Soul Stealer (8 page)

Chapter Eight

Voro looked down at his feet, confirming he was still here. Both boots were on solid ground, theoretically anyway, and he was back on the other side of the portal.

The door opened behind him and he spun, aware that he was likely ashen. He was jittery as hell. This may very well have be
en the first time he was ever scared.

Peter was waiting, and his face was unreadable. “What the hell happened? Where’s Raphael?”

Voro was aware he was moving his jaw up and down but nothing was coming out. All he could see was that mass of black; an inky slick of pure evil, sucking all energy and light out of the room as it descended down on Raphael and he slunk to the floor, completely lifeless.

He finally shrugged. “I … I - I don’t know.”

Peter studied him for a moment, and then must have decided it was the truth. “We’ve noticed something moving down there the past few days and no one really knows what it is. As far as we can tell it’s vapor, but it’s … malevolent.”

Yeah, malevolent pretty much summed it up. Even Voro had wanted to turn tail and run. He’d been stuck “invisible” though, he couldn’t figure out how to become solid and try to wake Raphael up. He could only stand there and stare, wondering what the fuck happened and where that swarm of nasty had come from, and, more importantly, where it went.

“He was unconscious. He couldn’t hear me. I was shouting at him, but he’d already taken solid form. Kicked in this woman’s door.”

“Why did he even go there?”

Voro tried to remember what went down before that tremendous head-fuck. “We were on the street; he was telling me how to read people. And then he just … picked something up on his sonar. He never said what. He just tensed up and took off like he was on the trail of … something. It led him right to that door.”

“He sensed this force, being, whatever it was?”

Voro ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, he must have. He went right for it.”

“And you couldn’t wake him?”

“I couldn’t get solid, honestly. He never showed me how.”

Peter nodded, motioning him out of the small room. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lot to figure out.”

Voro followed without any smart ass commentary, which likely showed Peter how out of it he was.

In all this existence he’d never felt or known anything so purely evil. There was nothing else to that being. It had gobbled up everything good from Raphael and dropped him like an empty pop can. Even the light that came from Raphael’s span
ky good-and-pure soul was gone; he was empty.

Voro had felt like a child. No idea how to get back to this side, only knowing he wanted to get the fuck out of that building. Something had yanked him back through that portal. Now he felt actual guilt for the relief that had flooded through him.

What about Raphael, though? They were going to get him back. Right?

Peter stopped, motioned Voro to go ahead of him through another door he’d never been through before. There were tables and chairs. Peter told him to sit, so Voro parked it and waited.

Another door opened and he and Peter were joined by others, but they weren’t the same ilk as Peter. The second they walked in Voro sensed that they were like Raphael, angels. And he realized in his entire time on this side Raphael had been the only angel he ever saw.

They moved differently, for one thing; so smooth and confident, like they’d never tripped and fallen over before. Both sexes were equally beautiful: mind-numbingly lovely, actually. He couldn’t take his eyes off any of them.

And even on this side they seem more vibrant than the novices.

There were five in all. They also took seats around the table, staring at him with eyes that were nowhere near human. And he could feel that they didn’t trust him in the slightest.

Peter waited for everyone to be seated. “I am asking right now that what we discuss be kept confidential. At least until we know what we’re actually dealing with. As you may have felt, just moments ago Raphael was … assaulted by a dark force. We don’t know what it was but I’m sure you all felt it as well. His light … went out.”

Voro’s head jerked back to Peter. His light? That didn’t mean …

“Now, this force has been detected before by Jehoel. On three separate occasions over the past few days, all resulting in the deaths of humans. I’ll turn it now to him.”

One of the men of the group across from Voro leaned forward. Voro got the distinct impression that he was the only one about to learn something new: the others were just watching Voro and not the man with his elbows on the table, hands steepled on its surface.

Jehoel’s deep green eyes were shrewd. His olive-toned skin almost seeming to glow under the lights, and his face was hard but still masculine-beautiful, even with an alarming scar bisecting his left eyebrow and down to his cheekbone. He had full lips, incredibly defined cheekbones. His countenance gave the impression of being Asian in heritage, but that was a different source of confusion.

“This force draws out a human’s life force. Their spirit, their will to live, whatever you want to call it. It consumes it for, what we believe, is its own survival. It needs to suck them dry, so to speak, to live.”

Voro couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was something even Sin Eaters talked about just to scare each other. “Are you all high? There hasn’t been a Psionic Vampire around for …”

Jehoel looked surprised that he knew the term, which kind of pissed him off. He wasn’t the Fucking New Guy, for Pete’s sake. Psionic Vampires were from his home town, in a manner of speaking.

“There’s no other way to explain it. It’s just ether right now, fortunately. But we’re going to have to rely on you to figure out what to do about it.” The woman next to Jehoel was the one who said it, and the unfortunately at the end of that second thought was clear from her tone.

“I’m sorry. Who are you?”

“Anael,” came her crisp reply. 

He had to smile. The angel of romantic love, passion and romance; the only angel he would have been praying to had he ever been human. Especially the passion part. She was otherworldly beautiful like the rest of them, her creamy skin and long blonde hair everything a Swedish catalogue would have wanted in a model.  Her form and face screamed of dirty human deeds and impulses given in to during moments of weakness. Except for the distaste she clearly had for him, that is. She wasn’t trying to hide it. She clearly thought he was something that she wouldn’t even want stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

“Anael,” he repeated, somewhat pleased by the way she squirmed. “I’d be so happy to assist … in any way that I can.”

“What we need to know,” Jehoel intervened, “is everything you know about Psionic Vampires.”

Voro studied the faces around the table. Aside from the hatred radiating out of Anael, they were all looking at him with begrudging desperation. They really had no idea what the hell to do.

He had to pause. If it hadn’t been for his sacrificing his mortal form to save his
frustro
, he’d be waiting in Sin Eater purgatory, waiting for the revolving door to stop for his turn. Without question this side was far lovelier, what with its fleshy distractions. And yet this wasn’t his side of the battle. Well, it hadn’t been anyway. Was he really ready to switch sides? And how much could he really help them?

Then Voro remembered Raphael and reluctantly made up his mind.

He met Jehoel’s gaze. “Where should I start?”

Patrice Jenkins didn’t go home after her coffee with Constable Vance. She went right to work, changing into her scrubs in the locker room. Her hands hadn’t stopped shaking since that shadow had swooped over her, just missing her.

She put a palm to her forehead, closing her eyes for a moment. Oddly enough, when her door had burst inwards and that man had rushed in all she’d felt was relief. From somewhere she didn’t understand she knew he was only going to keep her safe, never harm her. She called the police more out of concern than fear.

And he was here, now, in this building, likely still hooked up to all kinds of machines with doctors trying to figure out if he was okay.

She hadn’t been able to wake him up. She’d checked for a pulse, and his had been strong, steady. His body was warm, his breathing normal. For all she could tell he’d just been having a deep nap.

She looked down at her hands. He had been very warm, more so than most people. Or maybe that had been her. Because looking down at him unconscious on her floor, she’d been totally overwhelmed by how beautiful he was.

Okay, handsome if you prefer. But beautiful to behold, all the same. Large of frame, long dirty-blonde hair that was fashion-model windswept. Lips of a cherub. Complexion that was utter perfection. She had felt how solid his body was as she’d braced herself on his chest with both hands. Rock-hard and utterly male. She’d fought off the urge to lift a lid just to see what color those eyes were. As she’d waited for an ambulance and the police, she’d almost wanted to weep at how gorgeous he was.

Patrice shook her head. She was emotionally distraught, seeing things now that she hadn’t actually seen then. Right?

She’d never been scared of him though, that was for sure.

Another nurse entered the locker room then and she jumped. The other woman smiled, apologizing. Patrice laughed, embarrassed, saying that it was her fault for getting lost in her daydreams.

She started her rounds by dispensing the evening medications to the psych patients. There was no resulting drama. It was disappointingly standard, actually. Her body had apparently enjoyed the adrenalin kick she’d had earlier in the day.

On her break, knowing it was wrong and silly, she found herself wandering up to the fourth floor. The ICU was a quiet place where even the visitors were always whispering. There were no TVs in the rooms because the people on this floor didn’t need TV, they just needed medical supervision.

She walked the hallway slowly, her shoes not making a sound. She checked each doorway, smiling at the doctors that she passed on the way, explaining to the nurses that she was just getting some exercise.

Lies. She was looking for that stranger.

As she approached one door she felt her body warm, a strange tingle on the back of her neck, and she knew that this was where he was.

In the doorway Patrice appreciated how he took up a great deal of the bed. The blanket was smoothed across his bare chest, arms on top of the covers to grant access for an IV if needed. He was still, silent, breathing on his own. A monitor was silently tracking his heartbeat.

Good lord, he’s huge,
she realized. His shoulders were almost as wide as the hospital bed. He took up most of it length-wise, too. The arms that were arranged on top of this covers were large, curved with muscle and strength. His chest was formed the same way: heavy and virile.

She felt her pulse jump a bit and she swallowed hard.

Patrice entered the room quietly, hands behind her back in case her need to touch him overpowered her resolve.  As she drew nearer, she actually stopped breathing.

The closer she got the more lovely he was.

She stood next to the bed, studying his peaceful expression. His chest rose and fell as he drew each breath, and her eyes traced down that thick neck to his defined collarbone, down further to the muscles of his chest. Jesus, she wanted to touch him. She needed to know what his skin bare under her hands would feel like.

She compromised. Raising one hand carefully, she laid her palm to his forehead. His skin was warm, soft and smooth. His hair was against the outside edge of her hand. She slid her hand back, pushing her fingers in to that tousled mop, stopping a ridiculous gasp that nearly escaped as she realized how soft and warm his hair was. She brushed it back from his temples, feeling bad for petting him like this. But once her hand was on him she couldn’t take it back.

His head turned towards her hand. It startled her and she froze in place like she’d been caught doing something inappropriate. Which she
had
been. Then she realized he was nuzzling in to her hand, as though he was enjoying her touch.

She speared her fingers in to his hair, leaving it there so her thumb could stroke his temple. He sighed, a great, lumbering quiver that shook his body.

Patrice had to smile. It was such a childish movement, in contrast with what was the body of a very obviously fully-grown man.

With her other
hand, she eased her fingers onto his hand, the size of his palm about double hers. Her fingers rested there, holding his hand as much as you can when someone’s paw was slack. He was just so warm –

Her head snapped back around to his face, and she was completely immobilized. He was awake. His eyes were open, looking at her, his face just as relaxed as it had been when he was sleeping. But his eyes were ice-blue, deeper navy blue around the edges. Bright, beautiful, and looking almost right inside to her very core.

She was paralyzed as he looked on her with care, admiration. Devotion. All without him even having to change his expression.

Her lips parted so she could breathe, but she made no move to take her hands away.