Stolen Souls

by Debra Dunbar

  The hound slunk toward the car, his tail between his legs, eyes pleading.

  “I thought you were in a hurry. Let’s go.”

  Boomer gave her one last desperate look then climbed into the car, carefully wrapping his long, thin tail around his legs. Nyalla shut the door and walked around, half crawling to get into the driver’s seat.

  It wasn’t terribly different from Wyatt’s truck, besides the fact that the car seemed to come up around her, enclosing her snugly within the leather–clad interior. The gauges all appeared the same, and there was the shifting stick. Wyatt’s truck had been what he’d called “automatic”, but her step–sister Amber’s car had this same kind of stick for driving. Nyalla had watched her, and felt fairly certain she could handle the foot pedal and series of movements it took to drive this sort of vehicle.

  The engine roared to life, the dash lighting up and music blaring from the speakers. Nyalla adjusted the volume to a more reasonable level and turned to meet Boomer’s eyes. The dog was still regarding her with an expression of extreme anxiety. She got the feeling he would have rather she took the Suburban. Well, too bad. She was the human here, and if he wanted to go for a drive, he’d just have to deal with her choice of conveyance.

  “Okay, boy, where to?”

  Boomer pointed his nose toward the lane that led past Wyatt’s house and onto the main road. Carefully putting the car into what seemed to be gear number one, Nyalla eased off the clutch and headed down the driveway.

  This car was not as nice as Wyatt’s truck, she decided. It lurched and jerked, the engine either racing with a high–pitched scream, or rattling as if it were about to die. Nyalla glanced over at her brother’s house as she drove by, grateful he was in San Diego for the week and not home to see her terrible driving.

  Boomer pointed again, directing her along a fairly simple route leading just over the county line. She urged the car up a steep hill, worried the grinding noises each time she shifted gears were a portent of something disastrous.

  “Hope we’re almost there, Boomer. I think this car may be broken. Guess I should have taken the big one after all.”

  The hound barked as they crested a hill, and Nyalla saw a church up ahead to the left, the steeple rising high above the surrounding farmland. The parking lot in front was full of cars that had blue and red lights flashing on their roofs. Boomer waved a paw frantically toward the cemetery, and Nyalla navigated the Corvette around the carelessly parked cars and across the grass toward the large iron gates. A man stepped in front of the car, waving his hands for her to stop then jumping aside as she lurched the car to a halt a good ten feet past where he’d just been standing.

  Her heart raced, and tears sprang to her eyes as he approached. She’d almost hit him! Not that it was totally her fault. Humans should not be jumping in front of moving vehicles. Still, she doubted he was going to accept any share of the blame in his near–death experience. It would be her fault. It was always her fault. The only recourse was to beg for mercy and hope the human’s version of punishment was less painful than the elves.

  Forcing herself to look at him, she saw his mouth was a thin, angry line, and there was a deep slash between his eyebrows. Nyalla recognized the uniform from television shows. Her heart sank further. She was in terrible trouble. Her hand shook as she pushed the button to roll down the window.

  “I’m sorry! Please don’t put me in the dungeon, please don’t shoot me. Please!”

  The policeman halted, a series of conflicting emotions flitting across his face. The anger fled, followed by surprise, and something that made Nyalla’s face heat up.

  “Step out of the car,” he said firmly, obviously trying to force his expression back to anger — and failing.

  She complied, raising her hands up as she’d seen on television. “Don’t shoot me; please don’t shoot me.”

  “I’m not … oh, hey, Boomer.”

  The hound had pushed past Nyalla to jump out of the car and run to the policeman, his tail wagging furiously. The man must not have thought she was too much of a threat, as he turned his attention from her and bent down to rub the hound’s floppy ears. Nyalla lowered her hands slowly, uncertain what she should do next.

  “So what exactly are you doing with Samantha Martin’s car and dog,” the policeman asked, straightening back up and once again unsuccessfully trying to look stern. His eyes travelled from Nyalla’s face downward then shot back up again to meet her eyes. She was certain her face was just as red as his had suddenly become.

  How did one explain to the police that the woman he thought owned the car was currently banished to Hel?

  “Umm, she’s out of the country on business for an extended period of time, so I’m house–sitting for her and taking care of her animals while she’s gone.”

  House–sitting for Satan. Her mouth twitched into an involuntary smile at the thought.

  He nodded, walking towards Nyalla, his face relaxing into a tiny smile in response to hers. Hopefully he wasn’t mad anymore. Hopefully he’d forget she almost ran him over and let her go. What was the punishment for nearly flattening an officer of the law? She doubted it was a “ticket”. Those pieces of paper the police handed out to criminals wouldn’t be so bad. What could be so horrible about words on a tiny scrap of parchment?

  Boomer gave her a quick glance and took off, nose down as he raced through the cemetery gates, leaving her alone with this hopefully forgiving policeman.

  He stopped a few feet from her and shifted his weight from side to side as his eyes once again began to drift downward before he quickly jerked back up to her face. “You’ve got an interesting accent. Where are you from?”

  Hel. And the accent was because she’d only spoken Elvish and a little bit of Demon before being rescued a few months ago. But Nyalla could hardly tell him that.

  “Finland.” She dug her license out of her pocket and extended it toward the man. Every time she claimed that, she prayed to the Goddess that no one actually began speaking to her in Finnish. She’d really be in trouble then.

  “Nina Lewis,” the man read, taking his time with the license.

  The name was fake too. Her brother, Wyatt, had procured her an identity complete with official documentation so she would fit in — one more thing to send her heart racing.

  The man handed her license back. “So … you know Wyatt Lowry? He lives next to you.”

  Nyalla took a moment as she stuffed her license back into her pants pocket to study the man. His voice was odd, almost as if he was thinking unpleasant thoughts about her association with her brother Wyatt. Not that anyone could know he was her brother. Amber had assumed her life when she’d taken Nyalla’s place in her crib. She was Wyatt’s sister as far as the human world was concerned.

  A faint, unpleasant emotion rolled through Nyalla. She loved her half–elven step–sister, but there were still moments when she resented her for taking the life she should have had. Elves stole human babies from their cribs, exchanging them with deceased elven infants, but Amber’s mother had replaced Nyalla with a live child. She’d been desperate to hide her half–demon/half–elf daughter from the elves who would have killed her, hoping that among the humans she could enjoy a life free from the threat of murder. Was nineteen years of slavery among the elves a reasonable price to pay to ensure someone’s life? Nyalla didn’t want to search her heart too deeply for the answer. The past was the past. Amber was a kind, loving sister, and that’s all she needed to think about.

  “Yes. I know Wyatt. I go to college with his sister, Amber. That’s how I met Sam and began house–sitting for her.”

  Again a myriad of emotions chased across the man’s face. “Amber. It’s been years since I’ve seen her. How’s she doing?”

  Nyalla recited a memorized tale of Amber’s doings in college, all the while watching the man closely. There had been a spark in his eyes at the mention of her step–sister. Not surprising. Amber was half elf, but she was also half succubus. When the gol
den–haired beauty was in a room, no one else seemed to exist.

  “So … you and Wyatt?”

  Nyalla tilted her head to the side. “Wyatt and I what?”

  The man squirmed, his eyes dropping to look at his shoes. “Are you dating?”

  “No! He’s Sam’s boyfriend.” And my brother. She couldn’t help the horrified tone from entering her voice.

  “Good. I mean, my name’s Eric Pearce.”

  Why was this man introducing himself to her? Nyalla relaxed, assuming he had no intention of either arresting her or shooting her at this point.

  “What’s going on here?” She asked, looking about at the cars she now realized were police cruisers. “I brought Boomer for a walk, and did not expect all this.”

  Eric’s scowl returned as he looked about the cemetery. “At first we thought it was just — some drunk teenage kids knocking over stones and tearing up the grass. There’s been a grave desecrated, though.”

  Desecrated. Nyalla frowned, committing the word to memory so she could look the meaning up later. Whatever it was, it must be worse than knocking over stones and tearing up grass. She supposed that sort of activity was considered worse in a place of the dead as opposed to a person’s front yard. It was hard to tell — the humans here had such a different set of laws, and she found it hard to know what would be right or wrong in this place.

  “You didn’t know anyone buried here, did you?” Eric asked, again shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. “I mean, I know you said you were from Finland, but maybe… .”

  “Oh no,” Nyalla hastily broke the silence from Eric’s half–unspoken question. “Boomer wanted to come here for his walk. I don’t have any family here.”

  Which was a lie. Maybe not in this particular cemetery but somewhere near here her father and an older sister were buried. More relatives she’d never known. All the excitement of a new family, yet most of them would never know about her. Amber was the Lowry. She’d always be just some family friend from Finland. Somehow this was worse than when she was in Hel, daydreaming of a mother and father that mourned her. They’d never mourned. They’d never even known she was gone.

  “Well, it’s a crime scene now, so I can’t let you in. I’m not sure when it will be clear for visitors.”

  Nyalla felt her face flush again. “I’ll let you get back to work then. I’m sorry about almost running you over. Thank you for not shooting me.”

  The policeman laughed. He had rather nice green eyes, and a dimple in his left cheek when he smiled. Nyalla turned to walk the few steps back to the car and noticed he strolled beside her, holding the door as she climbed in. Boomer panted in the passenger seat, his tail thumping the door.

  “Would you … I mean, if you’re not busy, then maybe I can take you to dinner tomorrow night? Or maybe this weekend? Or coffee if dinner is too… .”

  Nyalla’s heart raced, and everything narrowed to black. Breathe. She couldn’t breathe. Why did she leave the house this morning? It had been hard enough the first time she’d ordered pizza, but at least Boomer had stood by her side while the delivery man handed her the box and accepted the paper money she thrust at him. She didn’t know this Eric Pearce, and she doubted Boomer was included in the invitation. As if reading her mind, the hound nudged her, giving her cheek a quick lick. Baby steps. But, oh my, this was far bigger than a baby step.

  There was only one way she’d accept his invitation. Nyalla had never told anyone about the gift the angel had given her, not her brother, not even Sam. She’d locked it tightly down inside, only allowing herself to use it in the most desperate of circumstances. It seemed rude, intrusive, but it was the only way she could feel safe with this man. Meeting his eyes, she felt herself falling into him. His mind opened before her and revealed a tumble of memories and emotions. Nyalla quickly sorted through them, looking for any signs that he might mean her harm. Seeing only honest attraction, she pulled back, locking the gift safely away.

  “Yes. Tomorrow night would be lovely,” Nyalla blurted out before she lost her nerve.

  There was that dimple again. She hoped she wasn’t making a terrible mistake. It was too late to back out now. Not with him smiling enthusiastically at her, green eyes dancing. She’d just have to get through it somehow.

  “Pick you up at six? Are crabs okay? I know a great place in Woodbine.”

  Breathe. Breathe.

  “Yes, six is fine. I love crabs, but I’m not very good at picking them apart.”

  “I’ll help you.” He practically glowed at the prospect of assisting her. Nyalla felt even more trapped. She couldn’t back out. He was genuinely excited at the prospect of seeing her. It would be mean to tell him “no” after she’d already said “yes”.

  “Pearce! Get over here!”

  Eric turned toward the voice then back to Nyalla. “I’ve gotta go. Drive carefully, and I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  She watched him jog off, and then struggled to get the Corvette into reverse. Mud sprayed everywhere as the sports car slid back onto the pavement. Taking her eyes from the road for a moment, she looked reprovingly at the hound beside her. Boomer grinned, his tail twitching.

  “Are you satisfied? I’m probably going to die of heart failure by the end of the date, you know.”

  Boomer stomped his paws. He did look very pleased with himself.

  “So that’s why you wanted me to come out this morning, huh? Playing matchmaker with the local boys?”

  The hound shook his head, his expression growing solemn. Nyalla turned her eyes back to the road and swerved to avoid the parked car she’d been drifting towards. “He does seem nice. And I do like crabs. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to go out for one evening. If I’m too scared, I don’t have to do it again, do I?”

  Boomer was ignoring her, his nose half under the seat rooting around for something. Nyalla wondered if there was an old bit of food that had been left there. It would be pretty stale, but dogs seemed to eat everything, no matter how old and moldy. She turned down the lane toward her house and saw out of the corner of her eye that Boomer had pulled himself upright on the seat, something extending from his mouth.

  “What do you have, boy? A French fry? Old pizza crust?” The hound dropped the item into her lap, and her eyes fixed on it in horror.

  It was a finger.

  3

  Nyalla shrieked, swatting the severed digit from her lap back toward Boomer’s side of the car. “Where did you … Oh, no! Bad dog! Bad dog.”

  The car lurched and left the packed gravel road surface for one that was bumpy and uneven. Nyalla looked up just in time to see a mess of branches darken her windshield as the car slammed to a stop inside a large bush. Boomer tumbled to the floor, and Nyalla felt her chin and chest crash against the steering wheel.

  “Are you okay?” she asked the hound. Her chin tickled, and when she rubbed it, her hand came away with a streak of blood.

  Boomer climbed back into his seat, giving the girl a reproving look.

  “Sorry.” Nyalla ground the stick shift into reverse and eased out the clutch. The back tires spun, and she felt the rear of the car sink further into the dirt. Figures. The one car she felt comfortable driving and now it was stuck in a muddy ditch. Guess she’d need to use the big SUV after all. Actually, this would be an excellent excuse for not going out for the rest of the day. Or week. Or maybe month.

  “Good thing we’re close to home.” She climbed out of the car, holding the door for Boomer. “I guess it’s safe to leave the car here until Wyatt gets home to help me push it out.” At least the Corvette was off the road, not that many people journeyed down this dead–end lane. Although it would be a terrible inconvenience if the pizza delivery people couldn’t get through.

  Boomer’s velvety brow furrowed as he eyed the car before taking off at a lope down the road. Nyalla followed at a slower pace, her mind on the severed finger Boomer had pulled out from under the car seat. She didn’t know much about decomposition, but that thing di
dn’t look like it had been in the car for the last month. No one had driven the Corvette since Sam left, so either the finger was remarkably well preserved, or Boomer had lifted it from the cemetery while she’d been talking to the friendly policeman.

  The hellhound definitely had some disgusting dietary habits, but they’d always seemed to be in line with his fully canine brethren. Would dogs eat human remains if they came upon them? Nyalla vaguely remembered a story of a cat eating its elderly, deceased owner. Maybe the finger was just Boomer’s idea of a snack.

  Still, she doubted that attractive policeman would look kindly on her allowing the dog to remove what surely must be evidence from a crime scene. Should she let him know? Would Boomer get in trouble? The girl carefully weighed the need for the police to have all evidence in order to solve the crime against ensuring the safety of the dog she’d come to love. Perhaps some research was in order.

  Boomer curled up by her side as she sat on the couch, Sam’s laptop balanced on her thighs. According to the Internet, Boomer would not be held to blame for stealing the finger, but she might be if she didn’t report it. That done, she looked up the word “desecrated” and winced.

  Oh my. Nyalla peered down at the hound next to her. He looked innocent enough, dozing by her side, his leg twitching as he dreamed. Could he have done such a thing? Dogs dug up bones, but she’d never heard of one doing this.

  “Could you possibly have dug down six feet into a grave?” she whispered at the sleeping dog. “Please tell me you didn’t eat a corpse. Please.”

  The hound’s eyes fluttered open. He stared at her a moment, then wagged his tail.

  Nyalla sighed. She’d hope for the best and assume Boomer just found the finger when she’d been talking to Eric, and not that he’d suddenly become a cadaver–eating dog. Setting the computer aside, she grabbed a handful of sandwich baggies from the kitchen and headed out to the Corvette.