“But when he was talking to Margaret, he said he’d been in love with her for at least five years,” Soren said. “The point is that the pretender inherited the real Tom’s feelings for Margaret and then confused them with its own. Or, if you want to put it more poetically, Tom’s love for Margaret was so strong that it infected the pretender when it took Tom’s identity. Like a virus.”
“What a great Hallmark card that would make—‘Baby, your love is like a virus,’” she said.
“That kind of infection has happened before,” Soren said. “The pretender stays too long in an identity and starts to be confused about who and what it is. Sometimes you can want a thing so badly, you convince yourself it’s true. It’s rare but it happens. In this case I realized that was why the pretender didn’t run off the minute you hinted you knew who it was. Alternatively, it was the reason it didn’t kill us all immediately. The pretender’s feelings for Margaret were the only leverage I had.”
“But forcing her to reject it could have backfired,” Annika said. “It could have become enraged and slaughtered us.”
“Definitely could have happened,” Soren said. “Sometimes you just get lucky.”
“Good to know I almost died,” Annika said.
“I’m reckless,” Soren said. “It’s a good reason not to hire me. Now we also have a very pissed-off pretender out there, and that’s not good for anyone.”
“You’re perfect,” Annika said, and flashed that smile at him again. “As for the pretender, don’t worry about him. I’ve already sent a message to have him picked up. We may not be able to kill him, but we can study him. He shouldn’t be a threat to anyone anymore.”
That got Soren’s attention. He’d fought pretenders many times but never had the opportunity to examine them. Still, the casualness in the way she talked disturbed him. These were dangerous creatures.
“You’re quick on your feet, smart, and you know your stuff,” Annika continued. “We need you.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
Annika fidgeted for a moment and produced a small purse Soren hadn’t noticed she’d been carrying. She opened it, pulled out a card, and handed it to Soren. Her name was embossed in gold letters, along with a title, “Research Director.” Below that was another name: “The Wallace Institute of Supernatural Studies.”
Soren let his tongue rub over his teeth as he stared at the card.
“Never heard of it,” he said finally.
“We’re relatively new,” she said. “And we’re not like most of these places, with their crackpot scientific experiments trying to prove telepathy exists. We pursue only the most interesting cases, the ones with genuine paranormal activity.”
“To what end?”
Annika gave him a skeptical look.
“To find out what’s happening, Soren,” she said. “We want to know what’s going on.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. “People have been chasing ghost stories for millennia. There’s nothing ‘going on.’”
“Come on, you know exactly what I mean,” she said. “For the past six years there’s been an increasing amount of supernatural activity all across the world. Not just the traditional stuff, like bleeding walls or frogs raining from the sky, but new and disturbing events. Like the case in Cambodia where a whole village witnessed a shadowy creature level their homes and eat a third of the population. Or in the Australian outback where a reported ‘witch’ was able to call down a funnel of water from the sky in the middle of the driest land on earth. Only one witness lived to tell about it; the rest drowned. Or why go across the world? How about the reports from multiple people near the Manassas battlefield in 2008 who supposedly saw Civil War ghosts refighting the battle?
“In just the last several years, the rate of unexplained phenomena has skyrocketed, and no one seems to understand why. It’s scaring the hell out of anyone who tracks these kind of events, but the rest of the world is dismissing it. We aren’t. We’re worried.”
“About what?” Soren asked.
“That what we’re witnessing is just the start,” Annika said. “Something changed a few years ago. We don’t know what, but it’s as if the old rules no longer apply. We’ve heard of creatures walking the earth that hadn’t been seen in centuries. It can’t be a coincidence. Something is happening.”
“And that is . . . ?”
“I can only tell you what we’re afraid of. There are some of us who believe this is the beginning of the end.”
“Of what?”
“Of everything,” she finished.
Soren leaned back in his seat and watched some leaves blow down the street. Six months ago he had laid out all of his case files across the floor of his office. He’d concluded exactly what Annika was suggesting—the pace of supernatural activity was speeding up. But he’d been unable to fathom the cause.
“What’s the case?” he asked after a few moments.
“Two months ago four graduate students walked into a forest; only one of them came out alive,” Annika said.
She said the words calmly, with even a hint of cheerfulness, as if she were discussing the outcome of a particularly interesting football game.
“Two of them were later found hanging from trees. The third is still missing but likely dead,” Annika continued.
“And the fourth?”
“Locked up in a holding cell in Richmond,” Annika said. “The police believe he did it.”
Soren shook his head.
“He probably did,” he said. “Four people go in and only one comes out, it’s a good bet that person had something to do with the crime committed.”
Annika let out a chuckle.
“That’s a pretty ironic statement coming from you,” she said.
Soren gave her a warning look.
“There are exceptions,” he said.
Annika cocked her head, her expression neutral.
“Fair enough,” she said. “I’ve been careful not to bring up that particular incident. It’s not why we want to hire you.”
“Then what is?”
“I’ve already said,” she replied. “You’re the best. Also, the way we look at it, whatever is happening, you’re already caught up in it, whether you understand that or not. And we’d like to use you. You’re clearly intelligent, resourceful, and, best of all, successful. We’re still not sure how you did what you did in the Shenandoah incident. Other people die, yet you seem to come through unscathed.”
“I only wish that were true.”
Annika leaned in, drawing close to Soren.
“Why do we want you? Unlike the rest of us, you already know there are monsters out there,” she said. “Hell, you’ve fought them. I’d kill to know what you’ve seen.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” he said.
“Work with us, Soren,” she continued. “If you help us here, it’s just the start. We have money, connections, and anything else you might want.”
The words themselves weren’t sensual, but something about the way she said them was undoubtedly provocative.
“No,” Soren replied.
She opened her mouth to speak but he interrupted her.
“I don’t trust you,” he said. “You could have come to me yesterday and told me all this, but you purposely set up an incident. You endangered not just my life but the lives of several others. And you don’t even seem to feel bad about it. This isn’t a game.”
Annika eyed him carefully, and he saw a hint of anger beneath her calm facade.
“We know it’s not a game,” she said. “We just needed to see you in action.”
“You still—”
“Tell you what,” she said, “take the evening to think it over. I’ll e-mail you the particulars of the case. Look at them. This is about more than just these four kids, I promise you. The place where this happened is at the center of something big—I can feel it. Once you look it all over, I think you’ll change your mind.”
Annika open
ed the door and started to get out before Soren could reply. She stopped as she was leaving, turned back, and said, “Oh, and I love the sunglasses. Very Bono.” Then she stood up, shut the door, and started walking away.
He hadn’t given her his e-mail address, but he supposed that was at least partly the point. She had made it clear she knew all about him, so she undoubtedly already had it. Her research seemed designed to impress him, but instead it made him wary.
But there was something about her that he couldn’t put his finger on. He found her intriguing; he just hoped the short skirt wasn’t affecting his judgment.
As he drove home, he had the unshakable feeling that even if he kept refusing to take the case, Annika Taylor wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
Chapter Four
Soren dreamed of blood and fire.
He knew the vision intimately, understood its contours and rhythm. It was a picture he painted in his mind every night. Instead of splashes of color, it was made from strokes of human emotion. First came a layer of warm affection, followed by coatings of fear, terror, rage, and—finally—grief.
He woke up shouting, covered in sweat. A familiar wave of hopelessness crashed over him, leaving him lying in bed staring at the ceiling. He wanted to stay that way forever. He struggled to remember why he should get up. Then he closed his eyes again and saw a face in his memory. Her face.
He threw his legs over the bed and realized he’d overslept. He took a shower, dressed, and made his way to the office, still trying to shake off the feeling of futility that stalked him. He had a mission, but he doubted it would ever be completed.
“You’re late,” came a voice at the reception desk when he walked in.
Soren saw Glen leaning back in his chair, glaring at him. He was a good ten years younger than Soren, barely more than a teenager. He had red hair and freckled skin. He was so skinny he looked malnourished, yet his condition seemed a result of his metabolism, not his diet. Soren had seen him down two Big Macs in a single sitting several times. He wore loose clothing and a baseball cap for a team Soren didn’t recognize.
“I’m the boss, remember?” Soren said. “And since when do you care?”
“You have three phone messages from a . . .” Glen paused while he looked at the notes on his desk. “Ms. Annika Taylor. She said it’s urgent she talk with you.”
She was persistent—Soren would grant her that.
“She’s sent you several large files in your e-mail,” Glen said. “I tried printing them out, but it was using up all the paper. Besides, I didn’t think you wanted me printing photos of bloated corpses.”
“When did you start reading my e-mails?” Soren asked. “I don’t remember saying you could do that. Come to think about it, I don’t remember giving you my password either.”
“It wasn’t exactly taxing my skills, boss,” Glen said. “Welcome1234 is a pretty lame password.”
“I’m about to change it to killmyassistantnow. How does that sound?”
“It’s longer, and I doubt you’d remember it two weeks from now,” Glen said. “How did last night go?”
“A pretender tried to kill me,” Soren replied.
“So the usual, then? Excellent,” Glen said. “Did you kill it?”
Soren shook his head.
“I decapitated it with a sword and it regrew its head.”
“Holy shit, that’s impressive,” Glen said.
“That wasn’t the word I’d use.”
“So how are you still alive?” Glen asked.
“My vast array of improvisational skills,” he said. “Is there anything else?”
“Are you going to call the girl back?”
“Doubt it,” Soren said. “She’s trouble.”
“What are we, in The Maltese Falcon now?” Glen asked. His voice changed, becoming deeper. “I knew from the moment she walked into my office that the girl was trouble.”
Soren looked at him blankly.
“I never get your impressions, Glen,” Soren said. “You know that.”
Glen looked annoyed.
“Too bad,” he said. “It was a great Humphrey Bogart—just take my word for it.”
“Never heard of him,” Soren said.
“Sometimes you really freak me out, boss,” Glen said.
“Speaking of which, do you know who Bono is?” Soren asked, unconsciously touching the sunglasses on his face.
Glen laughed out loud.
“Good one,” he said, before pausing to stare at Soren. “Wait, you really don’t know, do you?”
Soren frowned.
“I told you before,” he said. “I have no interest in pop culture.”
Glen gave Soren an unreadable look.
“Yeah, but . . .” He let his voice trail off. “Anyway, I’d look at the girl’s e-mail. She might be ‘trouble,’ but the case is right up your alley.”
Soren didn’t give an answer but headed past Glen down the hallway. He didn’t need an assistant, but this one had come with the space—literally. Soren used to work out of his apartment, until Terry Jacobsen, a retiring parapsychologist he’d been friendly with, made the surprising decision to hand over his Leesburg office to him. The sole condition was that he continue to employ the man’s nephew.
Soren had hesitations about working with anyone—or even using an office. Yet he thought it might be good for him. There had been some days when he just didn’t get out of bed. Having an office, somewhere to go to, had helped to change that.
But the bow-tied Terry Jacobsen had been far more generous than Soren deserved. The office was spacious and centered in the prime real estate area of Leesburg. Unfortunately, Soren had done little to decorate the place, despite its nice hardwood flooring and high ceilings. It almost felt vacant, except for the desk at the front and the bookshelves in Soren’s office.
He supposed his decorative taste was at least in keeping with Jacobsen’s. When Terry had owned the office, the only item of note had been a painting of Ball’s Bluff battlefield and a card table. The back office—which Soren now used as his private space—had been stuffed with boxes and old equipment. To the best of his knowledge, Terry hadn’t ever properly used it. At least Soren was employing the full space now, even if he wasn’t going to win any awards from Southern Living magazine.
Soren walked down the hall and turned into his back office before stopping in surprise. Looking at his books was a black woman in her early thirties. She was tall, slender, and stunningly beautiful. Her hair was different than the last time Soren had seen her. She had straightened it and grown it out to shoulder length.
Her presence brought back a flood of memories. Soren felt like he had been punched in the gut.
“Sara,” he said out loud before he could help himself. She turned and gave him a smile.
“You never told me your office was so nice,” she replied.
Soren raised a finger in the air.
“Could you give me one second, please?” he asked.
Sara looked bemused and replied, “Sure.”
Soren turned around and stomped down the hallway to stand in front of Glen.
“Were you going to mention the woman in my office?” he asked.
Glen kept looking at something on his computer, not bothering to look up.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “There’s a hot woman in your office, boss.”
Soren resisted the urge to slap his assistant on the back of the head. Glen turned and must have seen something in his face.
“Jesus, Soren, I just forgot,” he said. “She came in an hour ago, and when she mentioned she wanted to see your office, I let her in there. She’s been quiet ever since. She said she’s an old friend, that you and her go way back.”
He let the wave of anger pass. He nodded but didn’t say anything more, instead turning on his heel and walking back to his office.
“He didn’t tell you I was in here, did he?” Sara asked when he reappeared.
“Glen isn’t what you would
call a model assistant,” Soren replied. “He spends a lot of his time on the computer playing Minecraft.”
“Shouldn’t you fire him?”
Soren shook his head.
“He came with the space. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”
“It’s what I get for showing up unannounced,” she said. “But I got tired of hoping you would call.”
Soren opened his mouth to respond.
“Save it, Chase,” Sara said, and laughed. “I’m not here to bust your balls or hear your excuses. But I made you promise that we were going to be friends again, remember? And part of that means actually talking to one another.”
“Is something wrong?” Soren asked.
Sara shook her head.
“There doesn’t have to be something wrong for me to see you,” she said. “I’m checking up on you. That’s what friends do.”
Soren watched her for a long moment. Of course there was something bothering her. He’d known it the moment he’d seen her.
“No more ghost problems?” Soren asked.
Sara gave another chuckle.
“No, thank God for that,” she said.
Soren had been shocked to receive a call from Sara six months ago asking for his assistance. Her son, Alex, had disappeared at a nearby playground. When Sara finally tracked him down in a panic, she’d found him talking to a man with white hair, who promptly disappeared. The experience jarred Sara badly enough that she had turned to Soren, a man she hadn’t spoken to in almost eight years. It had turned out to be far more complicated than a simple haunting, and Soren was glad she’d reached out. It was the least he could do after the hell she’d been through.
“Listen,” Sara continued, “do you want to go to lunch? I have to leave in a couple hours to get back in time to pick up Alex after school, but I have some time to kill.”
Soren thought briefly of Annika’s e-mails still waiting for him unopened but decided not to worry about it. If Sara was here, she took priority.
“Sure,” he said.
He ushered her out of his office and back into the hallway, noticing again her poise and gracefulness. When she walked, she almost seemed to be gliding.
“We’re going out,” Soren said.
The Forest of Forever (The Soren Chase Series, Book One) Page 5