Soul Taker (2 page)

"Did this new vampire give ye a name?" His
gaze bore into hers.

"I can't remember, but I had the opinion he
knew you. We got real cozy, if you know what I mean."

"I can imagine," he said dryly.

"I mentioned how I once knew a highlander
Grim Sith. I swear the blood in his veins clotted and he became as
still as stone." She cleared her throat as the statement reminded
her of her predicament. "Anyway he says you and him were kin.
Alexander. That's it. His name is Alexander." If she didn't know
better, she'd swear MacLaurin's face paled even more than his usual
fair skin appearance. Vampires tended to be lighter skinned due to
never being out in the sun, but MacLaurin was once a Highlander,
they were all pale as paper in her opinion, vampire or not.

"Where can I find him?" His eyes
narrowed.

"I… I don't know."

He harrumphed and threw her down. "Enjoy the
rats."

"Wait! I know where he chills sometimes."

He lifted her up again. "I'm listenin'."

"I would have to go. Obviously, there's been
bad blood between you two, in more ways than one." She chuckled,
but Garran didn't crack a smile at her pun. She cleared her throat
before she spoke again. "If he sees you, he'd only disappear
again."

"Do ye expect me to believe ye, Sanya? Please
give me some credit."

"Believe what you will. I'm at your mercy, am
I not?"

"If ye're lyin'—"

"I'm not. I'll lead you to him. I'll—"

Garran covered her mouth with his index
finger. "I don't want to meet with him. I want ye to get close to
him, and find out what he's up to."

"You want me to spy on him."

"Aye."

She licked her lips. "I can do that." Really,
was she in any position to say otherwise?

"Oh, come on Garran, you don't actually
believe her," Harrison Connell spoke up.

"Why don't you keep quiet, Irish dog," Sanya
hissed.

"You will mind yer manners, Sanya," Garran
told her. "Let me warn ye if ye double cross me, havin' a stake
through yer heart will seem like a holiday."

She gulped. "I wouldn't double cross
you."

He pulled out the stake and she inhaled, the
pain causing her to grip his arms. "Holy…eff…ing…" A stream of
Spanish curse words flew from her lips.

"Now, Sanya, is that anyway for a lady to
behave? Oh, I forgot, ye aren't a lady, are ye?"

She glared at him, wishing her gaze could
burst him into flames. She saw the trick once in a movie. She
really wished it were a true talent she could learn.

MacLaurin chuckled as if he read her
mind.

Regaining most of her strength, she pushed
him away and scrambled out of the van. She straightened her dress
that had risen up her thighs.

"No more human attacks," Garran warned.
"Ye'll go back to the pig's blood."

"I'll be shaky for days. I'll look like a
junkie."

Garran's gaze raked over her. "Ye already
look the part with the slip ye have on that's doin' a piss poor job
of masqueradin' as a dress."

She hissed baring her fangs.

"I mean it. Boston and the surrounding cities
better not have one blood-drained death or I'll be lookin' for
ye."

She turned to leave, but he grabbed her arm.
"Don't skip town either. Ye're workin' for me until I say
otherwise."

She yanked free. "I'll be in touch."

"Aye, that ye will."

****

Garran waited until the beautiful Latino
sashayed out of sight. He found it difficult to believe he'd once
thought the selfish beauty was his soul mate. He glanced at
Harrison who stood there with a hand on his hip and shaking his
head. "Don't say it, Harrison," he warned him.

"I don't have to. That woman will double
cross you, to be sure."

"Aye, but she's the only one who has gotten
close to the fiend who calls me kin. We need her to smoke him out
so we can clean up the mess Franco didn't."

"You do realize Sanya drained two men and
changed another."

"Aye, and I eliminated the minion before I
headed over to Tony's tonight."

Harrison paced in frustration. "Sanya is
sloppy and endangers other preternatural creatures who are trying
to blend into the human population. Like us, for starters." He
tapped his chest.

"Sanya will spread the word that we're back
in town. We'll have everything under control once more."

Harrison lifted his eyebrows, obviously not
sharing his confidence.

Garran sighed, not blaming Harrison for his
skepticism. "Sanya won't kill while she thinks I'm a threat. I'm
workin' on the other problem. Vampires killin' at will are one
thing, but the other menace…"

Harrison stared at him. "Do you know who the
fiend is then? Is he from your sept as Sanya claimed?"

"Aye, he's from my sept. I knew the killin's
were like a Grim Sith's. He's livin' off the person's essence—their
soul. However, he's leavin' just enough to keep the body alive. For
a while, it will throw off the authorities." He sighed in
frustration. "Centuries ago, the Bobhan Sith, the females of our
sept, used to cover their tracks by rippin' the victim to shreds in
hopes the villagers would think they were attacked by a wild
animal."

"How lovely?"

"Hmm… Aye. Doesn't work so well in the city,"
Garran said thoughtfully, recognizing Harrison's sarcasm for what
it was. "The Bobhan Sith usually don't venture far from the
Highlands, but Fallon…" He could never say his sire's name without
bitterness. "She made the Grim Sith, the males of the species.
Until her, the human males were turned, used to father their young,
then fed upon and discarded. Only the females were kept alive. Ye
can see why the Grim Sith don't like to stay in one place for long.
A Grim Sith will usually seek adventure elsewhere." He looked up at
the moonless night with a frown. The darkness didn't hamper his
vision. It enhanced it.

Harrison gave him a wolfish grin, his canines
lengthening. "We'll find him. So stop frowning. It doesn't become
you."

Garran growled, not liking his moment of
melancholy interrupted.

"You know you waste your
I-can-beat-the-crap-out-of-you-look
on me. Let me buy you a
drink and we'll plan our next move. Aye?"

Garran relaxed his features and nodded. When
he'd taken on this assignment, it had unsettled him that the
killings were similar to the one's after the bloody battle of
Culloden, the ones near his home in Balquhidder. That was some
three and half centuries ago. The fiend had been Alexander
MacLaurin, his cousin, his betrayer. He didn't want to believe it,
but the recent deaths screamed of Alexander's handy work. Tonight,
Sanya confirmed his fears and named the fiend. Where had the bugger
been hiding these past centuries? He'd believed him dead. Had he
been in hiding all this time and waiting to exact his revenge?

There's one thing Garran learned in his long
life: Time did not heal all wounds; it made them fester.

Chapter Two

Isabella stirred the spaghetti sauce as it
simmered over the open flame. She raised the wooden spoon to her
mouth and closed her eyes, savoring the aroma of thick red tomato
sauce, fresh basil, and onions mixed with a dash of oregano and
Parmesan cheese.

Her gaze locked onto Mario. He was a proud
man, only an inch or two taller than her five-foot, four-inch
stature. He'd been the chef for
A Taste of Home
from the
very beginning, when her parents were alive and running the
restaurant.

"Well, what do you think?" he asked in a
thick Sicilian accent he never lost, even though he left Sicily
decades ago. He tended to drop words and letters as he spoke in the
singsong voice of Italian flair and he used his hands to emphasize
his point.

"I think it's perfect. I don't know why you
worry. Like usual, everything smells wonderful, Mario."

"
Bene
. Now you must leave. Let Mario
finish. It's a busy night. Go, go." He shooed her away.

Isabella knew Mario for all his gruffness
loved her like a daughter. She also knew she was the only woman he
allowed to step foot in what he dubbed
his kitchen
. His
respect didn't come easy. She had to prove her worth, prove she
knew how to prepare chicken Parmesan, ladling the tomato-olive
sauce over the chicken and sprinkling just the right amount of
mozzarella. She had to make a perfect cannoli shell from scratch, a
lemoncello cheesecake to die for, and any other dishes Mario
demanded she learn to prepare. She earned her place and loved every
moment of it.

"I'll be up front if you need my help,"
Isabella called over her shoulder as she pushed opened the two-way
door. She headed for the office, glancing at a photo that hung on
the outer wall. It was of her father and mother on opening day of
A Taste of Home
, taken some thirty years ago when her
parents hoped for a happy, simple future—before Nicholas and she
were born.

Giovanni Lucci had dark hair then, a real
looker. His hazel eyes rimmed with gold were framed with thick
black lashes. Nicholas and she were blessed with the same trait,
too. From Louisa, their mother, Nicholas possessed a cleft chin and
she was blessed with her thick wavy hair and a slender figure with
all the right curves.

However, looks weren't all she inherited. Her
father was a sensitive and knew when a person needed anything from
being a good friend and listener to knowing if the individual
needed medical care. Her mother was from a long line of
Necromancers, those sensitive to the world beyond the veil. She
could call a soul back—if only for a few moments. A true
Necromancer was rare, but one whose power could potentially bring
the person back for longer than a few moments was almost unheard
of, but her mother had been one such Necromancer.

Both her parents were gone now, a car
accident or perhaps the balance of the universe righting itself.
One could not bring back the dead without consequences.

She touched her fingers to her lips with a
kiss and placed it on the photo before she knocked on the office
door. One rap and she opened the door and peeked in. Nicholas sat
behind the desk, going over the bills. He looked up with a smile.
"Hey, Izzie, just the girl I needed to see." He pushed his
black-rimmed glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. "Can you
stay later tonight? Marcy never showed."

Isabella frowned. Marcy never missed her
shift. She had noticed the last few days that the girl's aura was
off, but she hadn't thought it was anything serious. "Did you call
her?"

Nicholas must have heard the worry in her
voice and looked up. "I left a message on her cell. I'm sure she's
all right, Izzie. She has a new boyfriend and…" he gave her a half
smile. "She's been distracted lately. Falling in love does that to
a person."

"Yeah." Falling in love proved a fantasy to
her, but she nodded in agreement.

"So, will you stay?" her brother asked
again.

"Sure." As pathetic as it sounded, she didn't
have anything better to do on a Friday night. "We're going to have
a full house. I caught a glimpse of the reservation list. Mario's
already in a tizzy, thinking he won't be able to keep up."

"He'll keep up."

"I know. Personally, I think he likes to
grumble."

Nicholas nodded as he punched the numbers on
the calculator. "I'll be up front later to help. Let me catch up on
the bills."

"How are we doing?"

"It looks like we'll see a profit this
month."

"Good. I could use a pay check." Isabella
left her brother to go up front.

Customers from every walk-of-life came into
the restaurant to enjoy Italian cuisine—from the tourists, who
leisurely strolled down the
Freedom Trail
to the locals, who
came in to talk or relax after a hectic day at work.

Nicholas and she decorated the restaurant
with red-checkered linen tablecloths on the tables, votive candles
for ambience, and three of the white washed walls displayed framed
pictures of Italian landscapes. On the fourth wall, Nicholas
painted a floor to ceiling Italian villa in Tuscany.

Isabella noticed some of her favorite patrons
were here tonight. Sean and Giovanna O'Brien, who were celebrating
their anniversary, were seated at the far corner where they
whispered to each other, their lips curved in secretive smiles.
Their families swore their marriage wouldn't last. An Irishman
marrying an Italian woman caused a commotion here in Boston.

Ted Johnson, widowed recently, dreaded being
alone. He sat at the back of the restaurant, sipping his merlot and
reading the evening paper. She was glad to see his aura looked
better this week. Also toward the front of the restaurant, she
spotted Harrison Connell, another Irishman, his speech still
flavored with a lilt. He sometimes brought a date, but for the last
week, he'd been having dinner alone. As she greeted the customers,
nodding a hello and asking how their families were doing, she made
her way over to him.

Harrison stood six-foot-one or two, slim
built, but with well-defined biceps, indicating he must work out.
His hair was the color of chestnuts and his eyes a deep whiskey
color. He looked up and smiled. Boy, did he have a smile. It set
the colors of his aura, the brown and gold shimmering around him
with warmth.

"How are you doing, Harrison? I haven't seen
you with Lori lately."
Come to think of it, Lori
hadn't been to palates either
.

"We broke up," he informed her with a slight
shrug.

"That's too bad. I'm sorry to hear it."

"I'm not."

Isabella's eyebrows lifted ever so
slightly.

He chuckled. "It wasn't a healthy
relationship," he explained, and then added, "for either of
us."

Isabella opened her mouth to comment, but her
friend Johanna came bursting into the restaurant, waving her hand
in a gesture of
I-need-to-talk-to-you-now.
"If you will
excuse me," she said to Harrison.