had a lifetime of them. He didn’t need to hear another one recapped. But then he heard a string of words…

The Rose Petal Killer
.

His attention snapped back.

. . . Police won’t confirm or deny if this is another death at the hands of the Rose Petal Killer…

He scanned the location printed at the bottom of the screen in block letters and whirled to leave, forgetting all about his drink.

* * *

A
S SOON AS SHE
returned to her room, Tresa moved fast and changed into more comfortable clothing. As if she could remove the taint of the
night’s events. Falling into bed, her motivation was simple. She needed to reach Balthazar… or his witch. Either one. At the moment, the two seemed interchangeable. As much as she dreaded it, she had to do it.

She breathed slow, deep breaths, relaxing her muscles and easing into sleep.

Unfortunately, no one waited for her in her dreams. Just silent, empty darkness. Peace. Usually the very thing she craved but could never find.

A faint, insistent hammering roused her. Her eyes snapped open to a sharp, persistent knocking.

She blinked and bolted upright, staring uncomprehendingly at her door. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs. Who could it be? She didn’t know anyone. And no one knew her here…

She rose and peered through the peephole. A man and a woman stood outside her door, both dressed in dark business attire. The man looked left and right, scanning the corridor. The female stared back at the peephole as if she knew Tresa was standing on the other side, watching her. Her nose prickled.

“Yes?” she asked through the door.

“Ms. Morgan?” the female asked, using the
name Tresa had checked into the hotel with. Morgan was the surname she’d used for almost a decade now. It would soon be time to change her last name.

“Yes,” she replied.

“I’m Detective Flannery with the San Vista PD.” She flashed identification near the peephole. “This is my partner, Detective Simpson. Could we have a few words with you?”

Detectives? A mixture of alarm and excitement rushed through her. They could give her the glimpse into the investigation she needed. But why were they here? How had they found her?

With a deep breath, she unlocked the door. Both detectives looked her up and down, appraising.

“Ms. Morgan?” Detective Flannery was apparently in charge of talking. “May we come inside?”

Tresa waved them in. The door fell shut behind them. She crossed her arms, letting the long sleeves of her sweater drape over her fingers. “What can I do for you?”

The guy, Simpson, finally spoke. “Did you place a phone call from this room at approximately seven forty-five this evening?”

Ice shot through her veins. She knew precisely what phone call they were referring to.
How was she going to explain that? “Maybe. I can’t remember.”

“You can’t remember placing a 911 call?” Flannery asked, her dark eyes cunning and skeptical. She was no one’s fool.

Tresa expelled a deep breath, seeing no way out of this. Crossing her arms, she sat on the edge of her bed and looked up at them. There was only one way to play this. “You won’t believe me.”

“Tell the truth,” Flannery commanded.

Tresa’s lips quirked and she bit back a snort. “The truth will set you free?” She’d seen plenty of people die miserable deaths over the centuries for telling the truth. She wasn’t so naïve.

They stared at her, wearing similar expressions of impatience.

“A man died tonight,” Simpson reminded her grimly. As if she needed reminding. She’d been there.

“I’m aware of that.”

“Yes,” Flannery retorted, her gaze piercing. “And how is it you are aware, Ms. Morgan?”

“I saw it happen.” She watched them, certain they would not understand her meaning.

“You were there?” Simpson asked sharply, eagerly, his square jaw hard and unyielding.

She winced. “Not exactly. But I saw it.”

The two detectives exchanged looks. “You weren’t there but you saw it?” Flannery asked, taking a step closer.

“Look.” Tresa waved her hands in the air as if groping for words. “I was just trying to help by placing that call. I don’t want to end up in a padded room or anything.”

Flannery propped a hand on her hip, exasperated. “We’re conducting an investigation into the killing spree of some sicko who doesn’t appear to be slowing down. If you’re trying to help, then spit it out.

“We can question you here or at the station,” Flannery added, her voice hardening. “Your choice.”

“I have visions.” Not a lie. “I see things, people, events… as they’re happening.”

Simpson muttered beneath his breath, his entire demeanor changing, relaxing. He turned back for the door, but not before she heard his words. “Great. She’s a nutcase.”