Soulbound: A Lone Star Witch Novel (40 page)

The need to stop the murders, and to determine once and for all whether Declan is the killer, has me moving. I crouch over the body, being careful not to touch her. She’s naked, like the others. And like the others, she has
my symbol—the goddess’s symbol—branded onto her breasts.

But even as I acknowledge it, I realize that something’s a little different, a little off, about it. The circle is more of an oval, the line that created it wavy in parts—like the person doing it was in a hurry. Or couldn’t keep his magic from spinning out of control.

I think of Declan, of how calm and collected he was with Nate. There wasn’t anything shaky about him, or his magic. I have the bruises to prove it.

So what am I dealing with here? Someone brave enough—and stupid enough—to frame Declan Chumomisto for murder? I can scarcely imagine it.

Maybe I’m the stupid one, searching for clues that aren’t here. Imagining an alternative killer because I can’t stand the idea that I let a murderer touch me. Any more than I can handle the concept of Declan being the one who nearly strangled me earlier. The one who raped me.

I shut the thought down as fast as I can, tell myself that I wasn’t raped. I just felt what this poor girl was going through in her last minutes alive. I’m fine, whole and in one piece. Nothing actually happened to me.

So why does it feel like it did?

That’s another question I don’t have an answer to, so I ignore it. The sirens have stopped and I know I have only a few minutes—maybe less—before the observation deck is crawling with cops. Whatever imprint I’m picking up, whatever magical signature I’m feeling, will be gone then, muddied under the emotions and experiences of people who deal with death for a living.

Closing my eyes, I block out the world—and myself. I have no time to wallow in my own pain and grief, no time to think about Nate or Declan or even what this woman’s last minutes on earth were like. I need to focus on the energy surrounding me, to garner as much information
from it as I can. Maybe then I can figure out if Declan really is the killer, or if he’s merely being framed.

The energy is all around me, but nowhere is it stronger than around the body. I extend my arms over her bare torso, shoving them elbow deep into the seething, roiling mess of dark emotions and darker magic.

Immediately, I feel him inside me, oily strands of black magic wrapping themselves around my fingers, my hands, my arms—any part of me they can reach—and sinking slowly through my skin. My first instinct is to shake them off, to do anything and everything I can to get rid of them.

But that won’t help Declan and it sure as hell won’t help this girl.

Ignoring the disgusting greasiness of the imprint, I keep my arms where they are. Then force myself to look deeper—to dive deeper—into the nightmare of this bastard’s magic.

I’m struck first by the oddly mismatched threads of power. It’s a subtle thing, something most people wouldn’t even notice, but I grew up in a house the youngest of eight witch and wizard siblings. If I wanted to know who had pulled a prank on me, the only shot I’d had was unraveling the spell to see whose power was underneath it. I might not have had magic of my own, but I did have a strong sense of self-preservation—not to mention an unquenchable thirst for vengeance against my older siblings—and I’d learned early on how to distinguish the weave of one person’s magic from another’s.

Donovan’s magic is clean and bright and straightforward—more of a simple back and forth weave that speaks clearly of the honesty and integrity that is so much a part of who he is.

Lily’s magic is different, more subtle and more complicated than my brother’s. Every spell she weaves is
made up of multicolored strands of power that zig one way, then zag another before tangling around everything in their path. Sweet and exuberant and brimming over with life and happiness, her magic lights up everything around it.

And then there’s Declan’s magic. Though I’ve tried numerous times, he’s usually really protected, the pattern of his magic spells impossible for me to get a grasp on, no matter how hard I tried. At least until last night, when we were making love, and his magic shot straight into mine, tangling itself all up in the basic, rudimentary strands of my own recent power surges.

His magic is dark—no doubt about it—but it’s also sophisticated and elegant and restrained, using no more energy to complete a spell than is absolutely necessary.

Another way it’s different is its color. The strands of Declan’s magic are mostly silver—like the tattoo in the center of my hand—and they form a pattern, a weave, that I’d never seen before he crawled into my bed.

Some of that weave is here, I realize, with a dawning kind of horror. It’s wrapped around this woman’s throat, decorates some of her most brutal wounds. Though I somehow manage to keep my hands steady, the realization sends me reeling. Though the evidence was damning, there was a part of me that wanted to believe Declan was innocent, that he couldn’t have done these vile, terrible things.

But his magical imprint is here—unmistakable and irrefutable. He really did do this. He really did rape, torture and murder four women.

I push to my feet, stumble backward, just as a group of police bursts onto the observation deck. Nate must have told them about me, because no one pulls a gun, no one tells me to put my hands up. I do, anyway, just so there will be no misunderstanding. Then I find a bench to curl up on and wait out the compulsion.

*    *    *

I spend the first half an hour after the police arrive—after my realization—in a dazed kind of horror. But as the shock fades, the fury rises. Along with my determination to see this through, to find Declan and put a stop to this once and for all.

We’re soulbound after all—and while I am truly horrified by that fact at this point, I figure I might as well use it to my advantage. Declan certainly has.

I still don’t know much about this soulbound thing—though it’s been the longest twenty-four hours of my life, it still has been only twenty-four hours since I found out what we were meant to be to each other. Has been much less than that since I trusted him with my body and my soul.

Now all I can think about are those poor women—raped, murdered, discarded. How could the man who touched me so tenderly, who healed me so carefully, be capable of that kind of mutilation? That kind of horror?

I want to go after him, to find him, but I can’t move. Not until this poor woman’s body is taken away. And so I sit and plot. Normally I would try to follow the magic, the imprint, but Declan is too clever for that. His imprint disappears in the same spot he did.

But I know he’ll show up again. He has to. Already, I can feel the emptiness kicking in, my soul longing for the brush of his even as my mind recoils.

Dawn is streaking across the sky in shades of rose and ruby red before the compulsion finally eases. I stumble to my feet, stumble down the stairs to where Nate is watching the morgue van pull slowly away.

“Come on,” he tells me. “I’ll give you a ride home on my way to the station.”

I nod, numb. Home is as good a place as any right now. Once there, I’ll see what I can do about finding Ryder. He always knows where Declan is.

The drive home is the stuff nightmares are made of. Nate is stiff, suspicious, and I don’t blame him. Not when Declan all but disappeared in front of him and I can’t, won’t, give him any answers. I’m not trying to protect Declan, but I am a member of the Ipswitch royal family. It’s my responsibility to protect the ancient secrets of Heka and that does not include sharing them with Nate, no matter how much I’d like to unburden myself. There’s a part of me that can’t help thinking if I tell him, tell everyone, then the visions have to stop. Everything has to stop. Besides, there’s no proof that it would happen and a hunch won’t get me very far. Not with my parents and not with the ACW.

I try to call Declan when I get in the house. No answer, not that that’s a surprise. Then I try Ryder, also to no avail.

I’m sitting in the kitchen, trying to figure out what my next move is going to be when Donovan stumbles in looking for a cup of coffee. I don’t say anything to him—talking to him before his morning caffeine is like bearding a lion in its den—so I just wait until he’s more lucid. It’s not that much of a sacrifice. After all, I don’t know what I’m going to say to him anyway.

When he’s finally able to pry his eyes open, he looks me over. I’m sure I look like hell. God knows I feel like it. When he grunts and demands, “What happened to you?” my feeling is confirmed.

“I need your help.”

He places his cup of coffee on the table. “Okay.”

For long seconds, I don’t say anything as I debate how much I want to tell him. But in the end, it all comes spilling out. I need him to cooperate and the only way that’s going to happen is if he knows everything.

By the time I’m done, Donovan looks like he’s about to explode. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he demands. “You know how dangerous this is and you run off in the
middle of the night without so much as letting me know you were going?”

I explain about the compulsion, but he just shrugs it off. Not that I blame him. Going outside last night had been a stupid move on my part. Obviously. But when the compulsion is on me, I can’t do anything else. I don’t know how to explain that to him, how to make him understand what I feel at times like these.

“How are we going to find him?” I ask after Donovan finally stops swearing. “Do you think a locating charm will do it?”

“On Declan?” he asks incredulously. “Not a chance.”

“Then what do we do?”

“
We
do nothing.
I
will head back to UT, check out the crime scene, see if I can find any traces of magic that will point me in his direction.”

“This isn’t your responsibility—”

“You’re my sister. It doesn’t get any more my responsibility than this.”

I sigh. Donovan is nearly impossible when he throws on the big brother act. I could make all the sense in the world and it wouldn’t matter in the slightest.

“I need to help with this,” I told him. “I should have known, should have been able to do something to stop it earlier. Four women are dead—”

“And you aren’t going to be the fifth,” he shoots over his shoulder as he walks down the hall to his room, presumably to change clothes.

I glance down at myself, realize for the first time that I am covered in blood and muck from the crime scene. I dash down the hall to my own room, whipping my shirt off as I go. There is no way I’m being left out of this. If something happened to Donovan, I would never forgive myself.

I change like a whirlwind, flinging the dirty, disgusting clothes everywhere as I race to get dressed. I wouldn’t
put it past Donovan to simply disappear on me, and that I can’t allow.

It turns out my racing pays off, because even after brushing my teeth and splashing water on my face, I’m ready before he is. I go outside and sit on the hood of his car.

Better to be safe than sorry.

Donovan comes out a couple of minutes later and I know he wants to argue with me. But I throw up a hand, stop him at the beginning of what promises to be one hell of a rant.

“I get it,” I tell him. “I know you want to protect me. But you can’t protect me from this—he’s inside me and I can’t get him out. I’m terrified, unless I do this, unless I catch him, that I’ll never get him out. If you leave me here, I’ll just follow you—you know that I will—so we might as well work together. Maybe it will keep us both safe.”

Speech over, I take a deep breath, dart a glance at Donovan’s face. He looks pissed, but I know that’s just because he feels like I’ve outmaneuvered him. He knows I’ll leave right after he does and nothing, save an imprisoning spell, will stop me. And he won’t do that. He’s an overprotective older brother but he’s not a dictator. He won’t lock me in against my will.

Except he does, with a flick of his hand and without a flicker of remorse. I find myself standing on my front porch, an invisible wall preventing me from taking one step off of it.

“Damn it, Donovan!” I’m screaming now as panic overwhelms me. “You can’t do this. He’ll kill you.”

Donovan waves jauntily.

I flip him off, then go back inside and start pacing as I try to figure out what to do. Lily’s already up and gone, so I can’t ask her for help. If I call my mother, she’ll be on my doorstep before I can take a deep breath, and
knowing her, I would never step foot out of this house again. My other sib—

The phone rings and I make a mad dash for it, figuring it is Donovan. Maybe he’s feeling bad—maybe I can change his mind—

“Hello?” I answer, pissed but more than desperate enough to play nice.

It isn’t Donovan. It’s Salima. And she has bad news.

“X
andra! Thank goddess I caught you. Don’t go anywhere. I’m coming for you.”

“Salima, now isn’t really a good time—”

“I am well aware of that, Xandra. I just read my tea leaves. What have you been up to?”

“Salima—”

“There’s death, Xandra. Death everywhere.”

She’s just figuring this out now? I’ve got to hand it to my mom—she sure can pick them. Before I can say anything else, she continues, “I can see it stalking you. Death wants you, Xandra, and I don’t know if you’re going to be able to cheat it.”

I roll my eyes. Even if that was true—which it might be—it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it. If Declan wants to kill me, I’ll put up a hell of a fight, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough to stop him. If anyone is.

But then I think of the night he healed me, so carefully, so perfectly, and wonder if that’s really what he wants from me. With me.

“Look, Salima, I appreciate your concern—”

“You’re not brushing me off this time, Xandra.” Outside a car screeches to a stop. I peer out the window and see her storming down the walkway. She’s dressed in a bright red skirt with purple and green tights and a sparkly green shirt and looks like an escapee from the worst-dressed
elf fashion show. But she’s all but breathing fire. It’s pretty obvious that she isn’t going to go away.