Tainted (The Soul Chronicles Book 1)

by Morgan L. Busse

  Harrison glared back. “I could charge you with breaking and entering.”

  Stephen stepped into the room. “And drag both your names through the dirt? I came to get the schedule for next week’s patrol. Apparently you never heard me knocking or when I called out.” Of course. How could they?

  The black spots appeared again, along with a wave of nausea.

  Harrison pointed at him. “That doesn’t give you the right to enter my home.”

  “We’re partners, Harrison. I dropped by, as a partner. As a friend.” The word hung in the air between them.

  Stephen glanced at Vanessa. At least she had the decency to blush. She pulled the cover higher up and his blood boiled over. “Why, Vanessa? Why?”

  She sucked in her lips and looked down. “Listen, Stephen. I should have been honest with you. It wasn’t going to work between us.”

  “And when were you going to tell me? At the altar? During the honeymoon?”

  Vanessa looked away, her body rigid.

  Sweat poured down his back, and his body tingled from all the adrenaline. “You know, you’re right.” His hand shook as he slowly raised his gun. One shot, right in the heart. In his mind he pictured blood spreading across her chest, smearing across the cover she held. “It wouldn’t have worked between us. I detest liars.”

  Harrison raised his hands. “Stephen, put the gun down.”

  Stephen swung the gun toward Harrison. “Don’t you dare speak to me!”

  “You’re not a murderer!”

  “I’m not a lot of things!” he shouted. His finger inched toward the trigger.

  Control.

  Stephen took one long, even breath. They weren’t worth it. Harrison and Vanessa weren’t worth prison time. And Harrison was right. He wasn’t a murderer. But he was going to shoot one or both of them if he stayed much longer.

  With inarticulate shout, Stephen spun around and left the room. He hardly noticed the hallway or stairs as he flew down them two at a time. Each time he thought of Vanessa and Harrison, his body exploded forward. How could she? How could they?

  He reached the door and wrenched it open. The streets were empty. Thank heaven for that. Stephen didn’t bother shutting the door behind him. He needed to leave now or he would do something he would regret.

  Would he really regret it?

  God, help me!

  Stephen slammed his gun back into his holster and headed north at a run, rain pouring down across his head.

  Had he been blind this entire time? How long had Vanessa and Harrison been having an affair under his very nose?

  What a fool he had been!

  He passed a man scurrying across the street with a newspaper over his head. A dog barked from a nearby corner. Things he saw and dismissed, his mind twisting and turning over the scene in the bedroom.

  Stephen turned into an alley a couple of blocks away. He stopped and panted, sweat and rain running down his face. With a yell, he hit the building with the side of his fist. The bricks tore his skin and his hand burst into agony. He hit the wall again and again, then kicked it.

  His hand throbbed as blood rushed to the injury. Stephen tucked it next to his body, sagging against the wall and letting the water drip off the end of his nose and chin. Each wave of pain cleansed the memory of Vanessa and Harrison in bed together.

  He scrunched up his face and looked up at the sliver of sky between the buildings. “Why, Vanessa?” he whispered. “Why?” Every dream he had held dear for his future burned up inside his mind. There would be no wedding. No honeymoon. No children.

  And Harrison . . . His own partner!

  Stephen pushed away from the wall and stumbled back out onto the street. The doc’s office was about a dozen blocks away in Southbrook. He would walk. He needed to walk. If he didn’t keep going, he might stop and never move again.

  He turned left and headed down the street. An omnibus came rumbling by, water streaming down the horses’ flanks and back. He curled in on himself and stumbled on, his head bent, his injured hand tucked safely next to his chest.

  This changed everything. There was no way he could walk back into the district office, not with Harrison there. And not after his confrontation with Captain Algar. Not after today. Could he even go back to the force?

  No.

  Stephen clenched his teeth. He was done with both.

  He would move as well. His flat held too many memories, memories of Vanessa and his hopes for the future, their future. He would destroy every single thing that linked him with Vanessa. He would reforge his life and create something new, something hard, something that could not be broken.

  And he would never trust another woman again.

  7

  It had been months since Kat’s last visit to the library. Even longer since her last episode on that first day of school. She tapped the pen against her lip and stared out the library window, her brow furrowed. In fact, it had been over a year.

  Has it really been that long?

  Absently, she watched the snow fall outside the frosted glass panes as she mentally ticked off every class she had attended, every experiment she had performed. She had been so busy with schoolwork that her real problem had been eclipsed by her education. But, dormant though it may be, the monster was still there, deep inside of her, waiting to be let loose. It was time she began her research again. Especially now that she had only a few months left before she was done with school.

  Kat pushed her homework away and stood, looking around the library at the rows and rows of leather-bound books and faded journals. Study tables dotted the space between the rows. A clock ticked quietly on the other side of the hall.

  She turned and moved along the shelves to retrieve another armful of journals.

  Returning to her table, she scanned the title of the first article—“Steam Engineering and Its Applications for World City”—and turned the page. A couple more articles, but nothing even remotely related to her condition.

  Kat shut the journal and placed it to her left before reaching for another.

  At least she hadn’t experienced another episode. Of course, avoiding almost every person at school and keeping her emotions to a minimum helped. But how long could she live like that? Her life stretched out before her, an old maid, buried in books and articles, never straying from her house or lab. A caged animal for the rest of her life.

  Kat stared ahead, her fingers curled. I don’t want that. I want a real life, and I want to spend it with people.

  After an hour, she pushed another journal aside and leaned forward, placing her head in her hands. All the fear and discouragement she had hidden beneath her schoolwork over the last few months came rushing back.

  I can’t be the only one like this.

  Can I?

  She clutched at the scarf around her neck, holding it like a noose. But what if I am? What if there is no cure? Maybe I really am destined to live out my life as an old maid. Or risk losing control and . . .

  And what? What was the worst that could happen?

  Memories long buried rushed through her mind. Six years old and angry with Ms. Stuart. The cold lump swelling inside her chest. Waving her hands. Flames popping up across the nursery like tiny red flowers blooming. And the smoke . . .

  Ms. Stuart had hidden the real reason for the nursery fire from her father, stating that a spark had flown from the fireplace.

  But they both knew it had been something quite different. It had come from her.

  She had set the nursery on fire.

  And not just fire. Another time she had pulled everything in the room to herself like a magnet, creating a barrier between her and Ms. Stuart.

  Both times she had been lucky not to hurt Ms. Stuart. And the other times she had been able to stop herself before the monster inside her unleashed. But the next time she might hurt
someone, or worse.

  Kat grabbed another journal, her fingers trembling across the pages. There has to be something—or someone—who can help me! I just need to keep looking.

  Muffled laugher broke out behind her, pulling her back to the library. She turned and looked behind her.

  A group of young men entered the back of the library. One of them caught her eye and said something indistinguishable to the others, sparking a rash of wicked grins.

  Blaylock Sterling.

  Kat twisted back around and fumbled with the journal in front of her. Since that first day, she had more or less successfully avoided Blaylock, sitting on the opposite side of the classroom when they shared a class, pairing up with Marianne for dissections, or studying in her dorm.

  Why did he have to come in here just now?

  Boots clapped across the wooden floor behind her. Heat crept up her neck and along her ears. She closed her eyes. Don’t let them come over here, don’t let them come over here . . .

  She reached for another journal when a hand came to rest on the table to her right.

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here? Miss Bloodmayne has come out of her hidey hole.”

  Kat gritted her teeth and looked up at Blaylock. His ash-blond hair fell across his forehead, covering the left side of his face. He brushed his hair aside, smiled at her, and winked.

  She folded her arms and sat back. “What do you want?”

  He took a seat on the table next to her journals and fingered the closest one. “I just wanted to say hello. It’s generally nice manners to do so.”

  His friends gathered behind him, three in all.

  Kat turned the page of the journal. “Then you have done just that. Now, I am busy and—”

  “But you haven’t said hello.”

  Kat flushed and curled her fingers over the edge of the journal. “Greetings, Mr. Sterling.”

  “Please call me Blaylock. Funny, I haven’t seen you lately in class. I’ve missed seeing your pretty face.” His gaze traveled across her face, then dipped down.

  Kat narrowed her eyes. “Considering many of our classes are separate, not to mention our dorms, and our lives, it is not surprising. Now, Mr. Sterling, I am busy at the moment and have no time for your flirtations.”

  His gaze jerked back up and his lips tightened. “You do realize that by attending this academy, Miss Bloodmayne, you have limited your choices. Most men do not want an educated woman for a wife. Men want other things. I would suggest not ostracizing the only males who might take an interest in you.”

  Kat cocked her head to the side. “Are you saying you’re interested in courtship, Mr. Sterling?”

  He snorted. “I’m saying you could use a few lessons in things other than school.”

  Kat stood and gathered up the journals. “And you would teach me those things?”

  Blaylock straightened and gave her a lazy grin. “I would be willing to give you a few lessons.”

  Was he serious? Kat sniffed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. If you’ll excuse me . . .” She made her way between the young men and scurried down the aisle toward the main library desk, her heart thumping madly inside. Blaylock gave her the chills. No wonder the other women students avoided him and his entourage, despite the young men’s attractive appearances.

  She placed the journals down on the desk in front of a long, lean woman dressed in a dark brown suit with a set of tiny spectacles perched across her narrow nose. “May I check this out over the weekend?”

  The librarian glanced down at the journals and wrote the titles across a long piece of paper. “Return them Monday morning promptly.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Kat grabbed the journals and cast a glance over her shoulder. Blaylock stood by the table she had been sitting at, his arms crossed, a scowl across his handsome face. Something told her this was not over. Blaylock seemed to be in pursuit of something more than just an exchange of coy comments.

  Another chill went down her spine.

  Kat clutched the journals to her chest and hurried to the front door.

  The winter air hit her with a blast of ice and wind. She sucked in her breath and ran across the courtyard toward the dormitories ahead. Tiny flakes clung to her face and eyelashes. She wiped them away and reached for the thick wooden door. With a hard tug, she yanked the door open and scurried inside, pausing in the foyer to catch her breath.

  Nicola entered the room from the right, caught sight of Kat, and stopped.

  Kat sighed. Just what she needed. Another overprivileged heir of World City.

  Nicola crossed her arms, her rich auburn hair down for the night. Even in her robe, she cast an imposing figure. Inches taller than Kat and with a tongue that could skewer the heart of anyone who crossed her path. Which seemed to be Kat all the time.

  Nicola’s gaze moved to the journals Kat clutched, then back to Kat. “Studying some more, Kathryn?” She smirked and shook her head. “It won’t help you. You know you’ll never catch up to me.”

  I don’t care. “I’m not in competition with you, Nicola.”

  “You’re right. You wouldn’t even qualify.” With a flounce of her auburn curls, Nicola turned and headed down the hall.

  Kat drew her lips into a thin line. Nicola was right in one regard: she should be studying if she wanted a chance to be one of Father’s apprentices. On the other hand, if she didn’t find a cure, an apprenticeship would be out of the question anyway. One episode in front of her father and she would be the one the Tower would be studying.

  She pushed away from the door and headed into the drawing room to the left. A fire burned in the marble fireplace, filling the room with a warm, orange light. Two high back chairs, upholstered in a floral green brocade, sat before the fire. An Austrium rug lay on the floor, filled with intricate designs of flowers and leaves.

  Kat went to the chair on the left and sat down with a long sigh. She had the room to herself.

  She placed the journals on the small side table and lifted the most promising one from the stack, a staid collection of medical articles. “Germ Theory of Disease.” Interesting, but no. “Chloroform and Its Uses in the Surgical Theatre.” Professor Flintlocke said something the other day about chloroform and ether being used in surgery. Still, not what she was looking for today.

  The last article in the journal caught her eye. “The Connection Between the Spirit and the Body” by Dr. Joshua Latimer. She skimmed the article, then went back and read it more fully.

  In our pursuit of science, we are forgetting the soul, yet there is no disconnect between the physical and the spiritual. One affects the other. To only focus on one is to overlook what ails the other. Some physical symptoms are caused by maladies of the soul; when the soul is wounded, the body will give evidence.

  Father never put much stock into religion or anything remotely related to the spiritual. The little she knew about the soul came from Ms. Stuart, who believed everyone had a soul inside his or her body. She used to tell Kat stories about God until Father found out. Kat had heard his livid rant all the way up in the nursery, and Ms. Stuart had never mentioned the subject again.

  Could Ms. Stuart have been right?

  Kat brushed the area above her heart. Did a part of her exist somewhere inside here? Was she more than a merely physical collection of chemicals and impulses?

  She held out her hand and flexed her fingers. But then why didn’t anyone else possess this problem? Why was it when she lost control, she moved things or lit things on fire? And she always felt cold and hard inside afterward.

  Was that her soul she was feeling? That cold, hard thing?

  A sudden sadness gripped her as she thought through the possibilities. Perhaps she had a soul and there was something terribly wrong with it. With her.

  One way to find out . . .

  Kat put the jou
rnal away and stood. She would find this Dr. Latimer and ask him.

  Professor Flintlocke paused, his fingers spread along the spine of the book he was in the midst of pulling out from the bookcase. “Why do you want to know about Dr. Latimer?”

  Kat sat in the chair beside his desk. “I read an article of his last night.”

  “An article?” Professor Flintlocke pulled the book out and turned around.

  “In one of the journals I checked out from the library.”

  Professor Flintlocke frowned and took a seat behind his desk. His long white hair was pulled back and wrinkles lined his face. His fingers shook slightly as he opened the book. “And what did Dr. Latimer write that has you so interested?”

  “Something about the body and the soul being connected.”

  His frown deepened. “I see.” He paused, considering her. “Dr. Latimer was once a member of the Tower. But he and Dr. Bloodmayne—your father—disagreed on something. They had a falling out and Dr. Latimer left. No one has heard from him since.”

  Kat leaned forward, her hands clasped together. “So you don’t know where this Dr. Latimer is?”

  Professor Flintlocke shook his head. “I’m afraid not. A year later he was removed from the archives and from the Tower’s list of scientists.”

  Kat frowned. “That seems a bit harsh for a mere disagreement.”

  Professor Flintlocke smoothed the page across the book. “We have standards here at the Tower. If you cannot follow our creeds, then you do not belong here.”

  “So you’re saying Dr. Latimer was removed because he didn’t adhere to the Tower’s beliefs?”

  “Dr. Bloodmayne and the council believed that Dr. Latimer had proven himself incapable of being an unbiased scientist.”

  “I see. And does that bias have anything to do with the article I read?”

  “Miss Bloodmayne, I have no idea how you got ahold of that article. All of Dr. Latimer’s research was purged shortly after he left. If I were you, I would not search for a man whom both the Tower and the World City council barred from practice. Now, I have a lot of work to do before class. So if you will excuse me . . .” The professor looked down at his book and grew silent.