The Soul Trapper Page 18

  His smooth hardness slides over my tongue to my throat, turning me on so bad that I moisten and writhe, my face on fire. I can’t refrain from clasping his backside and guiding him deeper, making him grind into my lustful mouth, and moan with unrestrained pleasure. He flexes and clenches his fist in my hair, gritting his teeth and knitting his brows as if it’s too much for him, and then, completely unexpectedly, he retreats and curls at the other end of the bed with his sinewy marble back at me.

  I don’t know what just happened. I just stare at him rocking like a hiding child. I crawl to him and touch his shoulder, ready to beg him to come back and take me, but he tenses yet more.

  “Please, Kieran, look at me,” I whine, but he’s bracing himself so tightly that the flesh under his fingernails is even whiter than the rest of him, his face hidden, his lamentations low but heart-breaking. I go gently to my knees before him, caressing his thick, black hair. I keep insisting until his face dashes up, and the sight of him sends ice flashing down my body.

  His eyes are the black blisters of the serpent, his lips like black leeches, and the flesh on his face turns glutinous as scales slowly replace the skin. I don’t know by what miracle I manage to catch the outcry in my throat before it reaches my mouth. Every cell in my body screams to get away from him, but I force myself to keep still—this is the man I love, a victim of evil men with power over science.

  My hand shakes slightly as I take it to his face, brushing a tendril away from his now snake-skinned forehead.

  “This is too much for me, Saphira,” he pleads in the slivery voice of the serpent. “My basic instinct runs wild at sudden pleasure, and the beast comes out. I want to make love to you, so bad, but if I lose control it’s very dangerous.”

  “Don’t think about that,” I whisper, bringing my face within an inch of his. “This is true love. I love you and I trust you, Kieran.”

  A blood tear snakes down his cheek that slowly changes from serpent scales to glutinous mass, then to beautiful ivory skin. His blister-like eyes are still pained and deeply worried, but he does allow me to get closer and closer. I force myself to keep my eyes open as my lips touch his, expecting them to feel like the black leeches they look, but instead they’re dry and hot. His kisses are gentle, and his tongue careful as it seeks mine.

  There’s a lump in my throat as I imagine the split serpent tongue exploring my mouth, and indeed I feel the two tips, coarse and hard, but their touch is so shy that it makes me grow downright audacious. I sink my hands in his hair and pull him over me on the bed, inviting him to push his tongue down my throat, even though chill after chill runs down my skin.

  Flashes of that tongue pulling Pukov’s stomach out lash at me, the white tablecloth splattered with blood, the coiling and wriggling under Pukov’s shirt. But Kieran Slate is the man I love, and I want him inside of me, even if that means having him between my legs in his serpent form.

  But instead of disturbing, his love is sensual and intoxicating, and I find myself loving the thick feel of his scales on my skin. I finally understand that the snake-man is as much part of Kieran Slate as his hypnotic powers, and if we’re both going to die soon, I want to experience him to the deepest level.

  “Use your powers on me, Kieran,” I whisper. “I want to be high on you, and I want an overdose.”

  The words are a powerful catalyst for Kieran. His eyes, at first stunned, then confused and then profound, pour themselves like a black drug into mine, and cast me in a spiral trance. I let go of all reason, and my mind splinters its hinges, leaving me fully open to the sensations Kieran gives me, making me arch and moan under his kisses and caresses.

  My thighs part to accommodate him as he slides deep inside of me, long and hard and smooth. Moist and lascivious I grind my hips to meet his moves, riding towards the climax that makes all my muscles flex, and Kieran Slate shows his true face above me—his features are prominent, beautiful and white as ivory, while his black eyes bleed, and his sensual mouth lets out moans of pleasure.

  I’m still convulsing with the remains of climax as he drops on his back by my side in his full human form, taking me in his arms and kissing my forehead and my lips and my cheeks. The opiate haze he’d cast over my senses begins to lift, and I come back to a feeling of happiness and fulfilment that pulses in my chest.

  “I love you, my bride.” His voice is creamy and rich, and his hands restless as they caress my body like he worships me.

  “And I adore you, Kieran.”

  CHAPTER XXXI

  SECRET WEAPON

  The manor’s main hall is intimidating. It was intimidating when I first saw it on the Night of Venice, but now it’s nothing short of crushing with the Marquis’s deadly soldiers-in-black replacing the partying crowd’s laughter. They’re lining a long table, heavy chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling, the immense space crawling with whispers.

  The Marquis and I sit at the head of the table, and I feel mighty awkward with everybody staring at me like I’m the Queen. The diamond ring on my finger draws serious attention. Kieran’s men look at it and at each other, all of them baffled but for a few exceptions—Zed, whose stony features and bullet-blue eyes are fully restored, and Joyous the big-boned, eerie-eyed healer; the Marquis’s most trusted men, who’ve been with us every step of the way.

  There are more soldiers present—serpent men loyal to the Marquis—than I imagined. Probably over three dozen of them. Maybe not enough to stand against the Black Angels, Inspector Jeremy Simmons’s vassal Special Forces and the Elite’s mercenaries, but surely enough to make a point about how much they respect Kieran Slate, a.k.a. the Marquis de Vandenesse.

  “You’ve always been our leader, whether official or not,” one of them says after Kieran presents the first part of our plan. “We’ve always followed you, but this is suicide. We can’t simply attack the black monks, they’ll freaking roast us before we let out a war cry.”

  “Hear him out, Lugo,” Zed cuts in. He still sounds weak, but then again, only a few hours ago his flesh was practically turning into ashes and falling off his skeleton, so no wonder he’s exhausted.

  “Saphira,” Kieran continues, “my future wife, has a special skill. She’s a painter whose work always amazed and intrigued, but recently we discovered her talent has more powerful underlays.”

  He chooses his words well as he tells about my ability of making what his men called “voodoo pictures” that can take over all harm done to a person, leaving the person unscathed. At the right moment Zed stands and bares a part of his tattooed back where the last remains of the bubonic plague are visibly healing.

  “I owe this to Saphira Lothar,” he declares, giving me a deeply grateful look, and going on to explain what happened. The man who first spoke—Lugo—stares at me like I’m turning into a mermaid with every word that leaves Zed’s mouth.

  “This is a miracle,” he says. The crowd turns restless, but Kieran’s voice rises over them. Everybody falls silent, eyes stuck to him, drinking in his words.

  “Saphira is the ace in our sleeve. She agreed to make pictures of all of us. It can be only sketches, she’ll add the ‘flesh’ to them as we go along, and she’ll keep restoring them while the curses hit us. Nevertheless, there’s a catch. We’re outnumbered, so Saphira might have a very hard time keeping up with the black monks’ blows. It would drain her of her vital energy, even though it’s our souls she transfers onto the canvas. She is the bridge, and all the burden is on her. So we need to go about this in an energy-saving way.”

  Lugo frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we need guerrilla tactics. We first dispatch scouts to find out who are the monks’ most important people, their leaders, their secret weapons, and we go for those. We try to keep in the shadow, unnoticed, for as long as possible in order to avoid as many blows as we can. And, of course, one of us has to go for the head of the octopus—Ivan Basarab, the Slayer. I will gladly take on the task.”

  Lugo jolts forward and bumps into
the table, that’s how much the statement charges him. “You know who he is, Marquis? You finally discovered that bastard’s true identity?”

  Understandably, Kieran hesitates. There’s no easy way to put this, since Ivan Basarab is literally no easy man to pin down thanks to his very special power.

  Kieran licks those sensual lips that look like sin, preparing to speak, but the doors open and Jeanie Simmons enters the hall, followed by a squad of serpent-men. It looks like she had just been saved from her brother’s hands and returned to her beloved Joyous’s arms that open broadly to receive her. Her sweet dark curls bounce up and down as she runs to the healer, her otherwise milky face on fire, and her eyes still wide with fear.

  “The people in town,” she calls out once in the safety of Joyous’s embrace, “they gathered with torches and weapons to march here and set fire to this manor, Marquis. They want to kill you, they’re convinced you’re the source of all evil that’s befallen Northville.”

  Kieran’s face turns to ice, and my heart beats like crazy. He might be ready to fight all the foes out there, but there’s no way he’d hurt the town people. This could be a dead-end.

  I cup Kieran’s jaw with my hands, making him look at me. “There will never be a better time than this to use your powers for the good, Kieran.”

  His black eyes search mine puzzled. I take a deep breath and, though feeling guilty for my thoughts, I share them. “Influence their feelings, Kieran. Make them fight your enemies instead of you.”

  “What? Are you—”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “But Saphira, if I do that and don’t get to Basarab fast enough, they will die.”

  “And what will happen to them if you die? Basarab’s monks will finish them for sure, there’s no way they’ll leave any witnesses who could tell the tale of Northville. They won’t allow the slightest bit of truth to ever come to light, because it would turn the world upside down. Engineered serpent men, painters who can make voodoo pictures of people, healers? What will the world do when it finds out that lines such as ‘everybody dies,’ and ‘we’re all only human’ are bloody mockery? Yes, Kieran, normally influencing people is wrong, it’s bad, it’s a big No, but in this case, it’s plainly the best thing you can do.”

  CHAPTER XXXII

  THE PAINTER WITCH

  It’s happening. Tonight. Serpent-men are crawling on and under the fields, slithering among rocks, shrubbery and through the underground tunnels. The black monks began moving forward, bringing the final battle closer with the synchronized rustle of their marsh. The town people haven’t reached the property’s borders yet, but they’ll sure be here in no time, along with Jeremy’s special forces and the Elite’s mercenaries. The serpents are greatly outnumbered, and I’m their only true chance, which weighs heavy on my shoulders.

  I sit on the floor in the dark tower, facing a semicircle of sketches representing three dozens serpent-men like mirrors. I’m holding the paintbrush and pencils loosely but ready to intervene if pictures start cracking with the bubonic plague. My eyes are puffy and tired, but wander relentlessly along the canvases.

  I glimpse a patch that begins expanding on the cheek of Lugo’s picture on my far right. The first curse has struck, and I hurry to repair it. The plague doesn’t appear on Lugo again, but it pops up like stains of paint on different faces at very short intervals. With every repaired piece energy leaves my body, and in a matter of minutes I’m desperate. There’s no way I can keep up with the monks’ curses, I’m overwhelmed, and the stains keep spreading. I miscalculated big time.

  While I rush to fix a face, the bubonic plague wastes another one within seconds. A few serpents must’ve ended up in the black monks’ direct line of fire, since the curses riddle them as fast as a machine gun. My hands can’t move quickly enough, and I cry out in despair. Faces practically combust before my eyes with the disease, blackening, crumpling and disappearing under the curses’ power.

  I fall to my knees, crying out in frustration as the night’s rustles, shrieks, groans and hisses reach me through the open window.

  The Marquis, my love, might soon be lost to me. I raise my eyes to the picture I made of him all those months ago, splendid and vivid, hanging on the wall behind and above the others. His ivory features are flawless and unscathed—yet. I must pull myself together, I must save him or die trying. I get up and start toward the painting, but a pitchy, nasal, unwelcome voice makes me freeze in my tracks.

  “He is indeed exquisite.”

  It’s Lauren. Though I can’t bring myself to turn and face her, I know she’s standing in the doorstep. Her shoes make a clicking sound on the floor as she approaches, her eyes surely on Kieran’s picture as she speaks.

  “So heartbreakingly handsome, so compelling. I would have turned from Basarab and betrayed his plans to the Marquis, that’s how much I wanted him inside me. But he made a terrible tactical mistake, you see. He rejected me.” She’s now close behind me. “He was madly in love with you already, whether he wanted to accept it or not. He couldn’t help but be loyal to you. Well, what can I say, now you can both die loyal to each other.” There’s poison in her voice.

  “Lauren, please believe me,” I manage, “I did not know what Gunnar was doing to you. He never touched me when I was a kid. Please, believe me.”

  She snorts and starts walking around me, checking me out from head to toes. She clearly has the higher ground. I’m only shrouded in a stained gown, barefoot and vulnerable, armed only with a few paintbrushes, while she’s dressed all in black leather resembling a character of action movies. She’s wearing high metal stilettos, and holding a knife in each hand. Her blood-red hair is tightly bound on top of her head, emphasizing her sharp, angular features that might not be exactly beautiful for a skinny woman, but darn bad-girl sexy. The hostility in her turbid, cat-like greenish eyes is so intense, it can easily pass for malice, and I admit it—I’m afraid of her. I keep silent, which allows her to spit more venom at me.

  “Too bad Jeremy wasn’t capable of such loyalty. He didn’t love you enough to resist me.”

  “And isn’t that satisfying enough for you?”

  “Enough to let you live? No.”

  “Why not? You took life from me once, I was completely broken after I found you and Jeremy in bed together. And, in the end, he preferred you. I mean, you’re still sleeping with each other, aren’t you? But he asked you to keep it a secret?”

  Lauren’s eyes narrow. For a moment there she’s fazed, and I grab the chance. Somewhere in the background another picture crumples and dies, making rage swell inside my chest.

  “You think Jeremy is Ivan Basarab, don’t you Lauren?”

  She’s shocked. “You know?”

  “Yes, I do. You don’t.”

  “What the hell do you mean?” She takes a step back and flashes a knife at my throat to stop my advancing. Another canvas dies, and rage grows inside of me at a scary pace. I can’t control myself anymore, and my instinct of conservation fails. I keep forcing her back, and when the tip of the knife touches my throat I brush her arm out of my way.

  “Here’s a truth you might not like: Jeremy never betrayed me.”

  “What the hell?”

  “You’ve been fooled all along, Lauren. Ivan Basarab has a very special power, you see. He can switch bodies. Jeremy is not the real Basarab.”

  Lauren stares at me perplexed, and I know I should take it easy on her. But time is way too precious, and there’s none for sugar coating.

  “You never slept with Jeremy Simmons, Lauren, you slept with someone else. Someone who’s been hopelessly in love with you for years. Billy Dean, the Notary.”

  “What? Are you mad?”

  “Billy possessed Jeremy, because he knew you were into him. You slept with Jeremy’s body, but inside was Billy.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Do you remember when Mr and Mrs Dean first adopted Billy? Where did they adopt him from? Let me refresh your memory—from a monas
tery in Romania.” I glance at the window and point to it with my finger. “The black monks out there, where do they come from? It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to see the connection. The science behind the monks’ and Billy’s abilities is another story, but I’m sure you see where I’m getting at. Billy—by his true Romanian name, Ivan Basarab—took care to always remain just a ‘face in the crowd’ so that he could implement his plans from the shadow. A face in the crowd, that’s all he ever was in Northville, even in the stories of our lives. Think about it—if you were to tell your story, how often would you mention him?”

  I’m now so close to her that our noses would touch if she weren’t much taller than me on her stilettos. I’m looking up at her. “When Jeremy was first swayed by your advances, just months before our wedding, Billy had taken over his body. Billy possessed Jeremy like a demon. Whenever Jeremy is himself, he still wants me. He’s not aware of what’s happening to him, which ensures that he’d never betray Billy. He thinks he was drunk the night he cheated on me with you, that’s why he never argued; but he doesn’t actually remember it. Moreover, Billy may have allowed Lord Barkley to get close to you, he even used you to get the old prick to do what he wanted, but when it came to the intimate part, he possessed the old man. The only one you actually ever slept with was Billy, always Billy.”

  She blinks and drops on a box by the far wall, where I forced her to as I talked. She looks around as if she’s looking for her scattered thoughts, then looks at me, then at the window.

  “They all fucking used me. Gunnar used me. Billy and Jeremy used me. Everybody used me.”

  I hunker down before her and take the chance to remove the knives from her hands as she gazes in shock at me. I place them slowly on the floor and take her hands in mine.

  “Not everybody. Lauren, you and I, we loved each other like sisters once. They say emotions never change or disappear, they are buried somewhere deep from where they will always find their way back to light, even if it’s in a neurotic, sometimes even hostile way.”