Soul Taker (4 page)

The woman shook her head. "No, there's a… Oh
God, no!" She hid her face in her hands. Nicholas let her go and
headed toward the old structure.

"Be careful," Isabella called to her brother
as she put her arm around the hysterical woman's shoulder.

When Nicholas returned, his olive skin had
paled. He had his cell phone out. "It's Marcy." Nicholas voice
choked. "Oh my God, I can't believe it. Marcy…she's dead,
Izzie."

Isabella swept by Nicholas, not caring he
called after her to stop. She had to see for herself. She had to
know if it was truly too late, but as she neared where Marcy lay,
sprawled on the ground, her steps faltered. Something was off, and
not just because there was a dead body in the courtyard. When
someone died, there were one of three things she would see: One –
nothing, other than the body, because the soul had gone beyond the
veil; Two – the soul, lingering as if it couldn't decide if it
should go or not; or Three – she might pick up a ghostlike
apparition.

Standing over Marcy's body, she saw none of
the above. Marcy's aura looked fragmented, as if something sucked
bits and pieces of it and left only minimal amounts of it
behind.

Isabella moved closer and crouched down.
"What happened to you, Marcy?" Marcy was dressed in black pants and
a white blouse. She'd been on her way to work.

Isabella knew she shouldn't touch the body.
What if Marcy had been murdered and she tampered with the evidence?
She looked over her shoulder. Nicholas was consoling the woman who
had found Marcy and wasn't paying any attention to her. She looked
back to Marcy.

She could call her back. For only a moment,
just to find out what happened, but she would have to hurry. She
could already hear the sirens drawing nearer.

Since Marcy just died tonight, she wouldn't
need to draw blood to summon. At least, she didn't think so. She
fished out her cell phone from her pocket, fingering the smooth
screen. She really hoped it didn't get fried. She took hold of
Marcy's hand and concentrated on the fragments of warmth around her
body, pulling it in, tethering it to this world. Her phone lit up
as the essence fed off the energy.

Marcy's body shuddered and her lids flew
open, her eyes bright with fear.

"What are you doing?"

Isabella jumped at Nicholas' voice and she
let go of Marcy's hand. Her phone screen went dark, as the line to
the other side broke free. "Damn." The fragments scattered and
drifted away like dust particles. She glanced up at Nicholas' face,
his frown of disappointment saying more than words.

She stood as the paramedics came rushing over
to them. She didn't bother telling them they were too late. In the
next few seconds, the paramedics would know themselves.

The police arrived minutes later to secure
the perimeter, while the coroner went over the evidence with the
detectives.

There weren't any signs of foul play, but the
twenty-four year old was dead.

Once they gave the police their names,
Marcy's contacts, and answered their questions, they were allowed
to leave.

They were home now, but Isabella couldn't
shake the chill, spreading through her. She hugged herself close as
she stared out the window of their condo, going over every detail
of the conversation she had with Marcy. Days before she noticed
Marcy's essence looked off. She told Marcy to take it easy. "I
should have insisted she see her physician."

Nicholas put his arm around his sister and
led her away from the window. "Why?" He asked as he made Isabella
sit down on the couch. He'd brewed herbal tea and handed her a cup
before he sat down next to her.

"Marcy was ill," she explained. "I could see
it, but I didn't tell her to see a doctor."

"Izzie, you can't hold yourself responsible.
She was a young woman. There was no reason you should have feared
for her life. She could have had a cold and you would have seen
that her aura was off. People don't run to the doctor for a
cold."

"Still…"

They were silent for a moment, but she knew
it wouldn't last.

"Izzie, what were you doing when I found you
next to Marcy's body?"

She sipped her tea before she looked at her
brother. "I believe you know."

"Why?" He shook his head. "She was already
gone. Why would you risk trying to bring her back?"

"Nick, something wasn't right. I couldn't put
my finger on it, but I know if I could just awaken her for a
moment, I could have asked her what happened."

"You know the
shades
aren't always
reliable."

"I know they can sometimes be confused, but
doing nothing leaves us wondering why a young, healthy girl dropped
dead."

He shook his head, his features troubled as
he pursed his lips. "You shouldn't have tried. It's too dangerous
to conjure."

Yes, she was aware. Nicholas didn't say it.
He didn't have to. Their mother brought her back from the veil.
Louisa Lucci broke the rules and paid for it, too.

If only Isabella hadn't been screwing around
on her bike that day. She rode it with no hands. Nicholas kept
telling her to stop showing off, but she wouldn't listen. She'd
lost control and swerved as a car came around the corner. She was
thrown from the bike. She would have survived, if she hadn't been
thrown into oncoming traffic.

Nicholas had raced back to the restaurant and
told their mother what had happened.

A few days later, she woke up in the hospital
room. The press found out what happened and printed:
A girl
rises from the dead.
She was then dubbed the Lazarus girl.

She hadn't understood it then, thought it a
miracle, but later she realized her mother summoned her, brought
her back from the veil and defied death. Less than a year later,
death demanded payment and took both her parents.

Chapter Four

Garran pinned Harrison down with his stony
gaze. An unearthly growl emanated from his throat and his fangs
lengthened. "I knew ye were reckless," he hissed, "but to
contemplate bringin' a human into our confidence—yet again, seems
like a redundant argument. We do not need a human's help with
this." He paced the room with his pent up energy, slamming his
books back into their rightful place within the shelves of novels
and reference books that lined his walls.

Harrison plopped himself down on the large
throne-like chair, which Garran recently purchased for his library.
It fit well with the other medieval castle-like reproductions in
the room.

"We could train her, hone in on her talents
and shape them to suit our needs," Harrison added casually, as if
the last fifteen minutes of saying—
we don't need a human on
their team—
never occurred.

Garran looked at him. "Surely, ye did no'
suggest we train the human."

Harrison chuckled. "Aye, I did. Why not, I
ask you?"

"Why no'?" he sputtered. "Because… Because I
have no wish to. That's why no'." He stopped to rearrange a few of
his books, noticing his historical volume on Medieval Europe sat on
the shelf beside Shakespeare's book of sonnets. He replaced the
book back on the reference shelf.

"I'm beginning to believe you're afraid of
humans," Harrison teased.

"Don't be a dunderhead," Garran grumbled.

"With ye sweet talkin' me that way, ye wee
couthie, I might think ye cared." Harrison imitated his brogue to
the tee, which only proved to annoy him further.

Garran glared at him with narrowed eyes, a
stare he perfected when he was laird back in Scotland centuries
before. His nostril's flared as he took an exaggerated breath.
"We're dealin' with creatures I am sure yer human doesn't know
exists. Ye said it yerself, she isn't trained. She cannot protect
herself from Otherworldly bein's, which means one of us would have
to be with her at all times. She'd be a target and we'd be so busy
playin' watchdog, we'd lose sight of our goal."

"Isabella knew which women were infected
before we did," Harrison reminded him. "She may not be aware of
what was happening to them, but she sensed they weren't well.
Besides, Isabella isn't just any human. She's the daughter of
Giovanni and Louisa Lucci. Her father was a sensitive and if you
recall, Louisa was a Necromancer."

This last caught Garran's attention.
Necromancers could control the dead and technically, he
was
dead in the human sense of the word. True, Louisa Lucci had helped
on more than a few cases, but he kept his distance, letting
Harrison handle that part of the investigation. "I don't trust
Necromancers."

"You don't trust Necromancers, humans, the
demons...your list is getting longer every day."

Garran grumbled with protest. No matter where
they settled, Harrison wanted to form a team. He had some serious
longing for a pack
issues. Garran did not. "I just don't see
the need to add a human to our team."

"Team? You and I do not constitute a team. If
we could just find one victim before she's in the hospital or dead,
we might be able to track the
preternatural being
to his
lair and we wouldn't have to rely on Sanya."

He knew Harrison had a point, but it didn't
mean he had to like it. "I never heard of a human bein' able to see
a soul," he continued to argue.

"I'm not saying that's what she sees, but she
obviously notices something we can't. Mandy Davidson is proof.
Mandy had dinner at the restaurant and I witnessed Isabella fuss
over her, trying to convince her to see a doctor. The woman didn't
because we both know the
Soul Taker
had already influenced
her. The woman's dead now. If we inform Isabella what we're up
against, she could spot the
Soul Taker's
next victim."

"We're calling him the
Soul Taker
now?" Garran lifted an eyebrow.

"All serial killers have a name, be them
preternatural or not."

"Hmm." He took out Otherworldly beings that
refused to follow the rules and left bodies piled up. He supposed
the preternatural beings could be labeled serial killers. Alexander
fit the description well enough. He witnessed the fiend's handiwork
back in Scotland centuries ago. He had thought Alexander dead. He
himself had staked him and lit the torch to burn the stable.
Nothing should have survived, but Alexander was a wily sort.

He should have cut Alexander's head off to
make sure he was gone from this earth, but he had been newly made
and still thought like a human. It never occurred to him a Grim
Sith could rise from the ashes like a bloody phoenix.

"What's wrong?" Harrison asked as the silence
lengthened.

"It's nothin'."

Harrison shook his head. It was obvious the
werewolf didn't believe him, but for friendship sake, Garran knew
he would let it slide.

Garran met Harrison centuries ago. Harrison
had helped him stop a madman from making his sixth ritual kill that
would have released a demon far more sinister than the killer was
himself.
Jack the Ripper
was what the locals dubbed the
butcher. Harrison and he cornered and killed the bastard, making
sure there was nothing left to resurrect, but it was still too late
for victim number five. Ginger was the name she used, but to
Garran, she would always be Mary Jane Kelly, the Irish lass with
the smiling blue eyes who gave him precious leads to unearth the
fiend. She paid for it with her life.

"Why don't you join me tonight at the
restaurant where Isabella works."

"Just what I want to do. Sit and watch ye
eat. No, thank ye. And don't go involvin' the girl, Harrison,"
Garran warned. "It would be a mistake."

Harrison pursed his lips then let out a long
tired sigh. "Wouldn't it be a real corker if your soul mate ended
up being a human? Truly, I pray it is so. It would serve you
right."

He wished he never told Harrison about the
legend of soul mates and what they meant to a vampire, but they had
been friends for centuries; it had been only a matter of time
before hopes and dreams were revealed. "It would never happen.
Besides, God wouldn't be so cruel."

"You think not?" He chuckled. "I find
He
has a wicked sense of humor."

Chapter Five

Harrison couldn't convince Garran to join him
at
A Taste of Home
, but he could still enjoy dinner
there.

He strolled in to find everyone in a somber
mood. Grief hung in the air like an entity ready to greet its next
victim. His gaze took in his surroundings. Candles and flowers were
arranged near the register like a shrine. Tables and chairs had
been moved to the side and a large banquet table stood as a focal
point with food trays, a large stainless steel coffee container,
and a punch bowl. He knew the restaurant sometimes held private
parties, but they usually did so on the days they were closed and
not on a busy night.

Isabella spotted him and headed over to him
with only a hint of a smile. Her eyes gave away her true feelings.
Puffy and blood shot – she'd been crying.
What in the hell
happened here?
His gaze shifted to the familiar faces that
dined at the restaurant on a regular basis. Mario, the chef peeked
his head out from the kitchen, his aged face lined with grief.
Patti, one of the waitresses stood near the back of the room,
dabbing her eyes. Nicholas appeared to be consoling her. He kept
patting her shoulder in a brotherly fashion.

Then it dawned on him. This was Saturday
night. Marcy should be working this shift. Harrison's gaze found
Isabella's once more. He heard rumors: a young woman had been found
dead near Paul Revere's house. He had a sinking feeling Marcy had
been the victim.

"Hello, Harrison," Isabella greeted him. "I
don't know if you heard yet, but Marcy—" She couldn't finish the
sentence, choking on the word that would finalize what happened to
the young vibrant woman, who had light brown hair and a quick
smile. She wanted to be a teacher.