The Soul Trapper

by Ana Calin

  THE SOUL TRAPPER

  by Ana Calin

  A Superpowers Romance

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

  any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage

  and retrieval system, without permission in writing

  from the author except in the case of brief quotations

  embodied in reviews.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and

  events are the work of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is

  coincidental.

  Copyright 2018 – Ana Calin

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I | A DAZZLING BOY

  CHAPTER II | THE ANTIHERO

  CHAPTER III | NIGHT OF VENICE

  CHAPTER IV | BEWITCHED

  CHAPTER V | THE SERPENT

  CHAPTER VI | DARK INTENTIONS

  CHAPTER VII | SEDUCTION

  CHAPTER VIII | AN EPIC REVENGE

  CHAPTER IX | SHADOWS OF THE PAST

  CHAPTER X | THE VILLAIN’S MOTIVE

  CHAPTER XI | THE VILLAIN’S MISTRESS

  CHAPTER XII | A DARK LOVE

  CHAPTER XIII | DANGEROUS PLANS

  CHAPTER XIV | JEALOUSY

  CHAPTER XV | OLD LOVES

  CHAPTER XVI | THE MYSTERIOUS MAN

  CHAPTER XVII | FULL MOON AND THE SERPENT

  CHAPTER XVIII | ESCAPE FROM THE DARK TOWER

  CHAPTER XIX | CONFESSIONS

  CHAPTER XX | I WANT TO LOSE MY HEAD FOR YOU

  CHAPTER XXI | BAD BLOOD

  CHAPTER XXII | THE MESSENGER

  CHAPTER XXIII | RUN AWAY WITH ME

  CHAPTER XXIV | I WILL FIND YOU AGAIN

  CHAPTER XXV | WITCH HUNT

  CHAPTER XXVI | WHY WILD ROSES KILL

  CHAPTER XXVII | RUSSIAN ROULETTE

  CHAPTER XXVIII | SUPERPOWERS

  CHAPTER XXIX | THE PICTURE OF KIERAN SLATE

  CHAPTER XXX | EROS AND THANATOS

  CHAPTER XXXI | SECRET WEAPON

  CHAPTER XXXII | THE PAINTER WITCH

  CHAPTER XXXIII | BLADES AND ROSES

  CHAPTER XXIV | HAPPILY EVER AFTER

  About the author:

  Other Books by Ana Calin

  Falling in love can be dangerous. For Alice Preda, it can be deadly.

  The Executioner Part Two | Be careful what you wish for -'cause you just might get it.

  CHAPTER I

  A DAZZLING BOY

  THE MOST LUXURIOUS banquet hall in town. Or so it wishes to stand, with its chandeliers dripping crystal, golden curtains, and mirrors with gilded frames. Fake, of course, but they can trick a lay eye. I’m sitting at the table with my hands in my lap, focused only on breathing. Mum insisted that I wear the corset dress she got for me in London. It’s all white lace and cream silk, but it’s still tight, and I can hardly breathe.

  Father talks to the “prospect,” Simon Pukov, who fixes me with a piranha grin. Big and fleshy in his tailcoat, bald and overconfident, he’s known to be a ladies’ man. And filthy rich. Which is why Mum spared no effort to primp me into attractive prey.

  Indeed, the piranha likes what he sees—his business partner’s thin-to-a-fault daughter, face nicely painted, tired eyes heavy with mascara, styled golden hair cascading to her shoulders. Yes, I fit the profile he’d bang. Father aims for a wedding, but I’m sure he wouldn’t shy from pimping me for a night or two, if Pukov agrees to pump money into the family business.

  “Saphira,” the piranha finally addresses me. “That’s a beautiful name. It suits you. I’d think of a face like yours if I’d simply hear it.”

  No shit. I give him a counterfeit smile.

  “She’s more than looks,” Mum advertises. “She has a degree in Fine Arts, and even sold a couple of paintings before her graduation.”

  “And since?”

  None.

  Both Mum and Father smile while the piranha looks down on me. He’s satisfied to have made us all lose face. His stuck-up attitude doesn’t compliment him, it makes him look like a double-chinned penguin. I can’t take this anymore.

  “Excuse me.” I push back my chair, making my way through the crowd towards the exit, and picking up such speed down the stairs that I stumble over my own dress folds. I manage to reach the bottom of the flight on my feet, and lean on a marble pillar, hand on my belly as I struggle for deep breaths. The freaking corset makes it hard.

  The first cloakroom is full of powdering noses, so I seek a more secluded one to cool down. The left wing is still undergoing some renovation, which keeps precious personalities at bay. Given that the ball’s full of them, this part of the venue is empty. I stroll among a few scaffolds and turn around the corner, bumping into a scene that freezes me in my tracks. My breath catches, and this time it’s not the corset.

  An elegant man in a tailcoat, whom I see from the side, is stripping off a pair of black gloves. He moves smoothly, like a wolf licking blood off its snout, which must be why the white-faced dead man in a suit on the floor facing him actually fits the picture for a second. I eventually realize what’s happening and I want to scream, but the killer turns, and my heart stops.

  His face is marble-white with astonishing features and the blackest eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s probably in his mid-twenties, still a dazzling boy, but that inhuman black stare makes him scary as hell.

  I turn on my heels and run back towards the populated hallway, my shoes clicking on the marble floor, dress folds gathered in my hands. I barge into the packed toilet by the grand stairs, breathless and unable to utter one intelligible word. The powdering faces now staring and batting fake lashes don’t look like much help.

  I crack the door and peek outside. People stroll up and down the luxurious hallway, wearing the grins specific to these fundraising events. He’s nowhere in sight. I slap water on my cheeks, which melts the make-up, but also steadies my shaking limbs, and hurry to the ballroom, intent on blurting out a report to my father.

  But only a few steps into the dancing and tumbler-clinking crowd, the young killer blocks my way, arranging his tie and fixing me with those dangerous dark eyes.

  Smoothly, he reaches around my waist and leads me in a slow dance. He moves so naturally, no one would suspect that everything’s wrong with this picture. I move along, my mind frozen and relying only on my sixth sense. I dread what would come out of struggling away from this man. His bittersweet scent makes me strangely dizzy, but it could be the frantic beating of my heart, too.

  “Are you going to tell on me?” His voice is pleasant baritone. Soft, warm, it could fool anyone. It could have fooled me.

  “How can you make small-talk as if nothing? You just killed a man.”

  “I had the best reason.”

  “There are no good reasons for murder. You’re a monster.” I begin to shake, and I curse myself for it.

  “You’re good with labels. Stamp people a lot?”

  “No more than they stamp me.”

  “I have a label for you too, then.”

  I can see dead woman racing my way. But he takes distance, keeping only my hand in his. His eyes hypnotize me into calmness as he takes it to his beautiful, young lips. “Persephone.”

  “Why Persephone?” I whisper, with my last drop of wit. He mesmerises me in the most literal sense.

  “Because I might just take you with me back to the Underworld.”

  CHAPTER II

  THE ANTIHERO

  THE ATTIC. THE ONLY place in the world I can really call my own, and the place I’v
e locked myself in, for fear of the mysterious killer. I haven’t seen him since the fundraising a week ago, but he’s infiltrated my veins like fever. Maybe that’s what he is, some disease of the brain, a fever having taken a human face. At least that’s what everybody at the ball assumed as I hysterically claimed something no one could find the slightest trace of. My hands crave to paint him, yet I refuse, my sanity depends on it.

  I keep swirling the brush in pasty colour, but all that lands on the canvas is meaningless smudge. Some people would pretend to see essence behind it with long faces and studied focus, unaware of how ridiculous they come across. Usually phony sharks like the baldhead Pukov who’s now torturing my phone with calls.

  My parents desperately need his money, so they made it a must that I play nice with him. Right now, I’m considering picking up, letting him set a date, and spreading my legs for him just so that he’d lose interest. It should be enough to get him off my back, and secure him as creditor for the crumbling family business. But I can’t bring myself to touch the thing.

  There’s a knock on the door, and Mum’s head pops in before I get to answer. Years of emotional neglect left her emaciated and grey-skinned from compulsive smoking. Today her face gives off some light though, which melts me. My irritation evaporates.

  “Your father wants you downstairs, Saph.”

  “What for?”

  “Oh, you’ll see.” She looks me up and down. “We’d better find you something nicer to wear.”

  “Overalls don’t fit the occasion?”

  “Overalls don’t fit the woman. We should do something about the hair, too.”

  I dread the process, it’s tedious. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “Trust me, once you step into the study you’ll wish to look your best,” she says and holds the door.

  She follows to my room, and waits until I take a quick shower. She’d trust no one but herself to style my frizz, the colour of French fries, into silky locks in record time, and choose the right hue of eye-shadow to turn my golden eyes from disturbing into interesting.

  She leaves the choice of clothes to me, which I’m thankful for. I go for a long dress, beige and decent, just in case Father has some other “prospect” in store for me. I press on understated style with pearls, and request a bun. Mum isn’t fully satisfied, saying the combination makes me appear too old, but she eventually accepts that the lady look might be an advantage. She leads me down the stairs and beams in anticipation as I turn the knobs and enter the study.

  Father wears a content expression. A bit devious maybe. Big stomach ahead of him, a glass of scotch in his hand. He leans on his desk facing someone sitting in the revolving leather armchair in front of him.

  “Ah, Saphira,” he says with a sly grin, “please, do come in.”

  He hurries to my side. He must be tense, because his salt-and-pepper hair seems on volts.

  “Let me introduce you to the newest member of our community, the Marquis de Vandenesse.”

  The chair turns while Father talks, and the dark-eyed killer appears before me. The blood freezes in my veins. Those eyes settle on mine, and flashes of the dead face at his feet come at me again and again. I’m certain I just went snow-white.

  He stands and approaches, tall and elegant in his black suit. He’s as close to me as he was on that dance floor a week ago, before I managed to break the trance he’d put on me like a spell, and make a fool of myself claiming out loud to have witnessed a murder no one found a trace of.

  “The Marquis,” Father pushes the conversation, since it doesn’t pick up by itself, “has bought the manor with the fields. The perfect home for the perfect gentleman.”

  The manor with the fields. That means a healthy realtor commission for my father, which blows away all the family troubles. Just like that, as if they’ve never been there. Father must be feeling dangerously grateful.

  “We’ll sure be doing more business together,” the killer says in that deceitful voice of his, eyes not leaving mine. Chills course down my spine.

  “However I can be of service, Marquis.” Father pauses to be offered the Marquis’s first name. The Marquis doesn’t react as expected, but keeps looking hard at me, while my eyes wander helplessly all over his young face. He’s so handsome, it’s compelling.

  “Will you allow me to engage the assistance of your charming daughter, Mr Lothar?”

  “In what way?” Father says submissively.

  This time, the Marquis addresses me directly. “I hear you paint, Saphira.”

  “You heard that, huh?” I murmur.

  “Your mother mentioned you were up in the attic with brush and canvas before she went out to get you. The old manor could use some new fittings and decoration, so I would like to see what you have.”

  “Oh, certainly,” Father cuts in. “We can show you an entire collection.”

  “It’s not much worth,” I block.

  “Word has it you sold two of your paintings for nice amounts last year,” the Marquis says.

  “How did you hear that?”

  “Quality tends to become famous.”

  “Yes, well, quality hasn’t found its way out of this house since.”

  He lifts his chin, and his eyes flash with cunning. “I’d like to get an impression of my own.”

  I go weak at the knees as Father encourages the killer, inviting him out of the study and up the stairs, all the while speaking highly of what he called, until now, a “craft for spoiled brats.”

  The door to the attic squeaks open, revealing my work in progress and the crowd of finished ones, some rolled up, some leaning against the walls, the tripod and on each other. I thank God with all I have that I haven’t started to paint him, the dark-eyed killer. That would’ve been terribly embarrassing right now, not to mention dangerous, but if I survive this visit I know I won’t be able to resist painting him all over the place. The fever is bustling inside of me, and there will be no other way to quench it.

  The Marquis walks straight to my oldest painting hanging on the wall. The Dark Castle. Mum gets Father out of the room, invoking the need to quickly take care of the transaction papers, and fear grips me.

  I’m alone with the killer.

  “This painting mirrors your soul.” His voice fills the wooden room, liquid and rich.

  I want to say something witty, but fear’s got my lips bloodless and shivering. With small steps, I advance to my working place and palm a nail. The Marquis still stands with his back to me, black hair glossy, hands in the pockets of his slacks.

  “I can feel your special golden eyes on me,” he says calmly. “And I know what you have in your hand.”

  I’m shaking.

  “In my business,” he continues, “if I didn’t know when someone held a weapon behind my back, I’d be long dead. Or something similar to dead.”

  He turns, and I’m certain I’m looking at a demon, as handsome as sin. He approaches, and I can’t detect the slightest trace of wariness in his moves or in his face. I don’t unsettle him at all. Again, he stands too close, his scent bittersweet, anaesthetising my senses.

  “Why did you kill that man at the ball, Marquis?” I whisper.

  “You didn’t care about reasons last time.”

  “Last time you weren’t in my home. I want to know if I run the same risk as your victim at the Royale.”

  He gives me an indulgent smile. “Are you so direct on all your suitors?”

  “Suitors?”

  “Well, I can either court you or kill you to get you on my side. Which one will you have?” he drops on me. I stiffen, and his stare deepens.

  “I’ll never tell anyone, I swear,” I mutter.

  “You made waves at the ball.”

  “I was in shock. But I won’t talk again.”

  “Even if I believed you, that isn’t the only problem.” He takes his hands out his pockets, gaze deepening. “You managed to break free from my grip on your senses, and told everyone what you saw. That’s a
rare gift, you see. A gift that makes you a liability. So I’ll have you completely in my power, no matter how many houses I have to buy from your father.”

  I’m shaking so hard it’s both embarrassing and infuriating. “Am I really worth tying your destiny to mine forever for this? You don’t know me at all.”

  “Oh, it won’t be forever.” His voice is low, threatening, and I’m scared as hell.

  “I’ll run away before my father sells me to you.”

  He laughs. It’s a quiet, but confident sound. “Tell me, Saphira. Do I strike you as someone who’s easily eluded?”

  “There must be exceptions. There are always exceptions.”

  His presence grows darker, crushing and chilling, not of this world. “None of them alive to tell the tale.”

  CHAPTER III

  NIGHT OF VENICE

  It’s the Night of Venice here in Northville. Our medieval town was rebuilt by some of the wealthiest families in England, so this festival is a symbol of rebirth. Aristocrat families restored the houses to former gothic glory, but there’s none like the manor with the fields. The place could easily pass for Dracula’s castle. It was the toughest sell in Father’s career, which got the family out of a very bad money situation, but I would’ve preferred bankruptcy to its new owner.

  The streets bustle with majestic outfits and Venetian masks. Giggles fill the night as my parents and I make our way to the manor, snow crunching with gravel under our feet. My ankles are frozen in the stilettos, and my feet already feel like bruised meat. I should’ve put on something more comfortable for the road, but Mum wouldn’t hear of it. I was required to make an impression from the moment I stepped out the door, since we wouldn’t want my arch-rival Pretty Lauren’s eyelashes to out-bat ours, or her outfit to gain any competitive advantage.

  In conclusion, I’m wearing a short, golden cocktail dress, and my hair like a mane of golden locks, with little difference left between my appearance and that of a luxury prostitute. Against the cold I have a quality wool coat, so at least for now I’m safe from ogling. I think of Father’s eyeballs spinning with dollar signs each time a bachelor shark will set his eyes on me, and my stomach turns. At the manor, a valet helps me out of the coat and eyes me up and down before I head for the ballroom, making me aware once more of how inadequately sexy my outfit is.