Heart and Soul (2 page)

It had been six months since Mal had brought her here and it was hell. Surrounded by Hunters, men and women who watched every move she made, judged every little thing she did. People who knew what she had done and hated her for it. People who didn’t understand this drastic shift in her life. Leandra didn’t understand it herself.

From serving the Scythe to being a Hunter. “It’s no wonder I feel like I’m going mad,” she muttered.

It would help, though, if she didn’t have to be
here
.

Here.
All because her trainer, the damnable Malachi, had ordered her here.

Of all the places he could have taken her, he chose to bring her back here, back to where she had come face-to-face with her own stupidity, where she would be face-to-face with her demons.

Blowing out a breath, she climbed from the bed and moved to the bathroom. She wouldn’t be getting any more sleep. Might as well take a shower.

 

 

MICHAEL PRESCOTT CAME AWAKE, BITING BACK A groan of pain. Instinctively, he clapped a hand over the long-healed scar in his side.

He’d been dreaming again.

Dreams of Leandra weren’t unusual, but he didn’t generally dream about the day she’d shot him full of silver and poison. At least not until recently.

At first, when she’d come to Eli Crawford’s, he’d known only a hot anticipation. He watched her, he waited—and she ignored him. When she saw him coming, she turned around and went the other way. If he entered a room where she was, Leandra left.

It was enough to drive him insane.

Hell, some people would think he was already insane. He was dying of lust over a woman who had fired a bullet into him five years earlier. That could easily make him certifiable, he supposed.

Most guys would probably want revenge.

Mike, though, all he wanted was to get close to her—close enough to touch her, close enough to kiss her, close enough to strip her naked and mount her.

But of course, Leandra was determined to stay away from him. He’d almost say she
ran
from him.

And Leandra wasn’t exactly the type to run from anything.

Of course, she sure as hell knew how to avoid something. The more she avoided him, the more he needed to get close to her. And the more often he had that damned dream. The dream where she shot him, and then turned the gun on herself.

In his dream, he was helpless, forced to watch as she bled to death in front of him. Dying. Hell, Leandra was dying inside and had been for years.

Nobody seemed to see it, though. Or maybe some of them did, and just didn’t care.

Mike knew that a lot of them didn’t. It didn’t seem like Leandra did, either.

Leandra went out of her way to hold herself apart from the others. Like now. She had the night off. No patrol, no training, but instead of spending time with fellow Hunters, she was leaving alone.

She did have a few friends here, or people who called her friend, but she avoided even them. Leandra was solitary. Unless she was training or otherwise forced to spend time with the Hunters, Leandra remained aloof and alone.

Mike watched her as she slid out of the house in silence. Although there were people on the porch and more lingering here and there, enjoying the peaceful night, not one person spoke to her. And Leandra didn’t so much as look at them.

It was no surprise. He hadn’t ever seen her approach anybody. Not once, in all the weeks she had been here. He ought to know; he’d spent most of those weeks watching her.

She didn’t want to be here. If Malachi hadn’t forced it on her, Leandra would likely have stayed away from the Enclave in West Virginia entirely. Only her honor and stubbornness kept her from leaving, training or no.

It was written in those deep amber eyes how very little she wanted to be here, and Mike really couldn’t blame her.

As proud as he was to serve as a Hunter of the Council, some of his fellow Hunters were completely blind. They couldn’t look at Leandra without hatred and resentment. She wasn’t a poster child for the Hunters. Well, not their idea of one, anyway.

Mike hadn’t ever met a person more deserving of the honor.

She’d been lied to, abused, and manipulated most of her life, and still she had fought her way past that to look for the truth. When she had discovered it, she hadn’t just been sorry, she’d been willing to give up her life to atone for the wrongs she had done.

Leandra had all the honor and bravery that was required of a Hunter. And the heart. That was part of the reason he was so damned fascinated with her. Part. But not all.

He knew he would have been enthralled with her even if he had just walked past her on the street in Charleston.

Leaning against the windowsill, he watched as she threw one leg over the motorcycle she preferred to ride, and he had to still a ridiculous spurt of jealousy. Jealous of seeing her wrap those long, sleek legs around a bike instead of him.

He wanted her to ride
him
, not that damned Harley. Wanted to stare up into her exotic face and see passion light her eyes instead of the sadness that darkened them.

“You’ve got it bad,” he muttered as she rode away. Pushing away from the wall, he padded to his closet and tugged out the dark clothes he wore on patrol.

Leandra had the night off and there was no telling where she was heading. Mike had to work. It was a perfect night for it, too. The moon was nearly full. Although Mike wasn’t a werewolf, a natural-born shapeshifter felt the call of the moon as well. He didn’t have to shift, and probably wouldn’t tonight.

But he did have an urge to Hunt.

 

 

THE SHIFTER WASN’T THE ONLY ONE WATCHING LEANDRA as she slipped away.

“Your trainee isn’t very happy about being here.”

The redheaded giant stood at the window, staring out into the night. Leandra had long since disappeared from sight, although Malachi could still hear the roar of the bike. The sound of the motorcycle grew fainter as he sipped from the brandy Elijah Crawford had poured for the two of them. At Eli’s droll tone, Mal smiled a little. “Can’t imagine why. Your people are so welcoming.”

At that, the Master sighed. Eli set his brandy down and stood, driving a hand through his wavy, golden hair. His mouth tightened with a scowl. “I can’t change how they think. She came from the enemy, Mal. And whether we like that or not, my people aren’t going to easily forget it. Bugger, she doesn’t do a thing to help them forget it. Why doesn’t she get rid of that damned tattoo?”

The tattoo was black, sickle-shaped, and just outside the corner of her right eye. It was a mark that was worn by the enemy, a gathering of feral werewolves, vamps, and witches that called themselves the Scythe.

She’d fought with them once. Taken in by the Scythe when she was barely a teenager, the young, susceptible witch had been brainwashed, made to believe that the Hunters were out to destroy anyone who didn’t yield to their bloodthirsty control.

The bitter irony was, she’d been told the truth. But it had been the Scythe who were out to destroy any fool that stood in their way. Learning that she had been aiding the enemy had damn near broken her.

It had taken years for her to come out of the depression that had followed her painful enlightening. But she’d been doing better.

Until he’d brought her here, Mal mused as he glanced at Eli. With a halfhearted shrug, he said, “I think she keeps the bloody thing to torture herself.” He rarely saw the mark himself. He didn’t see an enemy when he looked at Leandra. He saw a friend. And Mal didn’t count too many as friends.

The small, black, sickle-shaped tattoo near Leandra’s eye was just a part of her, as far as Mal was concerned. Just like her dark, tortured past was a part of her. She had been doing a fine job moving past it; he’d thought she was ready to return here, to face down the rest of her demons.

He’d thought she was ready to accept what happened and move on. He’d been wrong. He shouldn’t have brought her here, Mal acknowledged. But now that they were here, he needed to do something to rectify the problem. If they just left, he worried that she’d carry too much of the hatred she saw here inside of her.

But could they really stay here? Was it helping her at all?

There were too many memories here. Too much anger.

Scowling darkly, he snapped, “They need to show a bit more understanding. Fuck me,
Mike
doesn’t have a problem with her being here.”

If anybody should resent her presence, it would be the shapeshifter she had shot years before. God above knew, if anybody had a reason to despise her, it was Mike.

Leandra had shot him full of silver. He had lived through the poison. Of course, Leandra hadn’t been trying to kill him, just trying to get the attention of the Hunters.

Mike had forgiven her. He never looked at her with barely shielded disgust, never sneered at her back as she walked by. He’d had his chance to seek justice, to seek blood in payment for the blood she’d cost him, and he had refused.

Eli chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far. Mike does have problems—just not the same kind the others have.”

Mal grinned. Aye, he had noticed that. “Hmmm. It’s likely the same problem that bothers Leandra the most.” His smile faded. “She knows how to deal with people’s anger. But dealing with her heart . . . different story.”

Quietly, Eli mused, “They are an odd pair.”

Just then, the door opened, and a long, lean, red-haired witch stepped through. Nearly eight years ago, the witch had come to these lands with one intention: killing Eli.

Now they were married and so damned in love with each other, it made Malachi more than a little envious.

Bowing his head to Sarel in greeting, he said to Eli, “And you would know quite a bit about odd couples, wouldn’t you, my friend?”

 

 

“YOU PICKED THE WRONG GIRL TO MESS WITH.”

Leandra said it flatly and hoped the idiot breathing down her neck would get a clue, but it wasn’t very likely. This part of Huntington seemed to have more than its share of fools.

A big, sweaty hand closed over her neck, squeezing tight. “You’re a cute little thing . . . mebbe if you’re nice, I won’t mess up that pretty face of yours.”

Rolling her eyes skyward, she whispered, “And there are poor women out there who might actually believe that.”

Damn it, she had wanted a night away from this. A night where she could just have a drink, or five, and try to forget about that damned haunting dream. Find someplace where she could just be anonymous, where she could put her sorry life on hold for a bit.

Then you should have picked a better place to go for a walk
, that sane, evil part of her whispered.
Plenty of places to get drunk that didn’t involve coming to this part of town.

Leandra steadfastly ignored that voice as she stepped away from the bastard holding her neck. He had been holding her tightly—her flesh still ached a bit—but he hadn’t been holding her tightly enough to keep her from moving. Of course, he was just human—a dirty, unwashed, thuggish human, but human nonetheless. Even before she had been Changed, the bastard would have had his hands full, but now . . .

Well, now it would take more than this human had to keep her still.

He blinked at his empty hand and then lifted his eyes to snarl at Leandra. She just cocked a brow at him. “If you want me to be nice, all you have to do is ask,” she told him.

No reply. He lunged for her. Leandra moved out of the way easily and watched as he fell facedown in the rubble and garbage that littered the narrow side street. She had to give it to him; he was fast. Especially for a human.

He leaped back up and whirled, flashing his knife at her. She imagined he was trying to scare her. Leandra smiled coldly.

He had no idea what real fear was.

At least . . . not yet.

When he lunged for the second time, she let him close his hand around her arm. As he tried to jerk her closer, she smiled at him. Then she pivoted, tripping him and dislodging his grip at the same time. They ended up on the ground, with Leandra crouched on his chest, her knees pinning his upper arms to the ground. Leandra grinned at him as he tried to swing the knife toward her. Catching his wrist with her hand, she squeezed, tightening her grip until she felt his bones grind together.

She smiled, letting him see the fangs glinting in her mouth. “So, tell me, friend. How nice am I supposed to be? Do I let you live or kill you quickly?”

Fear bloomed.

It was an intoxicating scent, and the urge to jerk his head aside and strike, to feed on his blood and fear became a temptation she had to fight to resist. Hunger was a ripe ache in her belly, and her mouth was watering as he stared up at her with wide, terrified eyes.

He struggled, but she kept him pinned easily as she reached out and trailed the tips of wine-red fingernails down his cheek. Probing his mind, she heard the echoes of screams and whimpers of fear. He liked hurting women. “I don’t know that a quick death is what you deserve,” she mused. Shrugging, she said, “But judgment isn’t mine to give. I’ll just send you on to your Maker and let him deal with you.”

By now, his eyes were wide and glazed with terror, and he kept jerking on his arm, trying to free the hand that held his knife. Leandra simply squeezed his wrist a little harder and felt the bones snap. He wailed in pain and then began to beg, “Let me go. Please . . .”

Leandra let go of his useless hand, picking the knife up and tossing it aside before she looked back down at him. “How many women begged you for that very thing?” she asked soberly.

He offered no answer, but she didn’t really expect one. As he babbled and begged for his life, Leandra ignored him. He wouldn’t leave here alive. The man preyed on fear and violence, and she had seen too many memories in his mind. Too many women he’d raped, beaten, and left for dead.