Blood Curse (DarkWorld: A Soul Tracker Novel Book 3) Page 5

  I lay in the bed, spent from the unexpected activities of the night, fatigue pulling at my muscles, forcing myself to stay awake just a few minutes longer.

  I had one more thing to do, and considering I had the time forced onto me by Elise’s expectation of a morning meeting to confirm my interest, I planned to use it.

  Honestly, I’d have preferred to go straight home, but as interested as I was in the case, I didn’t want to jeopardize it especially since the woman seemed to already have misgivings with reference to my physical appearance.

  Still, the time did allow me the opportunity for a quick projection.

  Darius’s mention of Reykjavik had fueled my need to revisit the scene. Slipping into the Ether, I began my search, tracing my way back to the Northern Lights where Samuel had led me not so long ago.

  I floated there, sensing the air around me, sending out my consciousness, hoping for even the slightest hint of Samuel’s feedback.

  My senses spread out like a radar, testing the waves of energy within the ether. A few minutes later—and just when I was beginning to tire—I bumped into a thin, fading trail of Samuel’s essence.

  The ether occupied a space between the worlds, and unlike on Earth, gravity didn’t exist there. Everything within the ether simply remained where it was, unless encouraged to do otherwise.

  Or unless time breaks it down into minute particles that end up absorbed back into the ether itself.

  The feedback existed, connected between places, connected between worlds, because its energy gives it impetus.

  Energy of its owner.

  Time ages everything including feedback, so I was supremely lucky to have found Samuel’s.

  I grasped onto his threads and followed it carefully.

  Slowly.

  I usually tracked feedback at lightning speed, confident of my ability to navigate the ether, confident that I wouldn’t lose hold of a thread.

  But, perhaps because it was Samuel—or because it somehow connected me with Ari—I took the greatest care with tracking him.

  The energy pulled me along, my heart going ever faster, until it stopped mid-air.

  There one moment.

  Gone the next.

  I hovered for a few seconds, stunned. Where had it gone?

  Feedback threads fade away. I knew that. But they don’t just cut off as if an invisible wall had slammed down on it.

  Continuing along, I followed in the direction the feedback had originally been heading, but too soon I became lost in a highway of feedback traffic.

  I slowed to a stop, staring at the streams of colors around me, hopelessness washing over me.

  It wasn’t easy to pick up a broken thread in the first place, and near impossible in the tangled mess of energy lines I now faced.

  Stunned, disappointed and exhausted, I returned to my body, wondering what Darius would say should I tell him of my failure. Worse, what would Samuel and Ari think when they found out I’d failed to find them, that I could track strangers for a living, but not the people I loved the most.

  Tears trailed down my face and I turned over and hugged my pillow. I needed rest after what I’d been through during the day, and more so after what the tokolosje had put me through in the past few weeks.

  The hauntings, merely annoying at first, were steadily getting worse.

  Hopefully, I’d be able to stop him before he killed me.

  I cracked open my eyes, wincing against the pale light streaming into the hotel room window. Weak as it was, it still managed to sear its way into my brain and I turned over with a groan, pulling the pillow over my head.

  I’d fallen asleep hard after the projection. Not surprising considering the constant fatigue I experienced. More so since the wards had given me a small respite from the rigors of my haunting.

  Still, I’d barely gotten sleep enough to qualify as rest. I had a list of things to do and far too little time in which to do it.

  When the doorbell went half an hour later, I’d changed into fresh clothes, still as elegant and still as businesslike, boots on, firearm and daggers stowed, and satchel ready.

  The white silk pants and sapphire blue peasant blouse wouldn’t appeal to Garner—not that I gave a damn about her preconceived notion of what an investigator ought to look like.

  I’d bought the pants and blouse a year ago for Governor Kruik’s ball—where I’d posed as a reporter in order to arrest the man for trading in paranormal slaves—and hadn’t worn them since.

  I’d thrown them into my satchel only because they were thin and hadn’t need ironing, and they folded up really small so I didn’t need to lug around an extra bag.

  Taking a moment, I projected quickly, the tracker version of a peephole, and confirmed my visitor was in fact Elise Garner.

  Dragging stiff fingers through my hair, I headed to the door and opened it for her, still annoyed that I’d had to stick around for this confirmation meeting.

  She stood on the threshold, spine stiff, tension and worry etching her face in a network of fine lines. The woman’s face suggested her age at more than a decade older than her fifty.

  “So . . . you’ll take the case.” Her face revealed not a sign of emotion, although I hadn’t missed that slight hesitation in her voice.

  “I will. But I can’t stay for breakfast. I have to return to Taipei. I can no longer ignore my current case.” I’d almost forgotten about the Taipei lie.

  I received a curt nod. “I expect daily updates.”

  “I’ll send you an email. Or my partner will, if I’m unable.”

  She nodded again, scanning me from head-to-toe. When she met my eyes she said, “I suggest you start carrying a weapon. Or learn some martial arts. A girl like you can disappear very fast if she can’t defend herself well.”

  “A girl like me?” I didn’t explain that I had already ticked those two boxes courtesy of the gargoyle and Storm.

  I didn’t say that right at that moment I had two very sharp, very dangerous Persian daggers tucked inside each of my boots.

  Nor did I tell her I had a metal-fae pistol in my satchel, filled with bullets that could kill a demon, its trigger just waiting to be pulled.

  She lifted an eyebrow. “My dear, the last thing a woman who looks like you should be doing is detective work. It’s dangerous. It’s not my place to question your motives, but even I had to go out on a limb to trust you.”

  I smiled. “I assure you, Ms Garner, I’ve never had a complaint in the past. And in fact, this is the first time my appearance has come under a client’s scrutiny.”

  And this is the last time I’m ever going to wear silk to a first meet.

  Garner left soon after, taking my bank details with her and promising to make a swift deposit. She’d been generous, but these days I concentrated more on the job than on the money.

  Amazing how priories changed when you had access to regular funds. The thought of those funds reminded me that I needed to check on Gina. Which in turn reminded me that I needed to check on Samuel.

  And Saleem

  And the Murdochs.

  As I packed my bag and prepared to leave, I considered having a dinner party at my place and inviting all the non-catatonic people on my list. That would tick off the majority of the boxes in one go.

  The catatonic contingent, I’d have to go see in person.

  Chapter 8

  Home at last.

  Felt so good.

  After a hot shower—intended to relax my stiff muscles after the jump—and a change into yoga pants and an extra large tee, I checked my pistol and then my dagger, more out of habit that necessity.

  I’d lost the soap six times even though I’d stowed it safely on the shower shelf. I’d ended up scalding myself when the cold water stopped flowing so suddenly I hadn’t had time to get out of the stream. I’d slipped on the wet floor and landed on my hip after the bath mat had mysteriously moved to the other side of the bathroom.

  Honey, I’m home.

  Tha
nk goodness I’d decided I was too tired to shave my legs. That may not have ended well.

  I’d been super careful with my toothbrush, a little reluctant to die considering the very high likelihood of impaling myself in the throat, or poking an eye out. In the end, I’d escaped the dangers of the bathroom with clean teeth, a sore ass and very red burn on my shoulder.

  The bathroom wasn’t the only dangerous place in the house for me, though it felt like the most deadly to me.

  I was going to have to do something about this pest soon.

  Like yesterday.

  I sat heavily onto the bed and sent a text to Darius asking him for more details about the wards. A few minutes later he responded to say he’d emailed me a scanned copy of the wards and instructed me to find a kitsune sorcerer.

  Apparently fox shifters were known to have a specific power which allowed them to generate such wards with ease. Only problem was, sorcerers were few and far between, and finding one who was also a kitsune would not be as simple as browsing the online phonebook.

  Next, I sent a text to Natasha—the best person to track down a sorcerer of any kind.

  Message sent, I lay back down and closed my eyes.

  Before I could even pray for sleep, I sank deep into unconsciousness.

  Arriving in the kitchen a few hours later, the sound of someone pacing the floor of my living room spiked my curiosity level to the max. The stove was empty, no bubbling pots, despite the dinner hour.

  Yes.

  No gargoyle chef.

  My heart tightened. I missed him already.

  Gathering that if my living room pacer was inside the ward, then someone had let him in and he wasn’t here to assassinate me. Not with that brand of serious pacing.

  Most likely Saleem.

  The thought of him sent a little blast of warmth to my heart.

  I stepped toward the hall, but halted as a chorus of soft creaks echoed around the kitchen.

  Swallowing the urge to both groan and shriek with anger, I did a slow 360 to find every single cupboard door hanging open.

  Not surprised.

  Creeped out. But not surprised.

  I debated whether to leave the doors that way, but eventually gave in and began to close them from one side of the kitchen.

  As I made a full circuit of the room, angrily closing my mom’s old cupboard doors, I held in the urge to scream at the evil spirit.

  The fucking poltergeist was back, and with a vengeance.

  I rushed around the cupboard, shutting doors—holding back the need to slam them hard—only to arrive right back where I’d started with all those doors open again. I let out a frustrated sob and began to close them faster, my frustration fueling my movements.

  Again, after I’d completed a full circuit of maniacal door-shutting, I reached the threshold only to discover that they were all open again. Tears slipped down my cheeks and my fingers curling into fists at my side

  I must have slammed a door or two a little harder than intended, because someone cleared their throat behind me.

  I stiffened.

  “What the fuck is going on here?” asked Saleem, his husky voice unusually lost on my libido.

  I turned slowly and met his concerned eyes, aware that my own was wet and probably unflattering.

  All the cupboards were wide open again and it had to look pretty strange to any observer.

  I shrugged and smiled. “I’m just doing a bit of cleaning,” I said my voice deceptively innocent.

  “Cleaning, huh?” he folded his tattooed arms and leaned against the doorjamb, a cool smile curving his luscious mouth, his jet-black curls sweeping against his shoulders.

  His expression said I was full of shit.

  “Yeah,” I mumbled as I began to shut the doors. “I was looking for something and then I ended up moving stuff and eventually I figured why not? I might as well set them because certainly nobody else—”

  “You’re babbling.”

  “And a girl is not allowed to babble?” I didn’t look back at him.

  “Not when she’s frustrated and crying.”

  I stopped at the opposite end of the kitchen, dropping my fingers to the edge of the stove. Sniffing, I wiped my face with the back of my hand.

  “That time of the month,” I muttered.

  Saleem gave a snort-laugh. “You’d be the first woman I know that has ever been haunted by a poltergeist at that time of the month. Talk about PMS.”

  I spun on my heel and glared at him, somewhere between relieved and scared. “I’m not haunted. Don’t be silly.”

  A little too high with the pitch of the voice there, Mel.

  Saleem lifted an eyebrow and pointed at my face.

  I frowned. What he was on about?

  “You nose is bleeding.”

  “Shit.” I grunted, held my hand over my nose and eyed the box of Kleenex on the counter near his elbow. He turned, grabbed a stack and hurried over to me. He handed it over with an unamused grin, then leaned against the edge of the kitchen table.

  Giving him a murderous glare, I snatched the tissues from his hand and cleaned up my dripping nose.

  Then I offered the ruby-red stain on the tissue, a hateful glare all of its own. I would not be surprised if I were to find the stain contained a significant percentage of my much-needed brain cells.

  Rolling my eyes, I tossed the Kleenex into the trashcan and met Saleem’s gaze. He’d sat there all this while without saying a word, with that disappointed-slash-worried expression on his face, patiently waiting for me to talk.

  I placed my hands on my hips, and lifted chin defiantly. “What?”

  “I’ve been wondering what was up with you. Strange silences, avoidance behavior, increased incidence of nosebleeds, constant looking over your shoulder, edgy, snappy-“

  “Okay, okay. Fine, Mr Tracker-whisperer.” I headed to the table and sat slowly, giving Saleem a pointed look.

  He took the hint and moved slowly to the seat opposite me. He looked calm, but the black tattoos on his forearms swirled across his skin, glamor fading with his magical concentration.

  I rested my elbows on the table and place my chin on my palms. “I’m so fucked.”

  Saleem snorted and leaned closer. “Care to elaborate a little?”

  “What the hell,” I looked up with a pained sigh, “I’m cursed.”

  Saleem nodded, made a rolling motion with his hand. “A little more elaborate than that.”

  I rested my forehead on my hands and gripped my head tight, letting out a low groan. “Someone—apparently a dude with a sick sense of humor, and a black hole for a heart—has put a curse on me. So, now I have an evil spirit along for a ride everywhere I go. And not only is he in my constant company, he also makes my nose bleed, drains my energy and oh wait—this is the best part—he’s a freaking psycho poltergeist who opens doors, drops soap on tiles so I slip and fall, and may even think it’s funny to turn on the garbage disposal for kicks so don’t go dropping anything in-”

  “Mel,” Saleem’s voice was loud, and in front of my face as he shook me by the shoulders, hard, “Mel.”

  I blinked, staring straight into his face. I was on my feet, my limbs taut, my spine stiff with frustration.

  Saleem’s face went from tight and gray, to a more healthy looking relaxed. “That’s good. At least I didn’t have to slap you.”

  “Yeah, buddy. Physical abuse would not bode well for you. Ugh,” I held my head, “what happened?’

  He shrugged, then sat on the table. “You were talking. Then you were ranting. Then you got to your feet and started getting a little too hysterical for my liking.”

  “Oohh, don’t like hysterical females, do we?” I snapped, wondering why I was so touchy all of a sudden.

  “I don’t mind hysterical females at all. Just the ones about to stab me through the eye with a dagger. Those ones tend to put me a little on edge.”

  “Huh?” I followed Saleem’s chin-jerk to my dagger which now lay on the
table, instead of in my boot. “What the hell is going on?” I whispered, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight.

  As I sank to the floor, I felt arms go around me, holding me gently. “I know,” Saleem chuckled, “I have this effect on woman all the time.”

  With dramatic flair, he scooped me up in his arms and waggled his eyebrows.

  “What?” I frowned. “You knock women unconscious?”

  He clicked his tongue and I hid my smile as he carried me to the living room. “No. They swoon because they can’t handle how hot I am.”

  He lay me down on the long sofa and tucked a cushion under my head and gave a soft snort. “Mmh. Good luck with that. Guess you spend too much reviving your weak women to leave time for anything else.”

  My head spun, my muscles still tight and tense, and yet I was still able to feel a rush of fury at the thought of Saleem with other women.

  Saleem, grinning way too widely for my liking, sat beside me on the sofa. “At least I know I have the best ability of all.”

  “Which is?”

  “Being able to get a woman flat on her back without her even realizing it.” His eyes twinkled and I would have sat up and kissed the freaking life out of him if the room hadn’t been spinning so crazily.

  I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, frustrated.

  Pissed off.

  Pissed off was good.

  Shifting my gaze to Saleem’s face, I asked, “By the way . . . what are you doing here?” He put his hand to his heart, his expression fake-hurt. “Aren’t you supposed to be all up in Omega’s grill ‘cos of Celeste?”

  Saleem nodded. “Logan’s got that covered. Seems like the bigwigs aren’t really interested in us.”

  “Because you’re clean?” I struggled into a sitting position. Saleem sat beside me, resting my legs across his lap.

  He shook his head. “That and more, but we have yet to understand it. Something is fishy with Jess too, but she won’t say what, and Storm’s been acting so strange these past few days . . .”

  “Strange how?”

  “Strange like he knows something we don’t. He’s been a little too short-tempered as well.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Not with me. He’s probably just preoccupied. A lot of crazy shit’s been happening.”