The Soul Trapper Page 12

  The door screeches open like the entrance to an abandoned, haunted house, but inside the dim corridor everything is in place, just like the last time I saw it. The stairs leading to the upper floor and the attic, the entrance to the drawing room on the right and the one to Gunnar’s study on the left, all appear imbued with an air of morbidity.

  I look around, unable to move as I hear the door closing behind me. I’m trapped inside with Mum and Jeremy, and a knot moves up my throat. I’m growing sick.

  “Please announce your husband you’re back, along with Saphira, and tell him I’d like a word,” Jeremy commands Mum.

  She swallows and proceeds towards the study hunchbacked, her hands trembling on the knobs as she pushes the doors open. She stiffens in place, and her mouth falls open.

  “Mrs Lothar,” Jeremy nudges her. As he raises his gaze from Mum to whatever greets them from that study, he bursts inside. Alarmed, I follow. A second after my eyes fall on Gunnar I scream until the veins in my neck swell.

  He hangs from a rope tied to the chandelier, his feet dangling over a fallen stool. His shirt is open to reveal his round stomach sprinkled with hair, and his tongue sticks thick and black out of his mouth. His fleshy cheeks are bluish-yellow, and he’s already started to smell. I breathe in the stench of death and scream long and hard until I fall exhausted on the floor.

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE MESSENGER

  I sit frozen in my black dress with palms joined on my lap. The funeral unfolds before my blank eyes, and so do the days after. I count them by the number of times the curly-haired and rosy-cheeked Jeanie Simmons enters my room in the attic with food. I nibble just enough of it to keep me alive, but my appetite is as dead as the monster who fathered me, and who now lays two meters beneath ground level.

  “Are you still seeing Joyous?” I murmur.

  Her hazel eyes dart around, as if the walls have ears. “You know I can’t answer that, Saph.”

  Of course, he’s the Marquis’s ‘cousin’—in truth one of his fellow serpent-killers. I lower my voice and grab her elbow. “If you are, you need to help me, Jeanie. I need to get back with the Marquis.”

  Jeanie’s hand covers mine, which is so clenched around her fluffy elbow that my knuckles show.

  “Something must be terribly wrong with you, Saph,” she whispers. She looks me in the eye with a curious expression. “You haven’t spoken at all since you saw your father dead in the study, and now that you do open your mouth it’s to talk about the Marquis. Is that a way of dealing with your grief? I mean, Gunnar Lothar is dead, your own—”

  “Don’t even say it,” I cut her off. “That man was a monster, a . . . whenever I think about him I want to rip the flesh off my bones for being his child.” On a second thought I shrug. “I suppose I must be grieving, and anger makes it all more bearable.”

  Stomping up the stairs makes Jeanie’s mouth close before she can say another word. The door opens and Jeremy enters the attic in a confident prance, his muscular physique barely making it through the doorframe. The police officers who came with him remain outside the open door. He walks straight to the window with a triumphant attitude.

  “I’ll make this short, Saphira,” he says, staring proudly out the window. “The coroner called. They established Mr Lothar’s death was not suicide.” He turns to assess my expression as he gives me the news, cocking an eyebrow. “He was murdered.”

  He lets moments pass to allow the information to settle in.

  “Do you happen to know anybody who had a reason to kill him?” He continues mockingly. “Someone who wanted revenge, maybe?”

  The Marquis’s words from the day we went to the asylum come back to me. “Would you consider that I hurt you, if I took revenge on your father?” And yet he wasn’t the only one with a motive.

  “I also know of someone who goes to terrible lengths to keep his real identity secret,” I retort. “Someone who set Vivienne Grant’s house on fire to kill her. Someone who’s put her mother in the lunatic asylum and has the poor woman so terrified that she won’t talk. I’m sure the same person hung my father by the chandelier. Ivan Basarab. Father knew his true identity. Ivan Basarab is terribly dangerous, Jeremy, and despite what you might think, you can’t control him.”

  Jeremy’s cocky attitude turns to anger. His face goes red.

  “The whole town will believe it was the Marquis, Saphira,” he barks. “They’ll burn down his manor like peasants burned haunted castles back in the Dark Ages.”

  Jeremy’s hatred of the Marquis fills the room like floating poison. I remember how the Marquis twisted his arm behind his back at the asylum, keeping him in check despite Jeremy’s big muscles and violent struggles, forcing down his ears the information that his own father had been a monster.

  “You hate him for having told you the truth.” I hold Jeremy’s gaze, defiant.

  “Maybe, a little. But, most of all, I hate him for having taken you away from me.”

  Jeremy leaves and doesn’t return for days. He intensifies his work and holds meetings with the most influential people around. Jeanie and I watch them from the round window in the attic. The place I once called my “haven” now feels like a nest of vipers as Northville’s finest and most respectable personalities pour inside my parental home. Inspector Jeremy Simmons is holding meeting after meeting to instigate them against the Marquis.

  He has policemen guarding the building to make sure anyone intent on seeing me stays out, and he rarely shows himself to avoid my wrath. Jeanie is my only authorized company, as well as my mother, but I’ve refused to see her.

  “He’s invited the Elite,” Jeanie says as she places her tea on the table. “Your father—sorry, Gunnar Lothar—was one of them, and they’re easily moved by his murder. They’ll use their influence to make nasty propaganda against the Marquis among the town’s people.”

  “The Elite,” I whisper as I watch the arrogant suited men getting out of their fat cars, and the women clutching handkerchiefs in false sobbing under large designer hats. “I wonder how many of these rats slit children open with their bare hands, and how many of these wenches open their legs in exchange for yacht rides and handbags despite knowing it.”

  “I understand it’s hard on you, but try not to think about that,” Jeanie says. There’s something different about her today. Something jumpy, her eyes darting around every now and then as if she expects the walls to actually grow ears.

  “Believe it or not, it’s easier than thinking about Gunnar’s rotting two meters beneath the earth.”

  She leans in and touches my forearm to make me look her in the face, acting like someone who’s using a brief moment of opportunity.

  “I did what you asked and talked to Joyous to arrange you a meeting with the Marquis, Saphira. It’s happening tonight.”

  As my mind wraps around the idea joy fills my chest. I grab Jeanie’s hand in anticipatory anxiety. “And you think it’ll work? Jeremy will sure have men on my tracks.”

  Jeanie gives me a sly smile. “Joyous organized a pub party with masquerade theme. We won’t be leaving the house wearing, or carrying masks, so Jeremy won’t suspect that we’re going to that pub in the Old Downtown, but the hostess will hand us our fake visages once we’re in, and his men will lose our trail.”

  I smile and smooch her real hard. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

  “Joyous has.”

  I wrap my arms around her, and barely manage to restrain my glee for the rest of the day. I can only think of Kieran, and that I’ll actually see him again tonight.

  When the moment comes for Jeanie and me to descend the stairs that evening, I’m anxious but determined. I’ve defied worse men than Jeremy by now, to put it mildly. I’m wearing leather trousers and high heels, but underneath I have fishnet stockings and in my bag there’s a scarf that I can use as skirt. We’re planning to change in the ladies’ room at the pub so Jeremy’s men don’t recognize us by our outfits.

  W
e bump into Jeremy at the front doors, blocking our way out. He stands flanked by two of his policemen, hands on the holster, gun easy to see. Being muscular and dressed in black he’d make an impression on anyone who’s seen and experienced less than me lately. His sister overhauls me and walks straight to him.

  Despite her red skirt, black pumps and leather jacket she looks like a milky-skinned, fluffy schoolgirl. Her shiny curls bounce down her shoulders, and it strikes me that Jeanie Simmons, the little girl who used to watch with her nose stuck to the window as her older brother played with us in the yard has grown into a young woman. But her face is still as innocent as back then, and her skin as beautiful.

  “Jeremy, you promised,” she whines at her brother. “Saphira has had enough grief, she needs something to help lift her spirits.”

  Jeremy looks me up and down. I know he wants me—he’s always had a thing for leather pants and high heels. His eyes are on me, but he speaks to his sister.

  “And I’m not in your way. But the boys here will be coming with you, and they won’t leave your side. The Marquis could be lurking.”

  “But Jeremy, they’re wearing uniforms and they carry guns! They’ll freak everybody out!”

  Jeremy glances at them. “Okay, get civilian jackets and hide your gear,” he commands the men, who do as told and escort us to the car while a frowning, suspicious Jeremy watches from the door.

  Jeanie and I can’t talk on the way to the Old Downtown, since the men’s ears are surely funnels that lead straight to Jeremy, but we’re both restless. Our plans have gone to waste. Even if the hostess gives us masks at the door, we won’t be able to lose the men.

  “I wonder why Jeremy didn’t come himself, if he was going to ruin our girls’ night out anyway,” Jeanie spews and folds her arms across her chest like a pouty child as the men escort us through the crowd and the pubs in the Old Downtown.

  “He didn’t want a fight with me.” I sound as defiant as I feel. “He’ll be avoiding me for a while longer until he thinks I’ve calmed down.”

  The air is wet and chilly, soaking my flesh. Like Jeanie, I hug myself to keep the cold out of my bones, and hurry awkwardly in my painful shoes.

  There’s great hustle at the entrance to the Black Horse. Once inside the foyer and among the aspiring attendees the wet cold turns to sweaty heat. Bodies crush Jeanie and me into our companions, some people rub between us, but the policemen hustle their way back in position quickly.

  I’m ever more desperate that we won’t be able to lose them as we approach the hostess, who imparts coupons and gesticulates, establishing some order. She’s costumed as a witch, but she manages to get the chaotic crowd through as efficiently as a bouncer. Soon I’m right in front of her. She looks me straight in the eye, and I recognize Lord Barkley’s secretary from the lunatic asylum.

  I’m sweating, certain I’m lost. A scream so sharp that it stabs my ears shoots from amidst the crowd behind, and a great commotion starts, crushing and swaying us like a violent sea storm.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  RUN AWAY WITH ME

  “He’s got my bag,” a girl calls. “Someone get the police!”

  The commotion in the entrance foyer of the pub becomes crushing, people pushing elbows into my ribs and my back, shoving me right into the witch-costumed hostess’s arms. One of the policemen makes it right behind me, but Jeanie gets a brilliant idea.

  “These guys are officers,” she calls out, ripping my “escort’s” jacket open. He cusses under his breath as his police shirt and his gun holster become visible to the public.

  People grab and steer him towards the screaming girl, and Jeanie rips open the other guy’s jacket while the hostess pulls me to her and talks so close to my ear that her spittle lands on it.

  “I staged the theft.” With that, she pushes a mask in my hands, grabs my nape and hauls me inside the pub. Her cloaked back topped by a pointy hat shifts to cover the entrance and thereby shield me from being followed.

  I gather myself quickly and make my way through the crowd to the heart of the pub. I manage to hustle through the line to the ladies’ room, but the girls I elbow in the process have been waiting for quite a while, and they’re irritable. They lose their manners too, shaking fists and cursing like wantons from the cheapest brothel.

  “I just need to talk to someone who’s inside, I’m no competition for the toilet,” I try to defend myself.

  It doesn’t help, they’re still aggressive. I’m scared, but I have to go through with it. In the end, I’ll get out of here dressed differently and wearing a mask, so I stand a good chance of getting away without a beating.

  It’s full inside the ladies’ room, and I must take my clothes off right here, among giggling girls by the mirrors. They go “Oh,” and “WTF” as I proceed with my business like an exhibitionist. There goes nothing.

  The leather pants are sticky on my sweaty legs, and losing them doesn’t go as fast as I planned at home. I’m not as graceful as I imagined I’d be as I step out of them. I stumble and catch myself by holding on to one of the girls, who’s enthusiastic that under the pants I’m wearing torn fishnet stockings just like hers.

  With a friendly “Hot,” she helps me back into my high heels and watches with an impressed grin as I tie the black sheen scarf around my hips. I shuffle off the silk shirt and reveal the pink corset with black lace above the breasts, and pin my hair up in a bun, which I cover with a black sheen cap. It’s not like I’m the only blonde in here, but better take too many precautions against being recognized than too few.

  I can’t believe the exhilarating feeling I get as I fling the door open and hold up my mask in front of my face, walking out of there like Catwoman on Jimmy Choos. With every step I pray I don’t sprain my ankle and spill myself on the floor before all the open mouths that shook fists at me only minutes ago. If that happens, and my disguise is compromised, I’m pretty sure my own mother would have difficulty identifying me under all the bruises from the beating I’d get. But God hears my prayers.

  I make it past the waiting line and work my way slowly among the masks, the back-slapping men and laughing women, but soon I attract more attention than I can use. The costume is too sexy. I chose it because it was easy to conceal from Jeremy, but now I realize it’s practically “begging” for attention.

  The thought worries me, but before I can dwell on it I see him. The man in the Zorro mask strolling his way towards me. My heart drums as he gets closer.

  I’d never fail to recognize the Marquis’s marble-like skin and defined features, they’re so handsome and youthful. I sigh as his arm goes around my middle and his bittersweet scent slithers through my nostrils. For a moment there I think he’s using his powers on me again, but then I admit to myself I’m just drunk-in-love with him, and I let go.

  He gently leads me to sit at a corner table that seems reserved for us. He keeps his arm on the wall at the level of my head, trapping me in the small space, his other hand caressing its way up my thigh, his fingers sinking hungrily into my flesh and tearing the stockings. I keep back the sounds of pleasure that threaten to leave my throat, since people stand crammed together close to the table, shielding us like a human curtain.

  “It wasn’t me, Saphira,” Kieran’s voice ripples. It feels like chocolate to my senses. “I didn’t kill your.” He stops. “Gunnar.”

  “I never doubted that.” I keep it low too, making sure my words drown in the chatter. “But Jeremy has the whole town instigated against you. You have to get out of Northville.”

  “I can’t. Not without you.”

  “As soon as all this calms down I’ll move to London, and I’m sure you have your ways of finding me there. We’ll just let things cool down for a while.”

  “It hurt like hell to be away from you even for a few days. You want me to put up with that torture for another while that might be months?”

  Emotion swells inside me. Our surroundings seem to fade away. His dark shirt is open at the neck and
down to the upper part of his chest, revealing the smooth skin beneath it that I long to explore. My fingers tremble at the silky feel of it, the feel of a creature half human, half serpent.

  “I missed you so much, Kieran,” I whisper.

  My words set him on fire. He kisses me with those beautiful lips that make me vibrate down to my core, a rich, full kiss. His tongue fills my mouth, and I give in under his tight embrace.

  “I don’t want to be separated from you another minute,” I let out among heated pecks, my hands sinking in his glossy hair.

  Kieran rests his forehead against mine, looking down at his hand that still kneads my thigh.

  “Run away with me, Saphira,” he lures. “We’ll leave everything behind us, the past, the revenge, and till the end of time I’ll work on making it up to you for all the pain I’ve caused you.”

  “You’d do that? You’d give up the very purpose that kept you going all these years for me?”

  He looks straight into my eyes from behind his Zorro mask. “I’d do anything for you, Saphira. As for revenge . . . Even if not by my hand, Gunnar Lothar is dead, and his circle of monsters broken. They’re running in all directions, scared. The arms of the law should take it from here. My job is done.”

  I caress his face, wanting to take in the feel of him through the fine ridges in my palms. “There’s nothing I want more than to run away with you, Kieran, leave everything behind and start anew, start clean, just you and me. But that would fuel Jeremy’s hatred against you, he’d hunt you down with even more bile and determination.”

  “I’m not afraid of Jeremy Simmons.” He cups my face with both his hands. “Come with me. I promise you the dark times are over. I promise you’ll be able to love me and feel good about it, too. Your words, your wish.”

  His eyes search mine full of hope, and I understand that this is his tormented soul’s only chance at redemption. I either accept, or Kieran Slate will succumb to the serpent Marquis forever. I make a firm decision and take the hand he offers me as he stands.