The Soul Trapper Read online

  When I manage to open them again, the Marquis is high on the curve of his tail, holding me even higher. I panic as I watch his claws slash at incoming offensives. Snakes fall left and right, and the ground begins to spin away from me as the Marquis pirouettes and drives me higher up in the air. Gravity pulls at my stomach, it feels like a falling rock.

  The Marquis turns his face to me from beneath, his blister-like eyes apparently bleeding, as well as his black lips. One of the attackers takes advantage of this break in the Marquis’s focus and jumps at him, thrusting its teeth in the muscle between his neck and his shoulder.

  The Marquis’s whistle stabs my eardrums, but even though his pain is obvious his tail doesn’t slacken off me. His sways are jerky as he retreats with me towards the manor that I’ve tried so hard to escape, while his torso dashes forward. He bites the snakes again and again, swift like a huge cobra. He’s stronger and faster than them, so fast that his attacks add to my vertigo.

  Once we’re inside the chilly manor, the doors thud closed, and the Marquis sets me gently on the cold floor. His tail unwinds from my body, but my skin still crawls after its touch. I remain lying on my back on the granite, my eyes open and my head spinning with the vaulted ceiling above.

  “Why, Saphira?” the Marquis heaves. “Why did you do something so reckless?”

  I roll on the side to look at him. He’s on the floor too, supporting his weight on his palms, his flesh now transparent and his veins visible through it. He’s becoming a man again, his body gaining heat, and his face morphing from a monster to a beautiful human.

  “I couldn’t resist the temptation,” I murmur. The sight of him transforming fascinates me, and my mouth remains open after I’ve spoken.

  “Temptation?” He looks at me with a frown, blood dripping from his shoulder.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “No, don’t change the subject.” He shakes his head slowly, strands of damp hair falling over his forehead. “What were you tempted by?”

  “Freedom.”

  His body curls like he’s suddenly in great pain, baring his teeth while his tail begins to split like a snake tongue. With a cry he throws his head back and spans like a bow. My breath catches. His tail splits into legs, ripping and bleeding until human sinews replace the serpent muscle. In a matter of seconds, the wounds close as thighs and calves take shape.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper, staring in awe.

  Panting hard, the Marquis drops naked on the floor, looking like a marble sculpture. His flawless skin, his beautiful muscles and his youthful profile stand in contrast with the monster from only moments before, but they also prove he’s not a simple man. No human can look like this. The wound on his shoulder now yawns wider, bloody, looking painful. My heart clenches.

  “We need to get that cleaned up ASAP,” I say. “And drain the venom out.”

  “The venom won’t do anything to me.” He breathes with difficulty and tries to stand, but he drops right back on his palms. He spits blood, and I panic.

  “It doesn’t look like it. It looks like you’re going to die.”

  “If I died, would you care?” With his head still hanging he turns his face to me, revealing the ghost of a grin. His pitch black eyes show exhaustion and pain.

  I scramble up, grab his arm and swing it around my neck, winding my other arm around his waist. He puts a foot down, the muscles in his thigh flexing as he stands, which is great help, because he seems to weigh a ton. But that’s the last display of strength the Marquis can offer.

  Blood drips on the floor as we move down the hall. The Marquis limps, and I notice a wound in his hip. The corridor turns darker with every step, and a glance through the windows lining the outer wall shows heavy clouds placing the moon in shadow. The storm roars outside, and for a moment I visualize all those snakes from before flooding the manor.

  “They’ll eventually crawl their way inside.” Panic is sharp in my words.

  “My study,” the Marquis mutters. “We’ll be safe there, no cracks, no openings. We’ll start the fire to block the chimney.”

  We increase our pace toward the high double doors as the slimy sound of serpent slither closes in on us.

  CHAPTER XIX

  CONFESSIONS

  We make it to the study, the Marquis leaning on the pillar by the entrance as I push the doors shut and slide the heavy bolt. I help him to the couch, and hurry to the outline of the fireplace.

  “Where’s the firewood?” I spin in place, the semi-obscurity making it hard on my eyes.

  “No wood. A lever in the centre of the mantelpiece, it looks like a candle. Feels like one too if you can’t see well.”

  I grope, find it and pull. What must be wood logs rolls into the fireplace from somewhere inside it, the sound followed by a splash and a sizzle. Fire bounces to life, making me take a few steps back. I’m amazed the Marquis should use technology in so vintage a place as this study. The warmth hits my numb cheeks, making blood prickle through them again.

  I turn to look at the Marquis’s naked figure, his arms spread on the rest of the leather couch, displaying the marble beauty of his body. He resembles a work of art in the firelight, marred by trails of blood that trickle from his shoulder down his chest and from his hip down his sculpted thigh.

  I rip my eyes from him and scan the place for anything I can use for his wounds. I identify the corner liquor cabinet, grab the vodka and soak a starched white napkin with it. I hurry to the couch with the napkin in one hand and the bottle in the other, and curl one leg under me as I sit facing the Marquis and pressing the napkin on the wound on his shoulder. He winces and squeezes his eyelids.

  My gaze glides over his profile. His eyes are hooded as he relaxes his head back on the rest of the couch, now that the sting of alcohol is more bearable.

  “Thank you for saving me,” I whisper.

  He squints at me, as if he only just remembered. “Why did you try to run, Saphira? With Jeremy Simmons of all people.”

  My eyes wandering all over his face, I realize the pain he goes through in his transformation. A revelation hits me—the Marquis may be a monster, but Kieran Slate is a victim. Emotion swells in my chest as my gaze lingers on his white, bloodless lips, then on his tormented black eyes.

  “You weren’t exactly nice to me,” I whisper.

  He looks sad at me, maybe hurt. “But why try to elope with Inspector Boy?”

  “I . . .”

  I move the soaked napkin to the wound on his hip. He winces and hisses, the sinews in his body tightening.

  “I wasn’t eloping with him. He offered an alternative. But I’d like you to leave him alone, please.”

  “You still have feelings for him?” He grimaces again at the touch of more alcohol on his wound.

  “No, not like that, not anymore. He and I go way back though, he’s . . . say a childhood friend to me.”

  Uncomfortable silence settles between us. The fire rustles and heats the room, but I’m not sure the burn in my cheeks is because of that or because of the awkwardness.

  I walk to the corner liquor cabinet again and grab more starched napkins and a bottle of water. My ears perk up, scanning the silence for serpent slither outside. My skin crawls at the memory of it, sending a shudder all through me.

  “Are you sure they can’t get in?” I inquire after I’ve returned by the Marquis. This spot right by his side feels safe.

  “Positive. This room is as good as a vault. But returning to the subject of Jeremy Simmons. How come you trusted him, Saphira? He cheated on you in the past, and you’re not one to forgive easily, as far as I know.”

  “Uhm, er—” I busy myself soaking another napkin, with water this time, as a pretext to keep my eyes down to what I’m doing and not look into the Marquis’s face. “My situation was desperate, and I’ve known Jeremy all my life. I needed someone, and he was the next best thing.”

  “Next best thing to what? Or to whom?”

  My heart clenches as I remember
that my father, the man I should trust most, is a deranged torturer, and my mother a poor soul who keeps her intuition numb with liquor and too many cigarettes.

  I force my mind away from the subject and shrug. “Jeanie and Vivienne, my best friends, I guess. But I didn’t want to drag them into this horror. Jeremy was already in it.”

  “How about your mother?” the Marquis asks softly. My eyes shoot up at his, and the truth stumbles out of my mouth.

  “She’s distant. She always did what she thought was best for me, but somehow she was actually never . . . there.” I look down again to hide the tears that start to well in my eyes. “I now understand why. She always sensed something was mighty off with Father, and it consumed her emotionally. It still does.”

  This is hardly the time for confessions, and thoughts of the serpents remind me of that. I fire a glance to the door. “Are you sure they can’t come in here? It seems so still out there it gives me the creeps.”

  “Relax, this room is completely safe. Besides, it’s past midnight. The effect of the moon on the inner serpent is lessening, we’re more controlled now.”

  The kindness in his voice sends warmth through me, and I’m wondering if he’s using his powers on me again. If he is, he does it in a wholly different way than before. We search each other’s faces for moments until I kick the conversation back on track, starting to wash the blood off his chest.

  “So you’re not the only serpent man in Northville. That’s frightening.”

  “The serpents you saw out there are my staff. There are no others besides them.”

  My hand freezes mid-dab. “Your staff?”

  He takes a deep breath. “When I decided to stop working as a hit man for my makers, many of my peers decided to follow. I couldn’t trust people who didn’t share my curse or my secret, I’m sure you understand. As for tonight, full moon lends unbound power to the serpent inside the man. It’s next to impossible to fight the inner monster under the full moon, and we can’t resist transformation.”

  Now I understand why Zed left the door to my tower chamber unlocked—the inner demon tormented him, and he needed to get out fast, which unbalanced his otherwise steely focus.

  “But they are your men. How come they attacked you?”

  “I protected what would have been their prey—you. So I stood their enemy. Tonight they’re slaves to their instincts and don’t acknowledge any other master.”

  He protected me. At the risk of his own life. Gratitude fills my heart.

  “Thank you so much, Kieran. So much.” I squeeze his hand, searching his beautiful face and hoping to convey the feeling that overwhelms me. A tired smile draws the corner of his sweet mouth, his eyes closing as if to let him take in a pleasant sensation.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve heard that name. I cherish it, you know? It’s my only bridge to the human I once was.”

  “I cherish it too,” I whisper. “And I won’t use it without your permission.”

  “Oh, you have all permission in the world. I like the way it sounds from your mouth.”

  He sets his dark eyes on me, soft and kind. He was cold and even cruel to me before, but the way he looks at me now fills me with affection, and my heart beats in my throat. The firelight casts a beautiful glow on his face.

  “But still, I wouldn’t thank me,” he says. “It’s my fault the serpent-men are here in the first place.”

  I shake my head. “This place was a nest of vipers all along, with Pukov, my father and all those monsters who did what they did to you and others like you. It’s their fault you are here.” I grab his hand with both of mine. “Kieran, this town was a place of morbid mystery until you came along and brought their crimes to light. My mother and I, we always sensed something was wrong. To silence that nagging inner voice, she lost herself to liquor, and I—to avoid the same fate— turned to oil and canvas. Through painting I searched for something I sensed but couldn’t identify no matter how hard I tried.”

  “Is that what you did?” he probes softly.

  I bite my lower lip, searching for an example that would best help him understand.

  “Remember the painting of the Dark Castle? The one you walked straight to when you first entered my parents’ attic? You said it mirrored my soul. You were right. I’ve been drilling, portraying it in detail hoping to find something that I now realize didn’t even lie within but without. I was trying to uncover what it was that I sensed.”

  “You do have special insight into souls,” he says, his voice low and creamy. “That’s why I had the portrait you made of me brought here and locked in the tower. It made me feel bared.”

  I search the depths of his eyes. “You said that portrait was a confession.”

  “And that it was. A confession that there was a battered stable boy behind the powerful Marquis. That I wasn’t invincible.”

  Scenes of him in his huge serpent form slashing and biting his attackers fill my mind’s eye. “Not invincible, but incredibly strong. Much stronger than all the other serpents.”

  He makes a bitter grimace. “The reason why my makers held me in special regard. And why the mighty Slayer avoids direct confrontation at all costs.”

  “Speaking of the Slayer,” I latch on the topic. “Ivan Basarab. My best bet on his identity is Ronald Lord Barkley, especially since he and Vivienne used to meet around the asylum. Vivienne’s mother knows for a fact who he is—she told me, but an explosion muffled the sound. All we have to do is ask her to get confirmation. I would have told you before you left my room, but I was too scared of you, and my brain was frozen.”

  He smiles a gentle smile, putting his hand over mine. “You’re not scared anymore, I hope. I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

  I smile back. My cheeks prickle with emotion, which I identify as infatuation and a trace of fear. “It’s getting better.”

  “Good, because I want us to become real, Saphira. I want a relationship.”

  I drop my gaze like a maiden from the past century, embarrassed by my blush. “You’ve hurt me, Kieran, badly. You used me in terrible ways.”

  The couch dips as he changes position and bends to me. My heart races, and I watch my own chest rising and falling as I try to control my breathing. He touches my chin with a soft finger, lifting my gaze to meet his again.

  “Is that a no?”

  “It is.”

  His face draws. Desolation falls over his features, giving me an impulse to allow hope.

  “At least for now,” I add quickly. “I need time.”

  “And will time help?”

  I desperately need to change the subject. I take to washing the blood off his muscular thigh, the rhythm of my heart choking me. He’s completely naked right in front of me. “What do you think about Ronald Lord Barkley being the true Ivan Basarab?”

  “Hm.”

  I look up at him. “You don’t think so?”

  “If Vivienne had anything going with Lord Barkley, she wouldn’t have needed to sneak at night into the lunatic asylum, would she? Basarab wanted access to the sewers so he could get to the underground of this manor. So it can’t be Barkley, he has access to the sewers anytime. But another person who’s manifested interest in the asylum and its sewers was your father, Gunnar Lothar, right after I bought the manor from him—he argued to Lord Barkley that the place needed expensive restorations anyway, and maybe it would be better to sell. He said that the old building had historical value, and the sewers could be turned into a tourist attraction. He wanted to explore the catacombs, allegedly to assess their potential, but Barkley hated the idea, and the relationship with Gunnar turned cold. So Basarab must have turned to manipulation or threats to force Vivienne Grant to help him.”

  I swallow hard. “You’re saying your suspect is my father?”

  “He’s a good candidate.”

  I don’t even know what to feel. I look around, gathering my memories of my conversation with Lynn Grant. “Vivienne’s mother said the mysterious man ha
d everyone fooled except her. That she had lived with a monster like him for years. You think . . . you think she’s always known? And said nothing? Covered it all until her own daughter was in danger?”

  “Quite a few people you would have thought good folk knew. You’d be shocked. They knew and closed their eyes to it all.” He lies down on the couch with a grimace of pain, one leg curled in front of me, the other foot on the floor.

  I can’t help admiring the marble sinews of his naked body. His wounds are now disinfected and clean, but they still need tending to. The sight of them makes me cringe.

  “Is there anywhere I can get bandages?” I say.

  “Not in this room, and you can’t go out. The serpents are calmer, but still. They’re wounded and furious.”

  “Then we’ll have to improvise.”

  I get up from the couch, walk to his desk and open drawers until one object teams up with my imagination—duct tape. I grab a few clean starched napkins from the liquor cabinet and go back to Kieran, who watches me with an amused expression.

  “What’s so funny?” I inquire, drawing tape from the roll. It makes a pitchy sound that rips through the rustle of the fire.

  “You’re inventive. A life-saver in hardship.”

  But the moment I bend to place a folded napkin on his shoulder wound, I notice it’s closing. Slowly like a snail, but visibly. I shriek and jump back. When I look into Kieran’s face, he’s smiling.

  “There’s something about my kind of reptile,” he says. “Unless you cut off our head, we tend to regenerate.”

  “Then why—”

  “Why I let you take care of me?” His black gaze takes on a special glint in the firelight. “I wanted to feel your hands on me, of your own will. But my wounds didn’t need care. They’ll hurt for another few hours while they’re closing, but by morning I’ll be as good as new.”

  “Kieran, you scared the life out of me.” I slap the napkins on the coffee table to mark my discontent at having been fooled. I stay soft-spoken though, not wanting to come across a drama queen jumping at the first opportunity to act hysterical.