Soulbound: A Lone Star Witch Novel (41 page)

My front door flies open before I can so much as reach for the knob. “Come on!” she tells me, suddenly in a huge hurry. “Let’s go.”

“I can’t. Donovan’s charmed the house. I can’t leave.”

“If you don’t, you’re going to die. You might die, even if you leave, but you absolutely can’t stay here.” Her voice quavers in outrage, though I’m not sure what has her so upset. The idea that someone might kill me or the worry that he’ll do it on her watch.

“Well, then, we have a problem, because I can’t leave.”

She snorts, waves her hand and mutters a few unfamiliar words. As she does, I feel Donovan’s spell lift. I’m free.

I’m more than a little shocked that someone like Salima can take on a spell of Donovan’s, but I’ll think about that later. Right now, there are more important things to do.

“Come on,” I shout to her, barreling out the front door. “We have to catch up with Donovan!”

She doesn’t argue, just throws herself into the driver’s seat of her car and floors it. I don’t live that far from UT, but suddenly it’s the longest drive of my life. If something happens to Donovan…if he goes up against Declan…I have every faith in my brother’s talents and if he was going up against anyone else I wouldn’t even be worried. He’s that good. But this is Declan. Dark, powerful-beyond-imagination Declan. And I’m terrified.

We pull into the parking lot nearest to the tower—the same one where Nate and I parked earlier. There are no spots available, but Salima doesn’t let that stop her. She just waves a hand and somehow manages to create a spot from nothing.

“That must come in handy,” I mutter even as I reach for the door handle.

“You have no idea.”

And then we’re running, straight through campus to the tower. Salima is wearing lace-up witch boots with high heels, but she manages to keep up—more magic, I’m sure.

The tower, when we get there, is surrounded—by yellow crime scene tape and a crowd of students and professors who are looking up at it in disbelief and horror. I feel bad for them. I know exactly what happened up there and still it seems reminiscent of the tower shooting. I can only imagine what it feels like to them.

Salima does whatever she does—who knew she’d actually be semi-useful to have around?—and we manage to duck under the tape without drawing attention to ourselves. We take the elevator this time, and even though she says it’s safe, I’m fidgeting the whole time. Terrified. I want to find Declan with every inch of my being, but I’m praying that he’s not here. That Donovan hasn’t run into him yet. That—

The elevator doors open and disgorge us back into a scene that belongs in a horror movie. As we step onto the observation deck, there is blood everywhere. I thought I was prepared for it—after all, I was just here a couple of hours ago. But in the clear light of day, everything looks worse. More brutal.

My brother walks over to where the body was found, to where the blood is the heaviest, hands up and eyes closed. I don’t know if he senses us or not, but I walk up to him hesitantly. Magic can be unpredictable—the more power you use, the more unstable it becomes, and the last thing I want is to cause any problems for Donovan.

I needn’t have worried. He doesn’t even look at me. Instead, his focus is completely on the outline of where the body used to be, and as I watch, I see the strings of color swirl up and out of the ground. The same strings I
had used earlier to see who had been here, whose magic had touched the victim.

Donovan is doing something a little different, though. He’s done a spell that separates them all out in front of him, a long series of lines of psychic energy that would be beautiful if not for what they represent. As it is, they’re eerie as hell. And just as compelling.

I can see most of the colors, identify them as I did earlier. Declan’s magic is the strongest, brightest, and I ponder that. Shouldn’t his be the darkest and most dull? Every second that passes since the crime is a bigger stain on his powers, on his soul. Why hasn’t that manifested itself on his string?

Donovan twists and sorts, and out of the pile of mismatched energies that have come into contact with this poor woman in the last hours of her life, and death, one more emerges. White, clear, sharp as a diamond, it’s as fascinating as it is horrifying. I’m compelled by it, the feeling rising inside of me, and I step forward before I know what I’m doing. Reach out a hand to touch it.

“Are you crazy?” Donovan snarls. “Do you know what that is?”

I do know. It’s the strand that represents the killer’s power and it is absolutely beautiful. In a frigid, inhumane way. I also know if I pull on it, he’ll feel it, wherever he is. He’ll know that I’m closer than I’ve ever been.

I reach for it again, determined to show him I’m not afraid. But Donovan knocks my hand away. “No! I mean it, Xandra. This is dangerous.”

Of course it is. Everything about my life is dangerous these days. This is nothing new. I start to fight him, but then I realize I don’t have to. I can see the trail. Can follow the strand out of the tower, down the stairs and goddess only knows where else. With enough patience, I can follow it all the way to the bastard who did this.

I turn away, start to do just that.

In the back of my head is the realization that Donovan and Salima are following behind me. There’s also the knowledge that this means Declan is not responsible. I don’t know why he was there, standing over that body, but I know now it wasn’t because he’d killed her. The pure, sweet relief of that is enough to make my knees tremble even as I take the stairs two at a time.

I follow the bright white strand down the stairs, across campus to another parking lot. Suddenly, I’m afraid I’ll lose it, afraid I’ll lose him. There are hundreds of cars parked here now and it’s getting harder to follow it through all the psychic energy, all the echoes of people who are here every day. The white is getting muddied, blending in, until I can barely see it anymore.

But then I look up and tracing the power strand doesn’t matter much anymore. Nothing does. Because there he is, sitting on the hood of a car, legs crossed casually in front of him.

Kyle.

The evil is literally radiating off of him. I can see where it’s eaten away at his aura, at his soul, until all that is left is this rotten, terrible, slightly crazy thing in front of us.

How could I not see it? How could I not know? I’d spent a lot of time with him in the last few days. How had I missed it so completely?

I glance at Donovan and Salima, wanting to make sure they saw what I did. But neither of them looks alarmed as they scan the parking lot for I don’t know what. “Don’t you see him?” I hiss out of the side of my mouth. “Don’t you—”

I don’t get the chance to finish. Before I can so much as take a deep breath, Kyle has pulled out a gun. He fires three shots.

One goes wide.

The second one slams into Donovan’s chest while the
final one hits Salima’s stomach. They both crumple to the ground.

I waste precious seconds staring at them in shock. Then I’m falling to my knees, desperately trying to call forth the magic that remains stubbornly out of my reach. I’m on the verge of hysteria now, but I try to tamp it back. Try to focus on my brother. On Salima. On saving their lives. Dear goddess. They were here because they were trying to save me and instead I should be the one saving them. But I can’t. I don’t have the power to do it.

Desperate, knowing that it’s too little, too late, I fumble my cell phone out of my pocket. Dial 911. Before I can say anything, Kyle hits my hand, knocks the phone onto the ground where he crushes it beneath his boot. Then his hand is wrapped in my hair, his gun pressed against the side of my face.

“Let’s go,” he mutters and he sounds as manic, as crazy, as he looks. I start to fight him, but he points the gun straight at my brother’s head. I am paralyzed by the certainty that he will kill Donovan.

“Please,” I beg. “Don’t hurt him. Don’t—”

He backhands me with the gun and my head slams against my shoulder. “Now you’ve got time for me,” he snarls. “Now you aren’t so wrapped up in that excuse for a warlock. You see me now, don’t you?”

I force my aching jaw to move, to form the words he wants to hear. “I’ve always seen you.”

“Bullshit. I was just some pesky fly buzzing around your head.”

“Is that what this is about?” It doesn’t make sense. The first murder happened before I ever met Kyle.

He laughs. “Don’t be so full of yourself, Xandra. You’re just a means to an end.”

What does that mean? I start to ask, wanting to keep him talking long enough for me to come up with a plan to get us out of this. But my brain is frozen, the sight of
Donovan and Salima on the sidewalk too horrifying to get past.

But then I don’t have to say anything. I feel a prick on my arm, followed by a burning sensation. A strange lethargy overtakes me. My legs tremble. My breathing feels funny. My body is out of my control.

He catches me right before I fall to the blood-soaked sidewalk.

I
wake up slowly, with the overwhelming feeling that something is wrong, but I just can’t quite figure out what it is. I try to put my finger on it, but my brain is fuzzy. The last thing I remember is Kyle sitting on the hood—

Kyle. Donovan. Salima. It all floods back at once. Panicked, I try to sit up, but I can’t move. Again. Except this time it’s not just magic keeping me in place. I’m actually strapped, spread-eagle, onto a black machine of some kind. It’s tilted so that my legs are higher than my head, the blood rushing downward so that there’s a throbbing behind my eyes.

As everything registers, I go crazy. Become an animal, flailing and screaming and straining in an effort to get out. Even as I’m doing it, I tell myself to calm down. That I’m not helping anything. That I’m just making things worse.

It doesn’t matter. I can’t stop. It’s too close to that time in my bedroom, too similar to all those rapes I’ve suffered through psychically. I want out. Now.

Eventually, the panic recedes and exhaustion sets in. I quiet down, take deep breaths. Try to settle. As I do, I become aware—for the first time—that I am not alone.

“Kyle?” My voice is hoarse, rusty from screaming and dehydration. I hate that I freaked out, hate even more that he saw me like that. It’s hard to be strong when your weaknesses have been on display for the world to see.

“Hello, Xandra. Welcome back.” He moves closer to me, until he’s just inches away, and I long to lash out at him. To rip him to pieces. But the only part of my body I can move is my head and he’s standing by my feet.

He has a knife in his hand and he’s turning it end over end, end over end, end over end. The motion is hypnotic, spellbinding, as—I think—he intends it to be. I can see all those women, their bodies cut to hell and back, and I know that however this ends up, it isn’t going to be good for me.

And then suddenly he’s moving, slashing the knife across my upper thigh in a shallow but painful cut. I bite my lip to keep from screaming. He’s already seen me lose it once and I have no doubt I’ll lose it again before this is over. But not yet. Not yet.

As I lie there, bound, helpless, waiting to see what he’ll do next, I feel the blood trickle up my thigh to my abdomen and that’s when I realize something else.

I’m completely naked.

That’s when I start to scream again. Not out loud, not where the sick fuck can hear me and get satisfaction from it, but deep in my head on a psychic plane.

Xandra!
Declan’s voice snaps through the hysteria, grabs my attention.
Where are you?

I don’t know.

Look around. See if you can figure—

Kyle slices at me again, this time drawing a line across my abdomen. It burns. He follows it with a shorter, deeper cut to the fleshy part of my left arm, right above the elbow.

I bite my lip until it bleeds to keep from showing him the pain. Inside my head, I can hear Declan demanding that I answer him. He sounds nothing like he usually does. His normal cool, sardonic attitude has been replaced by a panicked rage that mingles with my own.

But all that emotion inside my head makes it hard to
think. I slam a door between us, try to lock him out. Not for good, but just enough that I can think. I can’t get through this if I feel his emotions too. Besides, he doesn’t need to live through what’s about to happen. I’ve been on the other end of this and it isn’t much better than actually having it happen. In some ways, it might even be worse.

“I don’t understand,” I tell Kyle, when I finally find the strength to unclench my jaw. “Why are you doing this?”

“Don’t worry.” He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes, which still look just a little off. “It’s nothing personal.”

“It feels personal.”

He lashes out, makes another cut on my leg, this one shallow and long. I jerk despite myself. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” He does it again on the other leg. That’s five cuts. I think of the women I found. Only seventy-six cuts left to go if he stays on pattern. The thought is as enraging as it is terrifying.

“If you keep this up, you’ll lose everything. My family won’t stop until they know who did this and the Council will have to—”

“The ACW will do nothing!” Another slash across my abdomen, but higher this time.

“You know that’s not true. My family will demand—”

“Your family. Your family. Do you think I give a shit about your family? Do you think the Council does? Who do you think put me up to this?”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in, and even after they do, I replay them in my mind again and again, trying to make sense of what’s going on. He can’t be saying what I think he is.

“The Morgans. The Morgans. The Ipswitch throne.” He says the words mockingly. “Do you have any idea how tired we are of hearing about you guys? About all your power? About how important you are? I don’t give
a shit how important, how untouchable you are.” He clamps a hand down on my thigh, over the first cut. Squeezes until all the willpower in the world can’t keep me from crying out.

“I’m touching you now, aren’t I? And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.” And then the real horror begins as he slides his hand to my inner thigh and then up—