A Soul So Wicked (Moon Chasers) (13 page)

Erin rolled her eyes. “Sure you do.” She swung her gaze to Darius. Her eyes softened. “What about you? You a freak-show, too?”

“No,” he answered, his lip faintly curling, and Tresa knew he didn’t like the freak-show jab. If the girl knew he was a lycan, she would run screaming from the room.

“Good,” she purred. “I didn’t think so.”

“I’m her—” His eyes captured Tresa’s and clung for a long moment.

She held her breath, wondering what he was going to say.

“Partner,” he finished.

Well, that was… clinical. Professional. For the best.

Erin smiled brightly. Apparently Darius had passed some kind of test. She scooted her chair a little closer, cozying up to him. “What does that mean? You her boss or something?”

“Or something.” His gaze slid from Tresa to Erin, leveling her with his hypnotic silver eyes. “Maybe you can help us.”

She propped her chin on her fist, her expression a bit dazed. “I’d love to help you.”

Tresa shook her head, disgusted at how easily he’d caused the girl to be enamored of him.
Damn lycan
. And it
was
disgust. Not jealousy.

She glanced at Erin’s cousin, who also watched with a rapt expression. Lycan magnetism. It wasn’t magic exactly. Just some serious charm.

Why hadn’t Darius used his magnetism on her? Or maybe he had. She blinked at the sudden thought. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t stop thinking about him last night, shirtless, his hands on her legs, his mouth on hers, his tongue…

Her breath caught and her stomach dipped at the memory. Maybe that’s why she’d broken down and acted on her impulses, surrendered to her desires with him.

And yet somehow she knew he hadn’t manipulated her—if he even could. That would be too easy an excuse for her wanton behavior last night. If he controlled her actions, she wouldn’t feel so guilty, wouldn’t be beating herself up for wholeheartedly falling into
that kiss with him. He had been the one to stop them from going any further, after all. That didn’t seem like the behavior of someone putting her in his thrall.

Darius touched the back of Erin’s hand with one finger as he talked. Something tightened in Tresa’s chest and she fidgeted uncomfortably on her chair as she observed the flirtation. Part of her wanted to get up and walk away, escape whatever it was she felt. The other part of her wanted to snatch his hand off the girl.

She told herself it was because she wanted to protect the unsuspecting female. Not because she felt possessive. He was flirting with the girl to establish a connection and ferret out information. That was all.

The college girl looked down at Darius’s finger on the back of her hand. The tip of her tongue slowly traced her lip and Tresa knew she was imagining more than his finger on her.

He talked to her, his voice low, seductive. “All the victims were college students. Did you know any of them?”

“Sure. I knew Jason. His frat house has all the best parties. Everyone knew him. And Shannan worked here.” She gestured to the
room. “She played soccer. Every guy on campus wanted to get with her.”

Tresa absorbed this information. It seemed as if all the victims were well-known to others. So it seemed doubtful that Balthazar’s witch was killing randomly.

These were people who had pissed her off somehow. Legitimately or not, she felt they had wronged her. And someone out there probably knew that about her.

“Jason’s frat is having a party tonight in Jason’s honor. Like a memorial for him. You should come.” The girl flicked her glance to Tresa. “You can bring her, too. Maybe she’ll sniff out the killer.” Her mouth twisted as if this was almost funny.

“Yeah,” Carson seconded. He leaned forward, looking directly at Tresa, his expression urging. “Big white house at the end of Academy Drive. You can’t miss it.”

Tresa nodded, looking at Darius, seeing in his face that he, like her, thought it was a good idea to attend. “Yeah. We’ll go.”

Leaning back in her chair, a sharp sense of relief rolled through her. The witch would undoubtedly be there tonight; she wouldn’t be able to stay away. Tresa would know her when she saw her, and soon this would be over.

She ignored that other feeling lurking beneath the relief.
Fear
.

Because facing this witch meant facing Balthazar again. And that could mean losing herself all over again.

T
HIRTEEN

T
he detectives were waiting in the lobby when Tresa and Darius returned to the hotel. Darius tensed beside her as Simpson and Flannery stepped in their path.

“Detectives,” she greeted them, so he immediately knew who they were and didn’t unleash himself on them.

“Ms. Morgan.” Flannery looked Darius over carefully, sizing him up.

“You’re back.” Tresa crossed her arms. “Changed your mind about me? Decided I’m not a fraud, after all?”

“Maybe.” Simpson’s expression didn’t give a hint of his thoughts. “We’d like you to come with us to look at some photos.”

“You have a suspect, then?” Darius asked.

“Who are you?” Simpson took a step forward, lifting his chest in that way men did when they were trying to look intimidating.

Darius jerked his head toward her. “A friend.”

“We’ll drive,” Flannery interjected, as if it was decided.

Darius looked down at Tresa. She shrugged and fell in step behind the detectives. They led the way, not speaking until all four of them were in the car and heading across town.

“Where you two from?” Simpson broke the silence to ask.

Tresa slid Darius a look and answered for herself. “Alaska.”

“Long way from home,” Simpson murmured, tapping the steering wheel.

Tresa stared at Flannery’s profile. Even without an ounce of makeup, she was attractive. The soft angles of her face made her age hard to determine. Tresa placed her somewhere in her late twenties.

“Why do you want to talk to me?”

After a shared look with her partner, Flannery answered, “We found DNA on the victim. And a hair.”

“Confirming your killer is female.”

“C’mon. Tell us how you really knew we were looking for a woman,” Simpson demanded, looking back at her in the rearview mirror. He still thought she was full of shit.

She snorted and looked out the window. “I told you how. You just don’t want to accept that.”

She didn’t need them to believe her. They were taking her to the police station, where she could learn more, maybe see some of the evidence they had. Maybe she would even see a photo of the witch responsible for so much pain. Tresa hoped that would be enough to recognize her.

The station was crowded when they arrived, and she wondered if it had anything to do with the murders or if this was just business as usual. Phones rang and bodies rushed around.

“Busy,” Darius murmured, apparently thinking the same thing.

“We’ve got everyone working overtime. We set up a tip line. San Vista isn’t the type of place to get a lot of serial killers.” Simpson looked at Tresa as he said this. Strangely, she felt that there was accusation in his gaze.

Flannery led them to her desk and motioned to the chair beside it. “You can wait here, sir.”

Darius looked from the chair to the detective. “Where are you taking her?”

Unease trickled down Tresa’s spine.

“Just that room over there.” Flannery motioned to a door.

“Any reason I can’t accompany her?”

The two detectives exchanged looks.

“Is that an interrogation room?” Tresa demanded, suddenly knowing that she wasn’t
here simply to look at photographs. “You want me to go in there? With you?”

At their silence, she pressed. “Are you planning to interrogate me or show me some pictures? Which is it?”

They stared at her blankly.

“I’m such an idiot.” She snorted in disgust, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why did you really bring me here? Are you arresting me?”

“No. They’re not.” Darius took her hand and started to pull her back toward the door. “Let’s go.”

Simpson slapped a hand on his arm. “Hold on a minute.”

Darius stilled and looked at that hand on his arm. “Take your hand off me,” he threatened in a low voice, so deep and menacing, unlike the way he’d even spoken to Tresa the day they’d first met. And he’d terrified her then.

Slowly, his stare lifted and the two of them looked at each other intently. Darius’s eyes glittered brightly, like stars in a dark night.

“Darius,” she murmured, worried that he might actually start growling like a beast there in the police station.

Simpson let go of his arm, and Tresa released the breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding.

She turned her glare on Flannery. She was the more reasonable of the two detectives, and Tresa felt the most betrayed by her. “You didn’t have to trick me,” she snapped. “I’m trying to help you and this investigation, and now you’re treating me like I’m a suspect.”

“Nothing
like
about it,” Simpson drawled, leaning a hip against the desk and crossing his arms over his chest.

Her temper rose, getting the better of her. For some reason she saw all those faces again, so many years ago… friends, neighbors, looking at her with condemnation, smirks on their faces, ready to loop the noose around her neck. They reminded her of these detectives.

Flannery copied her partner’s pose, crossing her arms. “You were right. Our suspect
is
a woman. A witness saw Jason Morris enter the hotel with a woman.” She looked her up and down assessingly. “A woman about your build. Brown hair.”

Tresa stared at her, unable to speak as the implication sank in.

They thought she was the killer.

Simpson picked up where Flannery had left off. “A simple lineup with our witness can clear up this whole matter…”

“She’s not doing it,” Darius stated, his voice flat.

“Why? She got something to hide?”

Darius tugged her closer to his side. “Under what circumstances did this witness view this female with Jason Morris? At night? From the back? Across a parking lot? Was she drinking? Had a beer or wine with dinner maybe?”

At the questions, Flannery looked uncomfortable, Simpson just annoyed.

“That’s what I thought.” Darius took her hand. His broad hand swallowed hers, warm and solid, the sensation comforting.

“Am I under arrest?” Tresa asked.

Finally, grudgingly, Flannnery replied, “No.”

“Come on.” With a pull of his hand, Darius led her toward the doors.

She dug in her heels and turned, staring directly at Detective Flannery. “Check the airlines. I’ve only been in town two days. If I killed Jason Morris, then who killed the other victims? Every minute you waste looking at me, you lose hunting the killer who’s out there getting ready to strike again.”

Because Balthazar wasn’t satisfied. He couldn’t ever be satisfied. His hunger for the misery of others was voracious.

Darius tugged on her hand and she followed him out of the police station.

* * *

T
RESA STARED OUT THE
backseat window of the cab, hands tucked between her knees. The seat creaked beneath Darius as he leaned forward to glimpse her face. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, scanned the streets they flew past.

He leaned back, uncomfortable with the notion that she might be sad or upset. That she could even feel such normal human emotions was still something he struggled to accept. Even after last night and having lost his head over her.

He cleared his throat. “You okay?”

“Hmm?” She turned to him with a distracted look.

“Back there… don’t let that get to you.”

“That I’m under suspicion for murder? That the police I’m trying to help think I’m some sick killer? Why would I be upset about that?”

The driver’s gaze jerked to them in the rear-view mirror, and Darius glared at the man until he returned his attention to the road.

“What do you care what they think? You didn’t do it.” He slid closer on the seat. “While they’re scratching their asses, we’ll be closing in on her.”

Her mouth twitched and she sent him an amused look. “Scratching their asses?”

Her smile lifted his spirits and made his own mouth curl into a grin.

After a moment her smile melted away. Silence fell again and she went back to looking out the window, every inch of her radiating displeasure. Evidently she couldn’t shake her encounter with those idiot detectives. He breathed with relief when the car stopped in front of their hotel. He much preferred talking to her without someone listening in.

They stepped from the car and he quickly paid the driver. The sun was starting to set. He grasped her arm to lead her into the hotel so they could get ready for the party tonight. Their first real lead. He had to look at it that way. It was the only way he could stomach the notion of hanging out at a frat party with a bunch of smashed college students.

She pulled free of him. “I need a little air. Just a short walk.”

She started down the sidewalk, and he fell into step beside her.

She stopped and swung to face him, crossing her arms defensively across her chest. “I don’t require an escort.”

“Well, you have one.” He continued on a few steps, stopping when he saw that she wasn’t with him. He turned to look back at her.

She stared up at him, cold determination in those cat eyes of hers. And a certain frostiness. “I’m not going to run away. Surely you know—”

“That’s not what I’m afraid of.” Until the words escaped him, he hadn’t realized they were the truth. In his eyes, she wasn’t his prisoner anymore. Somehow, in all of this, the scales had tipped and placed them on an equal footing.

He no longer saw her as his opponent. His perspective had changed.
He
had changed.

The elegant twin slashes of her eyebrows drew together. “Then why—”

“Better than anyone, you know how unsafe this world is.”

“I’ve managed this long without you.”

“Oh. Is that what you’ve been doing? Managing?” He shook his head. “What you’ve been doing is running. Hiding. How many years have you spent secluded, in utter isolation in subarctic climates, eking out an existence?”