A Soul So Wicked (Moon Chasers)

by Sharie Kohler

  “How have you survived for so long?” he asked.

  “I can’t die.” She twisted one shoulder in a weak shrug. “I don’t have a choice.”

  “There were choices. You didn’t end up in some padded room. And you didn’t turn out like this other witch, either, relishing hurting others, embracing evil.”

  She wet her lips and his eyes followed the movement. Her stomach tightened. Everything inside her told her to look away, to slide her hands out from under his and scoot a little farther down the bed.

  “I just wanted Etienne Marshan punished… I watched him kill my husband, my grandmother. They were the only family I had. And then Balthazar came, promising to punish Etienne.”

  Bleakness consumed her as she stared at him, remembering the old hurt. “I never wanted this to happen. I didn’t think he would do anything to hurt anyone else. Just Etienne. God, every day since, I’ve wished I’d died with Michel and Grandmère. If I had just drowned…”

  She dragged her hands free and pulled her knees to her chest, burying her face between them. The misery that was never very far washed over her.

  A strong, warm hand claimed hers, covering it completely. He made tender shushing sounds, so at odds with what she expected from him. What she deserved.

  Shaking her head, she pulled her hand away. “No. Don’t treat me like I’m something to be pitied.” She started to rise but he pulled her back, folded her in his arms.

  She reacted, struggling. He pinned her with his body, his hands coming up to frame her face, and she stilled, captured by his gaze.

  The sensation of his hands on her face, the raspy palms against her cheeks, pulled at everything inside her, and she felt something deep within her unraveling, like a ribbon on a package coming loose.

  “What are you doing?” She simply breathed the words, her eyes on his mouth, recalling with desperate hunger the taste of him. Her chest tightened, her lungs constricting with the fear, the hope, the prayer, right or wrong, that he would kiss her again.

  He shook his head once, as though jogging some sense into himself. With a ragged breath, he released her and sat back. His shoulders rose and fell as he lowered his head into his hands, seizing fistfuls of the dark hair. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

  His voice sounded pained, regretful—as if he couldn’t stand himself for touching her so intimately. Of course. However horrible he was, she was worse.

  She scooted down the bed, her heart heavy. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. Helplessly. Inanely. It was all she could say. “You shouldn’t touch me. You shouldn’t even be here.”

  Ridiculously hurt that he wasn’t disagreeing with her, she reached the end of the bed, dropping her legs over until her feet touched the ground.

  The hurt was there. A deep pang in her chest. She glanced over her shoulder at him. He clasped his head in his hands as if he was weary.

  She lowered her shaking hands on the edge of the mattress and pushed up. She wasn’t quite standing yet when his hand clamped on her wrist, his strong fingers a warm vise. She hadn’t even heard him move.

  He pulled her around to face him in one smooth move. She stared at him in surprise.

  “I’ve never done anything I should,” he told her. One hand dove into her hair and cupped the back of her head as his lips met hers.

  He fell back on the bed, taking her with him. She sprawled over him, her lower body slipping between his thighs. His lips moved passionately on hers, loving hers, devouring her.

  He kissed her like he was starved for her. Like this was his last kiss on the last day of his life. She touched his cheeks, caressing his face, assuring herself that this moment was real and not some dream.

  The dark mass of her hair fell around them in a veil, and his fingers gathered all the strands, holding them back.

  Her excitement increased, as did the kiss. He might have started it, but now she was fully invested. Desire hummed and sparked through every nerve. She felt alive as she hadn’t since the day she’d died.

  She angled her head to deepen the kiss, desperate to get closer, to fuse them together. She pressed herself against him, moving and thrusting her hips with an instinct that was deep and strong.

  With Darius she didn’t have to think. There was just sensation. Just this.

  His arms circled her waist and he flipped her on her back, coming over her with every tasty inch of him. Her hands roamed his back and chest, hating the shirt that kept her from feeling his skin against her palms. Her fingers flew to the hem, grasping the fabric and tugging it up. His mouth broke from hers so that she could send the shirt flying.

  His lips dragged down her throat, his teeth scraping along her skin in the most delicious way. He growled when he came to the neckline of her sweater and she arched her back so he could pull it free. She didn’t even feel the air before he was on her, covering her again. He brought his head down to nuzzle at her black-lace-covered breasts.

  She sighed and arched, weaving her fingers through his hair, clutching him close.

  His mouth came back to hers. Their lips clung, drinking, tasting, devouring as his hands delved inside her bra, pushing the flimsy fabric aside to expose her sensitive flesh. She gasped into his mouth as he cupped a breast, his palm abrading the aroused nipple.

  With a growl, he wrenched his lips from hers, dragging his mouth down the column of her neck, sucking, nipping at the cords of her throat. She heard the thin fabric of her bra tear, but didn’t care. She needed his hands fully on her, skin to skin.

  Her head dropped back on the bed, a cry rising up in her throat as he clasped her breasts. Her head lolled from side to side, a hoarse plea on her lips.

  His rough palms chafed her tender skin. He took her nipples between his thumb and forefinger and rolled the peaks. She arched her spine, closing her eyes as shards of pleasure-pain spiked through her.

  His breath fired against her throat. She opened her eyes to a gleaming silver that consumed her.

  He pulled back slightly, holding her gaze for another moment before dipping his head and taking her breast with his mouth. His tongue laved her nipple and then sucked deeply. Moisture rushed between her legs. She begged, her words broken and gravelly, the voice unrecognizable.

  He lowered himself down her body, kissing a burning trail as he went. His hands grasped her waistband and in one quick move her leggings were gone. Air caressed her bare skin. And then she felt his hands at her ankles, her calves. Up they slid, skimming the outside of her thighs.

  He came over her again, his fingers teasing the inside of her thighs until she instinctively parted her legs wider.

  “That’s it,” he murmured, his hands slipping higher. One finger eased inside her until she nearly wept from pent-up desire. All the way, he never took his eyes off her. They singed her, molten silver so bright, so deep, she was lost in them.

  He used his thumb, unerringly finding that most aching, sensitive spot, rolling his finger over it until her knees gave out. He caught her legs then, wrapping them around his hips. She had barely recovered her breath when he was there, large and insistent, sliding inside her.

  Their gazes still locked, he paused, the hard length of him throbbing inside her, not fully lodged yet. He held himself still. His shoulders tensed beneath her hands, restraint humming through the corded muscles under her palms. She pulsed, burned, ached, clenching around him, trying to draw him in deeper.

  “Please,” she choked out, her voice that of some wanton creature who dared to let passion rule her. “Please.”

  Surrender flashed in his silver eyes, and she felt its echo answer deep inside her.

  He finally moved, shattering everything she thought she knew about herself, about him, in a single thrust.

  He was buried deep, their bodies joined, fused hotly. He filled her in a way that was more than physical. More than the life she had known these long, long years.

  He groaned, the sound reverberating into her. With one hand beneath her and the other gripping her t
high, he moved forcefully, masterfully, stroking in and out of her. Strong fingers dug into her thigh, angling her for deeper penetration, for pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

  The incredible friction drove her mad. She writhed between his hard body and the bed, desperate, searching for something she didn’t know, something elusive, something that seemed both near and far away.

  “That’s it. Let go,” he breathed in her ear, taking the lobe between his teeth and biting down hard, sending a bolt of hot sensation bursting through her.

  The ache that had started the moment they came together increased, tightening every nerve in her body until she nearly snapped. His thrusts grew harder, faster, until—at last—she exploded into pieces.

  She fell, limp, in his arms, shivering like a leaf falling down to earth. He shuddered against her before collapsing. She reveled in the weight of him, his strong body draped over her.

  Her cheek rested against one broad shoulder, his skin like steel beneath satin. She inhaled the warm, musky scent of his body, savoring him.

  He didn’t budge. And she didn’t want him to. He pulsed within her, just the barest movement. She remained contentedly pinned between him and the bed for several moments, until he stirred.

  He finally rolled over and settled beside her. She didn’t move, afraid that the smallest action would shatter all of this. That with the merest blink she’d wake all alone, the same lost soul as always.

  Cool air crawled over her and she shivered, longing for him to come back to her and cover her with the warm press of his body. Another chill chased over her skin, puckering her nipples, and suddenly Darius was there, pulling the covers up over her.

  She snuggled deeper into the covers, content that she didn’t have to move… that she didn’t have to say anything, didn’t have to put into words what this meant to her.

  Everything.

  She chased the word away, refusing to let herself think such a dangerous thought.

  Darius moved closer, aligning his body with hers. “Get some rest.” His arm slid around her waist. After a few moments, she rested her hand on his arm, relishing the solid feel of him, wishing she could have this always.

  * * *

  THE KNIFE’S AN EXTENSION of you. It fits your hand so perfectly. Like it’s always belonged there.

  The boy beneath you is such a child. No Jason. Staring down at him, you’re almost sorry Jason is gone. This one was such an easy conquest. He’d followed you upstairs unquestioningly—such an eager little puppy.

  Carson moans, mewling like a baby through his gag as you dig the point against his cheek. Blood wells up, pooling around the blade’s tip. Satisfaction consumes you. Carson’s eyes bulge as you dig through your bag and take out a small plastic Ziploc full of rose petals.

  He doesn’t deserve the petals, but why break with tradition? You take care as you spread the delicate pink blossoms over his torso and arrange them around him on his rumpled, unmade bed. College boys are such slobs.

  The party throbs all around you. A frown pulls at your lips. A distraction you don’t like. It makes you feel rushed, clumsy in your efforts.

  You smear the blade in his blood, streaking it across his face in a splash of red, coating the gleaming surface until it glistens wetly. You drag the knife down the center of his chest.

  Carson thrashes wildly. Ignoring his useless efforts, you focus on your task… art, really. Carefully, you readjust the grip in both hands, positioning the knife above his belly, every inch of you quivering with anticipation, waiting for the relief of it to ease into you. Like the last time. And the time before that.

  Inhaling, you plunge.

  SEVENTEEN

  Tresa lurched awake with a choking cry, her hands clutching her belly as though she felt the knife lodged there.

  Darius sat up beside her, his hand dropping to her shoulder, squeezing gently. “What is it? What’s wrong? Is it her again?”

  She swallowed, fighting for breath, and nodded. “She did it again. Carson. She killed Carson.”

  Darius’s eyes gleamed down at her, the silver cutting through the darkness. “The boy from tonight? Erin’s cousin?”

  She nodded. She should never have left the party. She knew the killer had been there. She’d been with Carson. The witch had probably even seen them together.

  And now he was dead.

  “It just happened.” She shook her head, correcting herself. “It’s happening now. They’re probably still at the house. I could hear the party in the background. She had him in a room… on a bed.” She closed her eyes in an agonized blink. She was carving him up on a bed just like the others. Except she was getting bolder. She was killing smack in the middle of a party.

  Darius sat up and flipped on the lamp. Light flooded the room. He moved swiftly, dressing himself. She dropped to the floor and found her clothes.

  “We’re too late. Again,” she muttered, holding her sweater tightly to her chest. “Carson’s dead.”

  “Yeah. But maybe she’s still there. And maybe you can identify her.”

  She nodded numbly, dressing quickly. Hard to believe an hour ago she’d been in Darius’s arms, reveling in pleasure, feeling things she hadn’t felt since Etienne Marshan and Balthazar came and stole everything from her.

  The reminder of how she’d spent the evening made her feel guilty. She should have been hunting a demon instead of enjoying herself.

  “Tre?” Darius stood at the door, one hand on the doorknob, watching her with a penetrating stare. “You okay?”

  No. She wasn’t okay. She was afraid of facing Balthazar again. Afraid of what she’d felt wrapped up in Darius. And then ashamed for feeling that way. Too ashamed to admit it to him.

  He dropped his hand from the doorknob and faced her, his expression concerned. Her heart squeezed a little, hoping that what they’d shared meant something. That it was more than just a physical release. More than two bodies coming together in need. “Can you do this?”

  She blinked. He was asking her? As though she had a choice? The freedom to choose hadn’t been hers in fifty lifetimes.

  She moved to the door, striding past him. “Of course. Hopefully she’s still there and we can single her out.”

  As they moved down the hall to the elevator, images of Carson’s last moments played over and over in her head. She had to have seen or felt something in that brief time she’d been in the witch’s head. An action, a whisper of a thought, that gave away some clue to her identity.

  As they drove across town back to the frat house, she bit her lip, worrying the tender flesh. Seized with a sudden thought, she dug out Detective Flannery’s card and punched her numbers into the phone.

  The detective picked up on the first ring. “Was wondering when you would call me.”

  “I know you don’t believe me,” she said without preamble.

  Darius slid her a long look as he drove.

  She continued, “But there’s been another murder. At the frat house in the middle of campus. A guy named Carson.”

  “How do you know this?” Flannery’s usually composed voice came across as testy.

  “Do you really want an explanation you’re not willing to believe, Detective? Go to the house. The killer is probably still there. In the house… at the party. Search and question everyone. She’s bound to have blood somewhere on her person.” Tresa punched end and tossed the phone down.

  She shot a quick glance at Darius. A small smile played about his lips.

  “What?”

  “I like it when you show your fangs.”

  She snorted. “I didn’t think you liked it so much when we first met.”

  “Yeah… well. I was the recipient then.”

  She stared out at the dark night, wishing they were already there yet dreading what awaited them. “You think they’ll come?”

  “The cops? Most definitely. Their number one suspect just called and told them where to find another body. They’ll be there in force.”

  She
huffed out a breath as he turned off the highway. “That’s right. They were one step from arresting me today.” Was that just today? Seemed like days had passed since then. She shook her head and watched as commercial buildings faded into a familiar residential area. They were almost there.

  It was past one, but the party was still in full swing as they turned onto the street and jockeyed for a parking place. Possibly even more cars crowded the street.

  They found a distant spot and advanced down the street together, quiet and grim, their strides swift. When they entered the front door, Darius took her hand, his grip tight.

  “Stay close,” he instructed, clearly determined not to lose her again in the crowd.

  She nodded, and took the lead, moving up the crowded stairs, her feet pounding on the steps, intent on finding Carson. They opened door after door, earning several shouts from couples making out. At one room, the door was locked. She smoothed a palm over the wood, and she simply knew. She looked at Darius, dread sinking inside her as she nodded.

  Darius moved her aside and kicked in the door.

  She peered inside. Bile rose up in her throat. Carson was there. Just as she knew he would be.

  Just as she had seen him.

  Only he wasn’t thrashing and fighting for his life against his gag and bindings. He was still, motionless. A bloody, gory mess. So much blood. The smiling, flirting boy was nowhere in evidence.

  She looked away, her hand tightening around Darius’s.

  With a sharp curse, he pulled her out of the room before anyone else could see inside. He glanced up and down the corridor. A drunken couple stumbled out of a room and laughingly descended the stairs.

  “I doubt she’s still here,” Darius said. “There’s most likely blood on her. She probably slipped away before anyone looked too closely at her.”

  “No.” She shook her head and lifted her face. “Balthazar is close…”

  So she was, too.

  Downstairs the music was suddenly cut off. Voices rose in protest.