Stolen Souls Read online

  Stolen Souls

  By

  Debra Dunbar

  Copyright 2014, All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  1

  Evil swirled in warm currents through the night air. It burned the hound’s nose, watering his eyes with its intensity. Raising his head to the sky, he breathed deep but couldn’t quite catch the location of the scent.

  Alfalfa and wild cucumbers lurked behind the hints of foulness. Those were the soothing, normal smells for a summer’s evening. This other scent was most definitely not normal. Perhaps the monster had only passed through his territory, but he couldn’t take the chance. Heading west, Boomer broke into an easy lope that would take him quickly across field and pasture. He had to make sure his souls were safe. Worry creased his brow as he ran.

  Birdsong had tapered off as dusk slid into night, and the darkness was filled with the din of cicadas. It had been hard for the hound to leave this evening. The girl had such soft hands, stroking and scratching all the best spots. She let him sleep in the bed, snuggled up to her warmth. Boomer had lain there, his nose pressed to her side as she dozed, content. It had taken all his willpower to leave her and go out into the night, but he had work to do — souls that cried out for the release only he could grant. And now he was especially glad he’d stirred himself and ventured out. Something was very wrong.

  There were twenty cemeteries in the territory he considered his, not including the ancient farmhouse graveyards, where family members had been buried at home centuries ago, long before his birth. Most of those souls were in grace, having long departed this world, but the newly interred occasionally needed his help to move on.

  It would have been quick work if all he had to do was visit cemeteries for the recently deceased. Instead, Boomer needed to make the rounds of various farms, houses, and roadside memorials to check on the ghosts. Even if they’d been stubbornly remaining on this plane for centuries, tonight might be the night they decided to leave, and he needed to be there for them. It was the duty of a hellhound, his responsibility to ensure deceased humans made their journey to their afterlife.

  Buffalo Road. The Methodist church sat small and proud, a white square rising to a steepled point in the moonlight. He hopped the five–foot fence with ease, nose to the ground as he trotted line by line among the grave markers, casting about for scent and especially searching for any hint of the monster.

  Humans didn't always go easy into their death. The bodies failed, but the souls sometimes held tenaciously onto the flesh. Decades, centuries could go by before the spirit took the great leap away from a corporeal form into their blessed eternity.

  The hound checked each grave, determining who had passed to their reward, and who held on. White wisps rose like fog from the grass, following him and watching his progress. Ghosts. Those who gave up the physical, but refused to leave. Most never made it to the graveyards, instead hovering where their dearest memories were, or at the scene of their death, tied to the earth by the power of emotion. The hellhound continued on, ignoring their ethereal presence. When they were ready, he was here to help them. It was always their choice.

  But tonight they were agitated, upset, these wisps of human spirits. It could be the freshly placed grave, the new resident. A new arrival always caused unrest among the ghosts. Any change in routine, any new soul in their midst caused anxiety, but this seemed different.

  Boomer paused at the new grave, wet nose against the ground as he snuffled for scents. Elderly man, cancer–riddled. He'd made his peace; his family had lovingly interred him. He wouldn't remain for long. The ones who struggled, whose families tied them to this physical plane, those were the ones who lingered the longest.

  The wisps followed him, wringing their emotions through him. Worry. Fear. They wanted to hide. They wanted him to protect them.

  Buffalo Road was clear. He trotted along, visiting several farmhouses and a church that had at one time been a drinking establishment. The ghosts there were equally upset, gesturing to him and imploring him to do something. He had no idea what they wanted. None were willing to move on to their afterlife, and he lacked the ability to communicate with them beyond his basic function.

  A frown furrowed the velvet skin of his forehead as he ran faster, eating up the miles to the cemeteries in the neighboring towns. All seemed stable, but the ghosts worried him with their anxious touch. Why were they disturbed? Was it the monster? He’d caught no hint of it beyond the initial scent just outside of his home.

  Rounds made, the hound trotted back, detouring to one last cemetery that called to him. This one didn’t often have new burials, but clearly they’d made an exception for someone. As he neared, he felt the fur on the back of his neck rise. He bared his lips in a snarl. The foul smell, this time unmistakably strong — sulfur, hydrogen, and copper — cut sharp against the faint scent of decay. But it was the other scents that brought the hound to full attention. Burned chalk, a whiff of incense and candle wax, and the unmistakable smell of magic — black magic.

  The hound shimmered, not completely changing into his hellhound form but shifting energy enough to streak across the fields. The smell watered his eyes as he drew near; the billow of silver snaking across the ground confirmed his worst fears. In his forty years he’d never encountered such a thing, but the recognition was instinctive, built into his very spirit. Who could have done such a thing? The hound moved faster, a blur of speed through the tall corn.

  He was too late. An empty grave greeted him, dirt thrown thirty feet in either direction, and the freshly carved granite stone split in two on the ground. He recoiled as he peered down the hole at the wreckage that had once been an expensive coffin and whined. Lowering his nose to the ground, the hound breathed deeply, sorting the scents for the human that once occupied this grave. Sneezing to clear his nasal passages, he began to search the graveyard, hoping to find a path, a history of what happened here.

  There were no other new dead, but the hound paused at several other gravesites, noting the trampled ground and dislodged markers. It was the other two graves that disturbed the hellhound the most. They were gone. Ghosts, both long–term residences of the cemetery, had vanished. He lifted his head, eyes glowing as he sensed their terror as they died a second death. These souls would never experience an afterlife, never rise again. They were forever dead, vanished from all existence.

  The monster had torn through the small graveyard, knocking over stones and crushing the neatly mowed grass. Boomer felt the creature’s frustration. A rural cemetery wasn’t the optimal feeding ground for the newly risen. The scent tapered off as he followed it out toward the road where it dwindled to nothing.

  The hellhound lifted his head to the sky and howled his misery. He’d lost two of his own — three if he counted the newly buried man. The failure weighed heavily upon him, but he could do nothing more tonight. Dawn approached, and all scents would vanish in the sunlight. He needed help. He needed to find and deal with this monster before he took another, but this task was beyond the abilities of a hellhound. Normally he would turn to his infernal mistress for help, but she’d been in Hel for over a month now. Who could he turn to? The girl was strong. In a few decades she’d be perfectly capable of assisting, but not now — not with fear and indecision gripping her heart. Still, she might be his only hope.

  The sky tinted peach and lavender as Boomer trotted home. Home to the girl with soft hands and soft voice, the young one that would need to grow up fast and assist him before it was too late.

  2

  Nyalla stretched, reaching her hand toward the vibrating phone beside her and peering at the
caller ID. Michelle. She pressed the “decline” button and tossed the phone back onto the nightstand. She’d have to call her back otherwise the other woman would drive out to check on her. Michelle worried, and she wasn’t the only one. Part of her was relieved that there were people checking up on her. Part of her dreaded their invitations and continual urging to join them at social events. Just the thought of being surrounded by strange people, speaking a language she had just learned and expecting her to know their rules of civility — it gave her the shivers. She didn’t want Michelle to worry. She’d call her back. Later.

  Diving her head back under the sheets, Nyalla smiled, feeling the soft cotton against her naked flesh. She'd gathered every pillow in the house to pile in her bed like a nest, curling up snuggled in the cool sheets, the plush blankets, and the silken comforter. It all seemed so decadent. Nearly twenty years she'd slept on a hard bench with only a rough scrap of cloth to shiver beneath. Now her head hit the pillow and blissful oblivion washed through her, lulling her into a paradise of comfort and ease. She loved bedtime, the moment where she felt truly safe and secure, when all the fears that lurked in the corners of her mind fell silent.

  She looked about her for Boomer, knowing the dog wouldn't be there. Every night she fell asleep, curled around his lanky frame, her hands deep in his loose skin and velvety fur. Every morning she woke alone. He was a creature of the night, and although she missed his presence, he always returned, always kept her safe.

  The nightmares that should have been banished with the morning sun persisted, haunting her days. She’d survived nearly twenty years of slavery to the elves in Hel as a human changeling — it seemed ridiculous to be so afraid now. But she was.

  Her life should be idyllic, reunited with her human family and under the protection of a powerful demon, but she couldn’t seem to shake the crippling fear that kept her from doing the most basic of human activities, that kept her a self–imposed prisoner in this house, that limited her social interactions to the bare necessities.

  Nyalla pushed her fears aside and rolled across the huge bed, luxuriating in the soft pillows and watching the early morning rays of sun play across the maple floors. It wasn’t so bad staying in the house, soaking up the summer heat by the crystal–clear pool, walking through the pasture and petting the horses. If she felt particularly brave today, maybe she’d drive out to get pizza. Or not.

  The wood floors were cool against her bare feet, but the temperature had already begun to rise in the house. She liked it warm, deliberately setting the climate–control devices to allow the house to heat to nearly the steamy temperature of the outdoors. It reminded her of home, where she’d been practically naked most of the time, as were the elves. Home. Only, Hel wasn’t her home any more; this strange place was.

  She threw on a pair of shorts and a tank top then stared down at the bedside table. With a sigh, she picked up the phone and hit redial.

  “Nyalla.” Relief flowed across the phone line carried on the light Caribbean accent. She loved Michelle’s voice. It made her think of sun, sand, and seagulls crying in the breeze. “There’s a rocking happy hour going on tonight at Fusion Central. Come join us.”

  Nyalla winced. She’d already been warned about the possible ramifications of getting caught drinking alcohol at her age. Sipping carbonated water, surrounded by a hundred loud, tipsy weekend warriors sounded pretty close to torture.

  “I’ve got plans.” It wasn’t really a lie. Her plans for the evening included some television and Chinese delivery.

  “I’ll come get you,” Michelle insisted. “I know you don’t feel comfortable parking downtown.”

  No, she didn’t, but she felt even less comfortable about the idea of a happy hour. “Can we do tomorrow night instead? I really don’t feel up to it tonight.”

  Procrastinating the dreaded social experience was her only recourse. Michelle was going to eventually pry her out of the house. Maybe by tomorrow she’d come up with an activity that didn’t include a crowded room full of strangers.

  The only sound for several long seconds was Michelle’s long sigh. “Okay, Nyalla, but tomorrow we’re definitely getting together. Sam would never forgive me if I let you barricade yourself in that house with nothing but pizza and pork fried rice.”

  Sam was her demon benefactor, and Michelle’s business partner and friend. She was also the Iblis, the leader of the demons — Satan, only not as scary as the human television made the holder of the title to be. This was Sam’s beautiful house she was staying in, her hound that she snuggled with every evening. Sam would want her to go out.

  Nyalla’s sigh mirrored Michelle’s. “I promise. Tomorrow night.”

  Off the hook, she stuffed the phone in the pocket of her shorts and headed downstairs. Within minutes coffee was brewing and Nyalla was smearing cream cheese across a bagel. It all fell into step, her daily routine. Knowing what to expect each moment was comforting. Like clockwork, she heard a scratch at the door and turned to see a brindle Plott hound, his big brown eyes staring at her intently from the other side of the French doors.

  “Almost missed your breakfast,” she teased the dog as she let him in.

  Boomer’s ears jutted forward, and his head swung toward the blue dish in its usual spot. His eyes swiveled back to meet hers with that strange expression of doggy guilt before he took off for the bowl with a jump.

  “You’re welcome,” Nyalla called after him with a laugh.

  The hound inhaled his morning kibble, while Nyalla inspected the mail, setting Sam’s aside on a growing pile and opening the three envelopes addressed to her. Bright, glossy brochures spilled onto the kitchen table. One showed sand and surf, and a large building off in the distance behind tall waving grasses. Another burst with brilliant orange and red sunset on the water, a boat in the foreground. The third focused on a crimson pail beside an elaborate sand castle. Nyalla inspected each one carefully, as if they were works of art, then took them over to the dining room table to place them beside a dozen others. A wet nose touched her hand, concerned and gentle.

  “See, Boomer, this one is from Cape Hatteras, another from Chincoteague Island, and one from Historic St. Mary’s County.” Nyalla showed the brochure to the dog, who nosed it with interest. “This here is where the Potomac River empties into the Chesapeake Bay. There’s a lighthouse, and people take boats out to catch crabs and fish.”

  The hound turned his attention from the brochure in her hand and stretched his head up to the table, gently pulling a different one off the edge to extend toward her.

  The girl turned the brochure over in her hand, eyeing it wistfully. “The ocean. I can’t imagine water so huge you can’t see the other side. As it nears the land, the seawater rises up, like it’s reaching to the sky, only to crash back down in a spray of foam. Lines of white marching in formations, like soldiers, toward the shore.”

  The hound cocked his head, his eyes intent on her face as she smiled down at him. “Maybe someday I’ll be able to see it, to reach my hand into the water and touch it. Someday.”

  Nyalla put the brochures back onto the table, adjusting them so they lined up perfectly in rows. The hound whined, shaking his head at her sadly. She took a deep breath, putting the thoughts of the beach from her mind, locking it away with other dreams that terrified her as much as they drew her in.

  “So, Boomer, should we enjoy the pool today? Take a walk to see the horses? Maybe we’ll watch one of Sam’s movies and order pizza.”

  The hound’s ears drooped, and he walked to the front door, looking back expectantly.

  “But you were just out! Is breakfast not agreeing with your stomach?”

  She expected him to paw at the door, but instead the hound ran into the kitchen and returned to sit before Nyalla, a set of keys dangling from his mouth. Taking them from the dog, Nyalla bit her lip. She’d only driven Wyatt’s truck and had been taking every means to avoid driving over the last month. It was one thing to force herself with Wyatt by her side,
another to head out alone where she second–guessed her every decision, convinced she was committing a terrible breach of conduct or violating an unknown human law. There was really no need to go out. Peapod brought groceries to her door, and she was happy to dine on pizza or Chinese food deliveries if she didn’t want to cook.

  Boomer nudged her leg, knocking her slightly off balance. The keys jingled merrily in her hand. Nyalla took a deep breath. If Boomer wanted her to go too far, she’d just turn around. It was time to start taking little baby steps, to force herself out into this terrifying new place she now called home.

  “Okay,” she said breathlessly. “Where are we going?”

  Boomer thumped his tail on the floor, licking her hand before trotting back over to the door. She followed him then paused, clenching the door handle a few moments before summoning up the strength of will to open it and step out. Boomer raced ahead, and she pulled the door shut. The sound of it closing after her set her heart racing. So final, so solid behind her as she walked down the driveway, her feet crunching on the cocoa–shell sidewalk. Boomer sat beside the huge Suburban, eyeing her encouragingly.

  It was so much bigger than Wyatt’s truck. Nyalla closed her eyes and visualized herself driving it; a tiny spec behind the wheel. How would she be expected to stay in her lane? The thing was wide enough to take up over half the road. The image shifted to her sideswiping parked cars, with oncoming traffic running off the road to avoid the monstrous SUV. She couldn’t do it. There was no way she could drive that thing.

  Boomer barked impatiently, and Nyalla’s eyes popped open, catching sight of the other vehicle in the driveway. This one seemed much more manageable. Sleek and grey, it hugged the pavement with lean lines — Corvette, Sam had called it.

  “We’ll take this one,” she told the hound, pointing the keys toward the Corvette.

  Boomers eyes grew huge, and a long whine escaped him. Nyalla ignored him and walked around to open the passenger door. “In you go.”