Stolen Souls Read online

  Even that seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Tension filled Eric’s car, and his hands gripped the steering wheel as if he were trying to crush it. She’d screwed up again. She should have just stayed home and ordered pizza.

  They inched past the half–visible Corvette, and Nyalla searched for something to say. Almost twenty years of being told to shut up and now she found herself having to make conversation.

  “What’s it like being a policeman? I watch all the shows on television, and it looks very exciting.”

  His hands relaxed on the wheel. “It’s more boring than you’d think. I just got out of the academy this spring, so I don’t really get to do anything like you see on TV. Mostly setting up speed traps, or responding to calls of theft or vandalism. Every now and then I’ll get a drunk and disorderly call, but I’m on the day shift — most of those come at night.”

  “Well, the cemetery thing seems pretty exciting. Do you have any leads on who might be doing this?” She felt a bit awkward, pumping him for information. Should she tell him about the finger, or not?

  Eric shook his head. “That sort of thing gets passed along to a detective. I’ll keep my eyes open, since I patrol this area, but any investigating is up to him.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “Might still be drunk kids. It’s a bit too early for Halloween nonsense, and I don’t like to throw around crazy theories like devil–worship and such. I’ve got no idea why someone would take entire corpses, though. Thankfully that’s above my pay grade.”

  He gave her a quick glance, a smile once again crossing his face. “Enough about me. Tell me about what it was like growing up in Finland.”

  She had no idea. “I didn’t have a very good childhood.”

  What else could she say? The elves probably had made a big fuss over her as an infant, but once the tests at age two revealed she had less magical ability than a rock, that would have all changed. All she could remember was menial chores, and isolation — the only communication being the occasional orders to do more work. It had been lonely. She’d taken to disobeying, deliberately failing at tasks just to have them yell at her. When hitting was the only touch you knew, you did everything in your power to cause it. Pain was better than nothing at all.

  A hand reached out and took hers, giving it a quick squeeze then continuing to hold on gently. Nyalla fought back sudden tears. His hands were big, strong, with neatly trimmed nails. His thumb rubbed along the inside of her palm, soothing her.

  “So how are things in college? What’s your major, and what do you plan to do when you graduate?”

  This wasn’t something she’d spent any time formulating in her assumed identity. Instead of the usual panic when someone asked her about her life, she felt calm. It probably had a lot to do with her hand in his, the feel of him next to her in the small car. He smelled like soap and sunshine, and she fought a sudden urge to lean against him and breathe deep. That wouldn’t be a good idea. He’d probably wreck the car, and one wreck per week was enough.

  “I’m not going back this fall. I need some time to find myself, to decide what I want to do with my life.”

  It was true. She knew she couldn’t stay in Sam’s house forever, but contemplating a career, a life outside what she’d come to think of as her sanctuary was terrifying.

  Eric gave her hand another squeeze. “That’s smart. You can always go back later, once you figure out what you want.”

  Nyalla marveled at how easy this man was to talk to. He teased her, suggesting improbable careers for her to consider, and she went along, discussing the merits and drawbacks of each option. By the time they arrived at the restaurant, she was floating. Eric was fun, nice, and she really liked his hand in hers. In the back of her mind, a small voice wondered what it would feel like to have his hands elsewhere, firm against her soft skin. She shivered, feeling her face heat up at the thought.

  The wait staff was expecting them, calling Eric by name as they escorted them to a brown–paper–topped table complete with wooden mallets and a roll of paper towels. A small plate held plastic cups filled with various liquids. Nyalla was sure the yellow was butter, but picked up a cup holding a clear liquid, sniffing cautiously. Vinegar.

  No sooner had they sat down, than a woman placed a large metal baking tray full of crabs between them. Thick red powder coated the seafood, spilling in tiny grains onto the brown paper. Old Bay seasoning. It was a Maryland staple. The humans here put it on everything — crabs, French fries, burgers, and even potato chips.

  Eric handed her a crab, so hot she could barely hold it, and began tearing into one of his own, expertly snapping the claws to reveal the sweet meat. Nyalla copied the motion, staring into the cavities at the food still trapped within. It was not as easy as it looked. Picking up a knife, she began to pry out the meat, working hard for each tiny bite. The claws were even more difficult to navigate. Nyalla gave up and finally took to smashing them with the wooden mallet, picking tiny bits from the splintered shells. Wyatt would freak if he saw her. Evidently “real” Marylanders didn’t bludgeon their dinner, in spite of the availability of the mallets. By the time she’d moved onto the other claw, Eric had finished his entire crab and was reaching for another.

  “Here.”

  She looked up to see him handing her a huge chunk of crabmeat glistening with butter.

  “Thanks. I’m not very good at this.”

  “You’re doing great. It takes time to learn, and I’ve been doing it my whole life. I’ll bet you have seafood in Finland that I would struggle with.”

  Finland had become a pseudonym for Hel in her mind, so she went on to tell him about her life there.

  “We had fish, but they were all fresh water. Lots of vegetables and fruit. All different kinds of breads. It was good food, but bland. I like the food here much better, especially the seafood — oysters and shrimp, crabs and lobster. Sam had some halibut and seal delivered from Alaska, and they were very good too. Although the seal was a bit greasy.”

  “No seafood at all? I thought most of you lived along the shore.”

  “I’ve never seen the ocean or the seashore,” she confessed.

  He handed her another chunk of crab. “Seriously? We’re only three hours from the coast. It’s a bit long for a day trip, but not too far for a weekend getaway.”

  He sounded just like the brochures lined up on the dining room table. Nyalla smiled sheepishly. “I know. I’m going to do it. Someday.”

  By the time they’d finished and Eric was walking her back to her front door, Nyalla was downright blissful. She’d done it. She’d left the house and tried something new, and not only had nothing terrible happened, but she’d had fun. When Eric asked for her number, she promptly gave it to him, even asking him to call her Nyalla instead of Nina. A little voice nagged in the back of her mind to tell him about the finger in her freezer, but she pushed it away. It had been a lovely evening. No sense in spoiling it with Boomer’s misdeeds.

  “Would you like to come in,” she asked, standing in the open doorway. She hoped he’d say yes. She hadn’t had this much fun in her whole life and didn’t want it to end. For the first time, she didn’t want to go inside and hide away from the world.

  “Probably not a good idea,” he said ruefully.

  They stood awkwardly in silence. Eric seemed to be waiting for something, and Nyalla wasn’t sure what. For the second time, she reached out with her gift, plunging into his heart and mind with her own.

  Worry. Sadness. Did she like him? Not that there was much to like — a rookie cop, not the best–looking guy in the world. Not much to appeal to a blond beauty from Finland.

  She was at a crossroads and needed to make a decision. It seemed like there had been a lot of crossroads lately, but this was a particularly scary choice. She could go inside, curl up on the couch with Boomer and a book and feel safe, or take a chance and do something else.

  “Well, it was nice… .”

  “You have beautiful
eyes,” Nyalla blurted out, reaching up a finger to touch where his dimple always appeared. As if on command, he smiled, and her finger traced along the groove. He’d clearly shaved before coming to pick her up, but already she could see faint, dark stubble. Elves were beardless and had insisted the humans remove their facial hair. Nyalla flattened her palm on his cheek and wondered what a beard would feel like. Soft? Wiry? Would it tickle?

  “You should grow a beard,” she mused, rubbing her thumb across his cheekbone.

  “Okay.” He sounded out of breath, like he’d been running. And then he bent his head slowly towards hers and kissed her.

  She’d never seen anyone kiss before leaving Hel. It always looked strange, as if two people were trying to devour each other, but this was wonderful. His lips were full and soft against hers; his arms slid around her, pulling her body tight to his own. She fit nicely against him, like they were two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and his mouth against hers was causing little sparks all over her body, especially down low. His hand roamed lower, snaking under the edge of her shirt and caressing the skin of her back. Now she was out of breath too, panting even as his mouth explored hers.

  “I need to stop,” Eric murmured, still holding her, his mouth temptingly close. He didn’t sound like he wanted to stop.

  “Why?” She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his, touching them lightly with the tip of her tongue.

  Eric groaned and pulled back, holding her at arm’s length. There was something wild in his green eyes that made Nyalla catch her breath. She leaned her weight forward, wanting to be pressed against him once again, wanting to see if the lovely feeling roaring through her could grow more intense. So this was what everyone made such a big fuss about. This is why Candy had insisted she have condoms in the bedroom upstairs.

  “No, I can’t. Not yet.” He stepped in to kiss her far too briefly, only to step back again. She felt chilled without his hands on her, even in the heat of the summer evening. “Can I call you?”

  “I certainly hope you do more than call me.”

  He laughed, and Nyalla felt something tighten deep inside her, like a bowstring about to snap. “I hope so too. Sleep well, Nyalla. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” She watched him practically hop down the steps to his car, waving at her as he pulled down the driveway. Boomer was watching her as she closed the door, an expectant look in his eyes.

  “I do believe I’m ‘frustrated’, Boomer,” Nyalla announced. The hellhound thumped his tail. “It’s most unpleasant, but I’m assuming this is part of the human dating ritual. I only hope it doesn’t last too long or I’ll explode.”

  Boomer barked and jumped up to run into the kitchen.

  “Sleep well.” Nyalla laughed softly. “Right. Like that’s going to happen.”

  A merry jingle filled the air, and Boomer returned to sit in front of her, keys in his mouth.

  “Right now?” The hound nodded, pushing the keys into her hand. “All right. Don’t leave me this time, though. If we’re going to do this, I need you to stay right beside me.”

  Boomer barked in agreement, running toward the door.

  7

  Nyalla ducked under the yellow police tape and followed Boomer through the moonlit cemetery. It felt completely different from the night before. She could clearly see everything in shadowed detail, from the neatly trimmed grass to the symmetrically lined headstones. The air was warm, carrying the scent of ripe blackberries and cut hay from the adjoining field. There was no menace here tonight — just peace and the sadness of lives that had passed.

  Peaceful, indeed, but a part of Nyalla still worried. All that could change in an instant with a faint curl of mist.

  “You don’t seriously think they’re going to return, do you?” she asked Boomer. “I hope not. I’m not a demon. I can’t fight off a bunch of drunken teenage grave robbers.”

  The hound paused and gave her a disappointed look before dropping his head and casting about for scent. She stood for a while, watching him, then wandered about, careful not to step in the two open graves. The marked holes were a mess; dirt and grass had been torn up and flung about haphazardly. Broken bits of what she assumed were coffins still dotted the ground, although the police had probably removed any larger portions.

  The older sites seemed untouched. Examining the broken stones near the vacant plots, Nyalla determined that the two desecrated graves were fairly fresh — John Mayfield a few days ago, and the other less than a year. This was a small churchyard cemetery, and there weren’t likely to be a lot of burials here.

  She paid special attention to John Mayfield’s grave site. Nyalla bent close to look at the straight edges outlining the plot. Most of the dirt was piled neatly to the side. Although there seemed to be quite a bit of sod torn up nearby, the hole itself seemed to have been more carefully dug. The top of the coffin was missing, the edges splintered, but the bottom remained in the lower part of the grave. Bending over, she could faintly see the satin–cushioned lining in the dim light. Why had John Mayfield’s been meticulously excavated, while the other had been practically blasted from the ground?

  Something cold and wet touched her arm, and Nyalla shrieked, nearly toppling into the open grave.

  “Boomer! You scared me half to death!” she scolded.

  The hound gently took her arm in his mouth, tugging at her.

  “Fine. Let’s go home then.”

  But Boomer didn’t want to go home. Instead, he dragged her around to four other cemeteries. It was past midnight when she pulled up to the last one, just outside Eldersburg. The hound scratched frantically at the door, desperate to get out.

  “Hold on.” Nyalla grumbled, putting the Suburban carefully into park and opening her door. Boomer knocked her to the ground as he leapt out to sprint across the grass with its neatly lined stones.

  “Rude,” she called out, cringing slightly at how her voice magnified in the darkness. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find tonight. No, actually, she’d thought there would be some amazing reveal, where Boomer led her to a clue that pointed straight to the perpetrator — like his license dropped on the ground. Instead she’d spent the whole night trailing around after him, looking at nearly identical granite markers in neat rows. Outside of the original crime scene, there had been nothing unusual in the other cemeteries. This was a waste of time. Although, it’s not like she would have had an easy evening at home, thinking of Eric’s kisses as she tried to sleep.

  Walking through the open gates of the graveyard, she searched for Boomer. He’d disappeared. Nyalla looked around and walked down the nearest line of graves. It was different here — chilly in spite of the summer heat, with an old dampness that clung to the ground in a white swirl. She shivered, jumping as her phone vibrated in her pocket.

  Thinking of you and NOT sleeping.

  It was Eric. Nyalla smiled, putting the phone back. It was nice to know she was keeping him awake at night. Thoughts of him would be doing the same if she wasn’t out tromping around spooky cemeteries following a crazy hellhound.

  There was a shape ahead, barely visible in the faint moonlight and half hidden by the large oaks that dotted the graveyard.

  “Boomer?” She headed toward the shape, frowning as she heard a growl. “Did you catch a rabbit or something? Come on back here — you’re not supposed to leave me.”

  Her foot caught on something, and she looked down at a clod of dirt. It was one of many clods of dirt staining the pristine grass. Bits of ground had been flung about across the plots, splattering onto the headstones. Nyalla looked up, her breath sticking in her throat as the dark shape stepped into the moonlight.

  It wasn’t Boomer. It was man, but not a man like she’d ever seen before. His clothes had at one time been a suit, but were now nothing but torn rags. His body was covered in dirt, but it was the man’s face that froze Nyalla in place. His feral yellow eyes shone with an eerie intelligence. The scream that had lodged in her throat burst fo
rth, freeing her feet. Nyalla turned and ran.

  Boomer. Where was Boomer? She raced toward the Suburban, feeling as if the man’s breath were on her neck, his hands reaching for her. Screaming out the hound’s name, she wrestled the door open and dove into the car, hyperventilating as she locked it. The moon drifted behind a cloud, plunging the cemetery into dark, but she could still see those yellow eyes creeping closer and closer to the SUV.

  “Boomer!”

  A howl rent the air and raised the hair on the back of Nyalla’s neck. The eyes blinked, shifting away from the car. A rumbling growl answered, and a huge shadow sprang from the ground. The glow from the eyes disappeared, and all Nyalla saw was two black forms tumbling across the ground. Snarls and snaps ended abruptly with a yelp.

  “No!” Nyalla screamed, laying on the horn with all her might. The noise drowned out any other sounds, and the moon chose that moment to break free from the cloud cover. He was there — the horrible, dirty man with the terrifying eyes. He stood over a prone form that surely must have been Boomer. The sight broke through all of her fear. Nyalla launched herself out of the car. She couldn’t just sit there and watch this monster hurt her dog. The yellow eyes turned her way, but before the man could take a step, Boomer lifted a head and closed massive jaws around his ankle.

  The man lifted the hellhound from the ground as if he weighed no more than a piece of paper, and shook him from his leg. Boomer came loose and slammed into a grave marker, knocking the tall monument onto its side. The monster snarled, looking back and forth between Nyalla and the hound that was staggering to his feet. Turning, he raced toward the woods bordering the cemetery and vaulted the fence with a lithe jump.

  Nyalla collapsed to the ground, her face covered by shaking hands as she sobbed. A wet nose sniffed into her ear, and she lifted her head, wrapping her arms around the hound.

  “Boomer, was that the man who has been digging up the graves?” She felt the dog nod. “Are you hurt?”

  The dog shook his head, but Nyalla examined him anyway, roving her hands over the hellhound and checking him as best as she could in the dark. He seemed unhurt and squirmed happily under her caresses.