Broken Heart Tails (16 page)

Soul Shifter

Tulsa, Oklahoma

Ten years ago...

Sixteen-year-old Natasha Nelson paused at the backyard gate. At nearly one in the morning, nothing stirred, not even her dog, Jack. Her hand rested on the latch as she listened for the terrier. If he barked, he might wake Mom and Dad.

The sweet scent of honeysuckle wafted from the vines entwining the metal fence. She leaned down and tugged off a yellow blossom. Gently she pinched the stamen and withdrew it, licking away the pearl of nectar on its end.

Her mother had taught her how to do that.

Guilt crimped her stomach. She looked at the desecrated flower and wished she hadn’t plucked it, hadn’t stolen its honey. The yellow petals were already browning and curling inward. Sighing, she tossed it to the ground.

She unlatched the gate. As she pushed it open, the hinges squealed loudly. Crap! She stepped inside the backyard.              Heart pounding, she stood still and listened for the rumbling yell of her father or the tapping of her mother’s slippered foot on the back porch.

Wait a minute. When she’d crept out of her bedroom window a few hours ago, the front and back porch lights had been on. She hadn’t even noticed the lack of illumination until now, a sure sign of her guilt. Or maybe it was that she’d always been able to see well in the dark. Her dad teased her about this quirk, calling her “cat eyes.” It didn’t help that her eye color hovered between gray and blue. 

She pressed a palm against her warbling belly and studied the shadowy exterior of the house. It was a simple, one-story, three-bedroom house. It looked liked the others in the neighborhood. Normal. Plain. Boring.

Her gaze drifted away from the house and up to the sky. The full moon stared at her like the round eye of God. She felt that awful judgment of a deity she didn’t know. Her parents were scientists, pragmatic to their very cores. They said that religion was for the superstitious and the weak-minded. But secretly, she believed that there was something, maybe someone, all-knowing and intelligent watching over the Earth. Watching over her. Judging her.

Sighing deeply, she trudged toward her bedroom window. Her room was in the back, just off the kitchen. Her parents slept in the bedroom in front of the house. Nerves jumping, she put her hand on the window sill. The curtain blocked her view.

Oh, c’mon. If her parents weren’t such stick-in-the-mud jerks, she wouldn’t have had to sneak out to go to Rick’s party.

Her face warmed. Rick Huntson was so nice. He had the bluest eyes and the cutest dimpled chin. Tonight, he’d almost kissed her. Just remembering the close call in the kitchen, when he’d gotten her the second beer and leaned toward her, his eyes dipping to her mouth, made her feel all tingly and wonderful.

But his lips hadn’t brushed hers. Instead, he said that he liked her T-shirt, which was blue and said “Baby Doll” in a glittery scroll across her chest. Her jean shorts were faded and tight. She’d given herself a pedicure—her toenails were sparkly blue—and wore black flip-flops.

Now, she felt unprotected in the summer clothing, as if she needed armor and shield to face what lay ahead. Even though it was nearly May, the air felt chilly. Her flesh goosepimpled and she rubbed her bare arms.

The window slid open easily. Tashie pushed aside the curtain and peered inside. She saw the familiar shapes of her bedroom: the twin bed with its fake occupant; the desk with its pile of books and papers; the listing floor lamp; and the boom box pushed against the closet door.

Nothing looked disturbed. Grinning with relief, she climbed inside and shut the window. She tossed off her flip-flops and thought about how to retrieve Jack. She wanted the companionship tonight. He was probably tucked into her parent’s room, snoring away.

Quickly, she went into her private bathroom and rubbed off her make-up then she put on her pajamas. At least if her parents woke-up, she’d look as if she’d been tucked into bed all night.

When she opened her bedroom door and stepped into the kitchen, her skin prickled. The house was eerily quiet and too dark.

Something felt … wrong.

Think it through, Tashie.
Fear can always be displaced by logic.
Remembering her father’s advice steadied her. She tip-toed to the light switch and flicked it. The florescent bulbs kicked on and she looked around the kitchen. The normalcy of its yellow wallpaper and neat counters settled her.

She walked through the dining room and into the hallway. To the right was her Mom’s office. Her Dad’s lab equipment and other geekoid stuff took up most of the basement. She veered left then, as quietly as she could, Tashie turned the handle and opened the door.

Blech. It smelled terrible.

Her eyes roved over the inner darkness. 

She saw the prone forms of her parents in their beds, and there, stretched between them, slept Jack. For a long moment, she stared.

“Mom? Dad?”

Her parents didn’t stir.

Her heart pounded crazily as she flipped on the lights. Neither her mother nor father jolted up and admonished her for waking them. 

She hurried to the bed, drew back the covers.

Blood. On them, on the bed, on Tashie’s hands. She screamed and backed away, trying to process the horror. No, no, it wasn’t true. Her eyes were playing tricks on her.

“J-jack?” She stumbled forward and reached out. She wanted to grab him, wanted to drag him away from the carnage, but he felt wrong. Like a toy that had lost its stuffing.

He was dead, too.

Someone had killed her dog. Someone had killed her parents. She fell to her knees and emptied her stomach, the fermented smell of vomit mixing with that awful rusted scent of blood.

She greedily sucked in oxygen as tears squeezed from her eyes. Bile rose in her throat and she tasted yeasty-sour beer. For a second, she thought she would puke again.

“Natasha.”

She rolled onto her side and stared up at the man who appeared out of thin air. His eyes were red, his skin pale, and his clothes tattered. He smelled like mold. He looked like death.

Her death.

“You were not here,” he said in an incredibly beautiful voice. “So, I had a snack. Your mother tasted especially delicious—as I imagine you will taste.”

“Get away from me!” She tried to kick at him, but he merely laughed. He bent down and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her easily, as if she weighed nothing. She flailed, trying to strike him with hands and feet.

“You will give me great power, my beautiful girl. With your blood, I will be able to regenerate. I will be able to make my kind again.”

What was he talking about? Regenerate? His kind? He was crazy. He was a psycho serial killer. With his hand squeezing the breath out of her, she couldn’t scream. Her limbs grew too heavy to move.

“Look at me, sweet Natasha.”

She lifted her eyes to his monster gaze. In those red orbs pulsed his power, his … soul. Her stomach cramped so painfully, she opened her mouth to cry out. Only a rasp escaped. The pain throbbed through her unmercifully. Every nerve ending felt on fire.

And still she could not break the stare of the creature holding her.

I’m dying. He’s killing me.

The pain welded her to the man. She felt … connected. Now, she could feel his shock, the coldness of his flesh, the lack of breath in his lungs, the stillness of his heart.

Blue light erupted from her skin. Tendrils elongated and stretched, wrapping around him.

“No!” he shouted. “No!”

Tashie felt as though
she
had shouted the words. She was fused to him. His evil tasted as horrid as the bile crowding her throat.

The blue light glowed brighter and brighter. Through her terror and her graying vision, Tashie saw a strange, red radiance pulsing like a heartbeat. The small luminous globe radiated in the center of his being. It was so pretty. So warm. So alive.

She reached for it. Not with her arms, but with her mind. She plucked it from him, as if she were merely pulling off a ripe apple from an old tree.

He released her. She collapsed to the floor, inhaling in shaky breaths. She felt electrified.

Her gaze landed on the heap lying a foot away.

Tashie crawled to where the monster had fallen. She gripped a shoe and yanked, but there was no need. It was no longer attached to anything.

The murderer was gone.

*  *  *  *  *

“I hear you killed the last dragon,” said the man. Arrogance edged his smooth voice. 

Ash didn’t bother looking up from her drink. The moron standing next to her table was either an asshole looking to impress other assholes or he was a representative from the Convocation.

The bar was small, dark, and seedy. It smelled like smoke and piss. The vinyl chairs were all duct-taped. The jukebox was broken, so the only noise was drunken chatter peppered with laughter. She liked it here because everyone minded their own business. Most people knew to leave her alone. Those who didn’t ended up with broken limbs.

Ash sipped her drink. Idly, she wondered how long the guy’s patience would hold. Would he sweet talk her? Or would he let his testosterone get the better of him?

“Can I sit down?”

“No.”

“Fine. I’ll stand.”

Ash rolled her eyes. She itched to pull out her dagger and jab it in his temple. Instead, she picked up her drink, finished it off, and lifted her hand.

Seconds later, Diz strode over and put down another Angel’s Kiss. She dropped a napkin, picked up the empty glass, and took a moment to look over the fresh meat.

“You ain’t got a chance in hell, fool.” Diz was, as she’d once popped off to Ash, “a proud, black woman and don’t you forget it, bitch.” She was also short and twenty pounds overweight. She wore tight clothes, outrageous wigs, and five-inch stilettos. Her fake acrylic nails were nearly three inches long, wickedly sharp, and usually some outrageous color. Her attitude wasn’t all bark, either. Ash had seen Diz in action. The woman fought dirty and she didn’t give a rat’s ass who got in the way.

Having gotten no response from the dude hovering over Ash, Diz shrugged and sauntered off.

“I don’t have time for your games.” The man reached down and grabbed her shoulder. Ash looked up and met his gaze.

“Jesus!” He let go and reared back. “They said you had a…” He trailed off, staring at her.

Diamond gaze.
She’d heard it before. The night of her awakening, her eyes had turned such a light gray that they sometimes appeared translucent, the pupils black dots in orbs of white. It disturbed people—and giving ‘em the heebie jeebies often worked to her advantage.

She looked him over. Tall, buff, dressed in Armani (idiot), and now, rattled, the newest messenger of her old bosses wasn’t bad-looking. Of course, he was a clone of every other stuffed shirt they’d sent in the last two weeks.

“You can’t quit,” he said, regaining his composure. “It doesn’t work like that. You owe the guardians your allegiance.”

“You sound like all the other puppets they’ve sent,” Ash sneered. “Don’t you have something original?”

“We will give you another week. If you do not return to the Convocation’s service, action will be taken.”

Ash laughed. This was not the reaction expected by pretty boy. He frowned. “You would do well to heed our warning.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake! She looked at her half-finished drink, mourning its loss as she stood up. She tossed a twenty onto the table, grabbed her pink leather jacket and put it on.

Ash hated to be a cliché—an assassin who strode around in leather, but hell, she loved her custom-made jacket. Not only was it stylish, but it also had some really useful magical properties.

“I really don’t think you understand,” persisted the errand boy. “You should think twice about going against the Convocation.”

“I really don’t think
you
understand.” Ash threw the words back at him. “I don’t give a shit about the Convocation. They’re liars, thieves, and jerk-offs.” Ash pointed at him and blue light danced around her fingertip. The man stumbled backward, his eyes wide. “Maybe you should remember who I am … and what I can do.”

*  *  *  *  *

Ash gripped the doorknob of her hotel room. This joint was so ancient and so broken down that the owners hadn’t bothered switching to a card-key system. She liked the old-fashioned brass key rattling in the lock.

“Ash the Destroyer.”

Shit. Whoever-this-was had followed her from the bar, invisible to most, but not to Ash. No one was able to get under her radar. She leaned her forehead against the wood door. Paint flaked off and drifted to the concrete. “I’m so not in the mood to kill you.”